Reflection 4: A Day in the Life

Oak Clarke

9/26/2023

2033. Twenty Thirty Three. Sounds like some kind of weird sci-fi date. Like one you’d hear in the history

of a postapocalyptic roleplaying game. “In the year 2033, the conflict between such and such and such

and such heated up, leading to nuclear war.” “In 2033, the Sundering occurred, leading to the return of

magic to the world.”

Magic. I think I believed in that once. But that was a long time ago. I think when we’re young, we

all assume that adulthood is just something that magically happens. I know I always did. I thought I

would grow up, and I would be grown up. Like some kind of magical rite of passage. (Rites of passage to

mark formal induction into adulthood. Many societies used to have those. We don’t any more?? So many

reasons to be broken.

I’m a writer, which means that I hate other people almost as much as I hate myself, (God, the

better parts of me are alternately laughing and dying right now. God, help me, I majored in English.)

I’m a writer by vocation, but that’s not what I do for work. I’m a radio DJ, and I still work at the

same place I had my first job. Life’s funny. Back when I was still in high school, I worked here. The second

boy that I ever loved fell in love with me over the sound of the radio waves. My supervisor was a man

named Jeff. He wore his heart on his sleeve and his false teeth in his mouth. He was a voice of comfort for

others, a familiar presence over the airwaves. He staved off loneliness for others, yet could not for

himself. He lived alone in a trailer in the middle of goddamn nowhere, with only his cat for company.

Loki, I think its name was. Or something similar. Some god name. Some godname.
 I used to think that his life was awful sad and lonely, and yet here I am. I also thought that I

would never be a dog owner, yet here I am. I live in a shack in the woods with a vicious mutt. Most

mornings, I get up around three am so I can be to work by six. I pack a lunch. There are some habits you

never get out of. And then, baby, I talk to the world. Tell people about the hikers that got lost somewhere

again, that someone got shot at the gas station in St J. Again.

Welcome to the news—the most fucked up shit that happened the closest to you. At least I get to

choose the music now. And I make a decent wage. Victor’s a real odd fellow, but he pays better than

Bruce ever did. Guess coming from Eastern European nobility does that to a fellow.

I’m out of work by one, most days. Sometimes, I try to go for a walk in the woods, let the forest

swallow me. I’ve always loved the wilderness. I know this doesn’t make me special—the human brain is

wired to need a certain amount of natural surroundings, since our brains still think we live in the woods.

But loving a thing... when you love something, it doesn't have to make you unique... it...

Love. God fucking damnit. Every day, I wish more that I had just stayed with the first boy that I ever

dated. Because he was beautiful and perfect and he had the kind of love for me that would’ve kept

burning even after the stars went out.

And I think, that if I’d been willing to admit it to myself, I would’ve realized how desperately I

loved him.

But I left him. Like a fool. And my heart hasn’t been the same since.

There have been others, since. But nothing that lasted. I make friends easily, but more than that is too

messy?

So there’s a long winded explanation of why I live alone, and will probably never have children. And why I

go home to a nearly empty house each night. I used to need other people so badly, but when you hold
your desires for long enough and don’t act on them, they wither or drain. Leave you feeling... empty, but

not in a bad way.

2033. Twenty Thirty Three. Some kind of weird, futuristic, sci—fi date, not a time in our lives

that’s actually going to happen. Or so we think. The future is far away, but it never stops walking, and it

will always catch up.

When I was younger, I was terrified of death. Terrified, because I had a wonderful childhood, and

life was the one thing I was unwilling to lose. The idea that something so good had to end—well, that

spoiled my fun. What’s the point of a good thing if it can’t last forever?

I know that mentality is wrong. I know it’s slowly stealing my life and vitality away. The beauty of

being human is being able to live eternity in a moment. But it can be so, so, hard to remember that

sometimes.

So I’ll return to my empty house, my cold floors, my unmade and empty bed. They may be bitter,

but at least I know them. And I have my words. When I’m gone, I will have left something. A confused

and garbled record. A story told through sound and fury, signifying nothing.