The rep crossed the fiftieth mark and I let out a grunt. My aim is to reach sixty today. I am listening to Maynard Keenan repeat “Pushing me” all over again and again. I can feel the strain in my arms; the muscles contracting, wailing to not be put in that position, but I tell myself—the only way to leave the chair is to sit on it. It is so contradictory that I had to explain it to myself the first time I said it. I still don’t think I really understand what I meant. I never do, if I am to be completely honest. Rotundity of speech has been my trait for as long as I can remember. Clarity is like a mirror. You don’t have it until you see it looking at you. I suppose this one makes more sense. I am almost at sixty, reps not age. My age is a mystery. I mean the number of years I have spent after being lifted out from the womb (I am a product of the caesarean section instead of the natural way) is easily calculable, but it does not mean that my existence can be counted like the turns of a clock hand and the chimes that signify hours. Existence is a matter of debate. Have I existed all my life or have I just remained as a wish or a dream? My name is Yuri and today I am trying to feel my bones.
I put down the dumbbells and flex my arms. They are not worthy of Instagram yet, but they surely look better than they ever have. I feel a sense of happiness swell inside me, but like always I hear the menacing growl of a monster within, as if displeased and insulted by the presence of that single moment of pride. How dare it? The voice seems to rumble. It rises like a storm then subsides as soon as I look upon my misshaped torso and the happiness retreats. Smiling, the monster goes back into slumber and leaves me in my usual state—void. I must clean the house, I tell myself.
It’s 3 am at night and I am looking at a doorway. It has three handles; all brightly coloured except one that is barely visible unless I think to myself that there are indeed three handles. But it only exists until the time my mind is solely on it. In essence, while I can ponder on the two handles knowing that there was a third one, I cannot use it. Besides, if I focus on the third handle and I see it manifest in a form that I can conceivably touch, I forget everything regarding the other two. If I withdraw, the doorway seems new, and once again it has three handles, or so it seems. This is what I feel inside of my head. I keep searching for the mirror, but perhaps it is likely that I am searching for the object rather than the subject. Let me test this theory by searching for jam tomorrow at breakfast rather than the jar where I might have stored it. Perhaps it will manifest even if I have never purchased or made jam.
I have been told that I exist. That is all I have been told. Mostly people talk about themselves. They are learning a new trick, they had a good fuck, their boss is a jerk, and then their partners call and they go away, or they remember that they need to sleep or eat or piss, whatever; people talk and then they continue to live. I nod and say yes. My phone rings. It’s a friend, one who never calls. Why? I think. I answer. Hey man, what’s up? says a familiar voice. I know the person but I can’t seem to recognize him. I think of telling him about the story that I am editing, but I shrug it off. Tell me, I make the mistake of saying. I should have said—it is 3 am at night, people usually sleep, but I expect people to bear a modicum of common sense. Hence, I say, tell me. He begins to talk, sleep overruns me. I yawn. I do it again, the mumbling continues. No crying. Just mumbles. It’s uncanny how people impose themselves upon time and me, I think as I look at the clock. 4 am. I haven’t been listening to him. I throw in a hum and an exclamation and the carnage continues into dawn.
That is how I know I exist. Yuri is a great listener. Yuri is such a peaceful presence. I am Yuri, and perhaps I want to rather be a storm. The storm that leaves hair askew and eyes dazzled by wonder and power. I want to be the dancer that leaves the floor aghast. I want to be the writer that rends hearts. I want to be that which excites, which presents the wild. Yuri, it’s you, why I have no choice but to smile in repose. Yuri, you make me dream of worlds that I haven’t seen. Yuri, you are not real. Yuri, I need to end this dream; we can dream no longer. Yuri, get real. Yuri, the world is not a movie. Yuri, Yuri, Yuri… Yuri, you exist. I know I do. I want you to feel that I do. Maybe that is what I want.
Wake me up, arouse me from this lull, I say to myself as there is no one around to hear me any more. There are puzzles that I must solve on my own. There are rivers that I must cross on my own. Mountains through which I must pass by myself. I say to myself as I sit down to write. I sit down to wake up.
I start writing. I can feel the serpent (the monster takes various forms) uncoil itself and slither out of its lair. It raises its head and strikes. The first jolt. This is shit. I tell myself and hit backspace on the keyboard. Five hundred words vanish in one blow. Advantage demons. I clutch my head and gaze into the wall. I see her drive away. I see them dance. I see him lift it up. I see them unite. It’s all for the good, I tell myself and look at the screen. Blank. It wasn’t blank, was it? No. I type the sentences that I had written before except they do not come out the same. I utter an expletive, well-drawn out, inside my breath and clutch my hair. I start hitting backspace, but I see a word that makes me think and with that thought, a new path emerges. I write again, I can feel my eyes open but the serpent is not done. Second strike, an elongated jolt. I withdraw from the keyboard. I take a sip of water. I am sweating in my armpits. I can feel the sweat collect in my balls. I get up and take off my clothes. Collecting the towel, I go to the shower and turn it on.
Yuri, you write beautifully. You should write a book. Yuri, your poem broke my heart. Yuri, Yuri—yes, once upon a time they used to say these things. Now, no one reads. No one says anything except a missing full stop. I don’t tell them that the full stop was absent because the sentence was never complete. It never is, it never will be…
I wash myself, dry myself, and wear fresh clothes. I sit down to write again. I sigh. All throughout my day, I am alive, but am I really existing? I write:
“Do I exist if I don’t see or listen to the world around me? I am drawing fantasies in my head while I work and make calls. I laugh when I am having coffee with my colleagues, but am I really there? It seems as if I am tricking myself. I can go on about how shit I am and how I have underachieved, but can I really do anything without waking up? I can feel it move, but I will not relent. I will take a couple of breaths and focus here.”
I take a couple of breaths. My eyes are bloodshot. I will make this work. I look at the clock. 5.20 am. It is almost time to wake up, that is, if I had slept tonight. I continue:
“I am convinced that I am tricking myself to be awake. The reason I feel like a void is because I am a somnambulist. I have lived ten years as one. I am asleep as I am alive. I am awake as I am not in this realm. I must break this chain, somehow.”
I write a lot more on how I plan to do it. I look down at the status bar on Microsoft Word. 1,491 words. I smile. I keep writing and I do not stop until I feel that I have come to the crux of my topic.
Thing is, I now understand. I may be physically awake, but mostly I am just alive. By that, I mean I am a living being, but I am not really living my life. I look at the clock. 6 am. It’s almost time to live the life that I have been sleeping through. I scroll through my story. At the end, I add one more line:
“Tonight I was finally awake.”
Ink Idle 
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