The Armchair Epiphany

Among You and I

Somewhere in a city landscape, which was 4000 miles away from a particular Ballroom, the morning glory of newborn sunshine cut through the air as they breached into the 4th floor of an apartment before being soaked by a piece of furniture.

A man in an armchair who was commonly known as Jerry Prasley wakes up in a slow, caressing manner. Being momentarily taken aback from the frenzied film that he has just finished in his dreams and his eyes are still hurting from the gleams of gold that he has seen in the abyss.

But the empty smile on his face runs away when he tries to get up and finds the pile of ash, a few burnt cigarette butts rolling around callously on the carpet when they had a chance to break the prison of an ashtray.

It is all real on the Monday morning.

Before the clock can punch the hours of 9, Jerry Prasley is sitting in a cab, not in his usual train seat where he made short, attractive notes of the people he saw on a daily basis.

He is in a cab since his destination has changed from the usual route to his office to mid town where the blocks produced an array of uniformed hospitals and care centers.

And the cause of such drastic, subtle shift in his life can easily be pointed to the pamphlet he is gripping on tightly. Clasping so closely to his chest that even if he leaves it in his pocket, it has a chance of disappearing from his life forever.

 Vanishing away like a magic trick, like all enchanting things in his life that left him by himself without an explanation.

He had enough of vanishing objects. And the penalty of being so cautious is ignored by him as he pays the cab driver in a handful of crumpled up dollars, apace and shoots into the clinic.

The woman in the hall is swift on her feet as she curses the traffic one last time before she enters. The white lab coat is dangling by her side and in the process of flinging it on as quickly as she possibly can without slowing down, puts her on the entrance of her office where her first patient is supposed to be.

Her ' Identification Card ' falls just out of view, stuffed in the plastic prison, in her bag where a couple of psychological magazines, as well as a few books on "Behaviorism Therapy" rest. The blue slips of papers, tags of important topics, a pair of brown framed optics are swimming in the ocean of her busy mess. 

The little trinket of her jewelry is wrapped around the seams of her neck and in the momentary jerk to throw open the door, flings away as it bangs back on her collarbone carelessly.

Then she spots the man who is sitting in an ordinary couch and occasionally throwing some cautious looks at the armchair where she usually sits.

A jolt of surprise and astonishment try to hide themselves in his face when he recognizes the woman who holds the uncanny resemblance to the lady he found in his dreams. And it was the same woman who's picture is plastered on the front page of the " Self help " pamphlet he had hoarded or acquired on some occasion.

The flyer with the helpful green color was found by him on the tiled kitchen counter, beside the arrays of sharp, violent knives which flicked on their lethal whispers when he switched the light on. 

He cannot end the jovial, ecstasy of the wonder that she is performing without her knowledge as the greeting formality comes to an end and the little era of uncomfortable, private questions begins.

But he is not intimidated by the prospect of what he is about to say since he had already lived through it once in a distant, muddy fuse of his psychological turmoil.

He grants one last look towards the astonishment of the perfect architectural contour of her patient disposition then with a slow simper slides the little note to her end of the table.

"I want to live."