Mindscape

A speck of green and gold crawled along the periphery of my armchair. Its whiskery feet shook in trepidation as it clumsily navigated over a ridged fold in the fabric. The nervous beetle swiftly froze, as though conscious of my fixation, before resuming its tremulous tread.

With my line of sight trailing after its beady silhouette, I began to ponder the intrinsic mechanism which guided its course. What appeared as random, erratic motion at this grand scale perhaps consisted of a series of calculated decisions on the beetle’s part. Perhaps we, equally, appeared as wandering insects with no discernible logic in the paths we led.

With bold, magenta stripes cascading down the insect's spine, it was clearly a rosemary beetle: a rather beautiful specimen, I noted, admiring its waxy veneer as it fleetingly caught the sun’s rays. Upon closer inspection, its stripes became quantised into a delicate grid of golden rings, reminiscent of some aboriginal artwork. I felt instantly compelled to sketch the intricate mosaic in my scrapbook; upon a blank page, I traced out the finest details my mature eyes could resolve, with the remainder filled in by feeble imagination. There is a possibility that I overindulged in the latter as, by the time of completion, I noticed the beetle had long retreated into a nearby cavity.

As I inspected my rather clumsy depiction, which bordered on an insult to the beetle's lavish coat, my gaze naturally migrated to the contents of the previous entry: an image of Daisy, my Labrador, chewing down on a rubber ball.

“A photograph may have been a better idea,” I noted retrospectively, brushing over the page.

The preceding double-page spread exhibited the pressed orchids from the local nature reserve - or was it the park on Moorden Lane? Regardless, I certainly recalled the strong gusts on the day of their picking; as I slashed their stems, I envisaged that they were, at long last, being discharged from their relentless battle with the wind. Soaked in glycerin, air-dried and meticulously arranged, the flowers now peacefully slumbered, with their mild scents still faintly lingering on the petals.

Clinging onto the previous page, by means of three flimsy tape strips, was a bronze, oval-shaped locket; Daisy had fortuitously retrieved it from a roadside puddle a few months ago. It was a uniquely dazzling antique, with a burnished body adorned with gemstones and fine engravings depicting a wild bouquet. I could have, admittedly, made a greater effort to find the rightful owner of the locket; however, as I presently marvelled at the ornate treasure within my palm, I was glad that I hadn't.

On the right-hand side of the locket, a metal latch granted access to a vivid photograph of five young men, each bearing an exuberant grin. They were huddled closely together, resting leisurely against the hood of a pickup truck. Unfortunately, I possessed no such photos of myself from that age, but I often liked to envision that my friends and I appeared similar to the men in the photograph. There had been five of us too - or perhaps four? It was rather difficult to recall now.

Further still, there were a myriad of diary entries, many poorly executed sketches, and a rather pretentious poem, entitled ‘Aurum’, in which the message was obscured by a convoluted metaphor. It never ceased to amuse me how one could find his work profound one day, and scarcely palatable the next. However, despite the rapidity at which I would brush over it to evade its existence, it had its righteous place within my book - as did all these entries; for a modest fraction of time, I had deemed them worthy of inscription.

As I continued to skim through the weary pages of the leather-bound book, I persisted in a blissful state of suspension. The memories and keepsakes seemed to rejuvenate my aged body like a stream of transpiration, with each entry a transporter into a soft, dream-like trance. My forefinger tenderly traced the perimeter of the sleek body; the thick, ivory pages confined between its leather walls provided a means to preserve my dear memories.

Now, at the frail age of seventy-nine, an unsettling paranoia gnawed away at my peace of mind: my brain, in its gradual deterioration, no longer provided a reliable narrative, and I could faintly sense the steady evaporation of deeply buried memories. Perhaps the most distressing aspect was not being aware of which fragments had already untethered, or perhaps it was remaining helpless as others began to loosen.

A subtle sound abruptly halted my line of thought: the squeaky close of the letterbox succeeded promptly by the muffled thump of the post striking the ground. An eerie silence ensued as I remained perfectly rigid in my armchair; this was the very sound I had been dreading for the past fortnight. An acute sting forced me to register my tightened fists. My fingernails had sharply pierced into my palms, inducing painful depressions in the flesh.

In truth, I would have liked to remain in that reclusive position, sunken into the pits of my armchair, indefinitely. However, the miniscule hope that it may not be that letter still resided within me, and eventually supplied me with the fortitude necessary to pick up the envelope.

As my eyes persisted with their scavenging, my optimism steadily evaporated. Through blurry eyes, I forced my incapacitated mind to process the printed words before me. It was indeed the eviction notice. Five days, it taunted. Five days until I’d be forced out of the apartment I had rented for twenty-six years of my life. With an unsteady exhale, I desperately sought my leather-bound book for solace; my fragile fingers promptly enveloped its bulky body, as I drew it towards my tender chest. Five days, I achingly reiterated. That was all I had left.

