a fear of living

Days can seem limitless in their scope of time. I know time to be a subjective construct of the beholder, yet some days have their own celerity. Today is one of those days, slow and gentle... nearly startling. Night fell early, i'd been hiding indoors for an hour or two, when i realized that i'd been searching for something to pass the time. I stepped outside to burn a cigarette on the snow-enshrouded porch. As i looked up into the night sky searching for stars between a thick blanket of snowcouds, a sonic boom shook the airwaves as a plane descended to the outskirts of town (possibly Dick Cheney or Paul Wolfowitz returning home for some shelter from the adminstration's crumble).
I sat outside this way thinking about the immensity of time, the amount of space to 'do' and to 'live,' when i witnessed a disconsolate scene. Across the street lies a home for the elderly, antiquated and forgotten. From a golden illuminated doorway a daughter was attempting to leave her aging mother for the evening. I suspected her visit was brief as her jeep was left running in the lot. Her mother was audibly reluctant to allow her daughter to depart so swiftly. She continued chatting away as the elderly are stereotypically known for doing. The daughter, on the other hand, was evidently ready to take her leave. She continued walking to her vehicle as she repeated her sordid farewells in a frustrated tone. A halo glow from a streetlamp lit the scene. It was apparent she thought her mother beyond detection of her disposition. Senile, she was thinking. And perhaps it was true, for her mother just kept right on with a pleasant inflection, though i couldn't hear what she said. Meanwhile, her daughter climbed inside the cab and slowly pulled away. Seeing this, the elderly mother closed the door and opened the blinds to watch. She waved for a long time, her silhouette warmed by a lamp in the entryway. She kept on waving, even after the jeep had disappeared, then slowly battened down the blinds. I imagined her as she returned to her quiet home, perhaps a deafening quiet.

Though i lead a domestic life that i share with my partner, i find myself often returning home in a similar manner. This place we call home, with its walls that hold tight all that occurs inside... i sometimes get an overwhelming feeling of the immensity~ of time and space. I don't speak of depression, but an overwhelming force that draws blood to the legs and leaves one restless. It was summed up in a recent telephone conversation with my dear friend and east coast correspondent, the feeling of "what to do?" When time slows, and one may say~ our dear socialization and education rears up, demanding action in the form of progress or production. It can leave one reeling if unprepared for this onslaught.
As i watched the mother return indoors, i felt the vast desuetude that we share. And the questioning of how we both ended up in such a state, though her staid lot may be closer to settled. Could this feeling be the fear of living? Not a pressure that i might do much, or do right, with the time that i've been given upon this earth. But the fear of being a small being in such a deluged arena of life. And to be equipped with a potentially disarming introspection; perhaps the possibility of going mad. Such as an Eskimo surrounded by limitless white, piblokto.