Flares of sunlight, flushed in a coral tinge, had permeated the living space by this hour; they ricocheted off the walls, producing scintillating prisms and tessellations in their paths. Customarily, this had been my favourite hour of the day. I would ardently settle down into the armchair, facing the open balcony, and admire the buoyant beams which playfully cascaded down from the tall windows. Undoubtedly, it would be this familiar scene which I would miss most.

Dejectedly, I turned to face the panorama of the populated city; although a roseate blush had silently subjugated the room, the view outside boasted a chromatic palette. The sun, peering over the roofs of the run-down city structures, now hung as a solitary suspension in the azure fluid, plunging slowly into its abyssal depths.

The drowning sun compelled me to confront my own tenebrous thoughts: this ill-fated day, painful as it was, was utterly inevitable. After being dismissed, due to my physical ailments, from my life-long occupation as an engineer, I had anticipated that my circumstances would rapidly deteriorate. And yet, despite dwelling on the bleak reality of my financial situation for the past three months, I had struggled to conceive a viable solution. With my ill health, few roles were available to me, all of which offered a meagre salary; even undertaking two such roles simultaneously did not fully cover my rent, hospital bills and living expenses. It was irrefutably hopeless.

As I tightly sealed my eyelids, with my fingernails still perforating my fleshy palms, I exhaustively contemplated the situation once more: odd jobs, savings, loans. There must be a way. Alas, I had exhausted all options, and, as I continued to ruminate in vain, I was forced to permit the death of my inner optimist.

Outside, the abyssal depths had now engulfed the surviving streaks of colour, casting a caliginous fabric over the atmosphere. The barren scene was oddly reminiscent of my mental disposition in those early days of June: the futility of the situation had gradually given rise to a subdued depression. In truth, there was a perturbing whisper which I had attempted to neglect; a parasite which had furtively nestled into the folds of my brain. A few weeks ago, I began receiving numerous leaflets from a peculiar, new company, The Human Experience Co., which specialised in memory technology; they allowed people to trade-in personal memories for money. The idea was simply ludicrous to me, and I had promptly binned the leaflets.

The latest leaflet, however, still peered garishly out of the kitchen bin. With the eviction notice resting in my lap, it suddenly became extremely difficult to justify my earlier apprehension. It was a feasible way of obtaining the required cash, although I had fervently hoped it would never come under legitimate consideration.

Tentatively, I reconsidered the proposition. How could selling a single memory cause any harm? Indeed, would it not be possible to document the memory, perhaps in a letter of some sort, in great detail and safely store it away? That way, the memory would still exist, at least on physical grounds, after its erasure.

With newfound interest, my eyes keenly scoured the glossy pages of the leaflet. The lurid print specified that not all memories are equal, with valuable memories, those others would pay to possess, equating to greater monetary value. Fearful of the fine-print, I disregarded the disclaimers and contemplated whether there was indeed a memory I would be willing to surrender. It was an enigmatic question; I was perplexed on how to approach it, much less answer it. Despite this, it was abundantly clear that, in order to prevent the eviction, a relatively valuable memory would be required.

It was an oddly laborious task listing my prized memories. Upon writing them explicitly, it was glaringly obvious that they were, while not exactly disappointing, rather underwhelming and strangely few in number. Almost half an hour had elapsed before I identified a somewhat suitable memory: the camping trip with Daisy, back in the early summer days of July last year. She had been a mere pup at the time. Onto a thick page, freshly torn out of the scrapbook, I began to document the memories, with remarkable precision, as I fondly played back each and every one of the vibrant, carefree summer evenings we had spent together.

Deeply enshrouded in my recollection, it was painfully evident that this letter had to be stored in an extraordinarily secure place of hiding; I could not risk a stranger coming across this dear memory of mine and tainting it, or, worse, disposing of it. After brooding over the letter for hours, and embedding every conceivable detail, I hastily ransacked the apartment, considering each corner and crevice, in search for the ideal safe-spot. The wardrobe, the desk, the cupboard. No, they were all too easily accessible. On this occasion, I couldn't afford to take a risk.

“What is the last place I would think to look? The last place I would think to go to,” I deliberated.

After some prolonged speculation, which involved repeatedly traversing through the same dreary rooms of my decrepit apartment, I ultimately ventured into the forlorn boiler room. Its atypical design, paired with the black mould festering at its edges, led to an eerie and uninviting atmosphere; I had seldom entered it myself during the past twenty-six years. Despite this, I trudged forward resolutely to inspect the shelfs, cabinets and any discernible openings for a suitable place to store my letter. A few moments later, at the cusp of forfeiting, I spotted a tapering wallpaper at the edge of the room. As I slowly peeled it back, a cramped, dingy cabinet door came into view.

This was perfect, I beamed, swiftly bending down to face the cabinet directly. With the folded letter, already enveloped, within my hand, I eagerly extended my torso forwards and pulled firmly on the flimsy handle, expecting the door to be moderately stiff.

To my surprise, it opened smoothly, as though it had been opened recently; as I peered forward, I recoiled in shock.

A tall, cluttered pile of unopened letters lay before me.