Jungle of the Mind

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The vines gave way. He fell nearly 15 feet, and landed with a loud thud on the muddy ground below.

That's how today's voyage started. With a loud crash and a broken wrist. What a way to go, he thought. After 3 days of relative peace, the situation had turned dire in a matter of seconds. And now, the broken dishes scattered on the ground are his to pick up and somehow repair.

How would he repair his situation? The physical, he could handle. A broken wrist is nothing to scoff at, but it was manageable. A sore rear could be walked off; dirty clothes could be cleaned.

But how the hell does he fix his panicking?

To him, it feels like another force. Such an unsurvivable circumstance leaves him with nothing but his own brain to fill in the gaps. And so the thoughts flutter along, leaves unconsciously falling from a long-dead tree only to be trampled under the weight of his now fast-moving feet.

You're dead meat. You don't even know what wildlife is out there. Eat one wrong plant: dead. Step too close to one animal: dead. Not look where you're going again? Dead. You're lucky to have survived that one, but you're not rolling 7s every time. Dead. meat.

Thanks brain, he thought. Very helpful.

His wrist exploded with another wave of pain, an electric shock through his arm and into his shoulder. He lumbered forward towards a rock face and leaned against the cool surface, the whole time wincing in pain.

So very helpful. Indeed it was. Isn't that how his caveman ancestors survived and reproduced and evolved so long ago? Fear was an ever-present motivator, but something else clicked. Where does fear come from? A constant, unaided need for survival in the face of the inevitable.

Against the only certainty that's ever given to a new soul, the basic, unwavering instinct is to resist against it.

What a cruel joke, he thought.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

He knew the poem well. His days back in civilization seemed like years, decades, centuries ago. In reality, he had just been conversing with his dad the previous week, when everything was intact: what a superficial feeling, he thought. Stability.

"What do you think about it?", he said, a constant nervous feeling protruding into his tone.

"I'm not sure honestly. Is it really that much of an issue?"

"Oh, well, I mean, maybe not. It feels pretty important."

"I don't know. Maybe you just have too much time on your hands, ya know? Have you ever thought about picking up a hobby? Maybe that'll take your mind off of the whole thing."

"......right."

"Whatever you do, don't tell your mother. Just pretend nothing's wrong. You'll be fine."

He'll be fine. He couldn't believe it. In his father's mind, he thought he had solved the issue. Crisis averted: parent of the year.

He remembered the uncomfortable silence that followed during that excruciating drive, and immediately stopped thinking about it.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Focus. Please focus.

He pulled out his old leather bound journal, coffee stained and slightly discolored on the edges. A single graphite pencil, too small for his hands, accompanied it, and despite its' heavy use still donated clear, sharp, and unchanging lines to the coarse paper. Out of the many things that went wrong on this expedition, there was one positive aspect: the broken wrist was his right. Left handedness has very few upsides, he thought, but this was one of them.

Trip log: October 23rd, 1967. Indo-Burma Rainforest. Day 4.

Things have taken a turn for the worse. Took a fall through some dense brush that seemed like solid ground. Fell through the leaves, the length of the tree, and landed awkwardly on my right hand. Other associated bumps and bruises, but none distinguishable from ones I already had from the last 3 days.

Today was supposed to be the final trek home, but I seem to have lost my way. My compass is heavily cracked, but functional (thank god). No loss of blood, so no immediate urgency to seek medical assistance. Right now, just focused on continuing to move forward. My food rations have tapered off during the previous 3 days, starting to get low. Rainforest is filled with…

He trailed off slowly, his eyes gazing slightly above the worn down paper.

His mouth slightly agape, his eyes squinting, he noticed a blip of light in the far distance, through the dense underbrush. A flicker, if only for a second. He wasn't sure if it was the near-dusk sunset reflecting off of a far away puddle of water, or something else entirely. There were no reports of any human activity within 15 miles of this area, according to the report given to him by the Burmese official.

It was nothing, surely. Surely, he must not get distracted. Surely, he would continue moving forward.

Yet the light unmistakably flickered again. A slight rebellious dance in an otherwise solidified, laminar movement. Was he finally losing it? Was this the telltale sign of a man that has become entirely devoid of a rational mind? He finally understood why crazy people believe they're sane: any sane person would believe that light to be real, provided they see it for themselves.

It flickered again, barely visible through cropped leaves and interlocking branches. Against all logic, he felt it calling to him, beckoning that he veers off his predetermined course to the Northeast and follows the light Westward. It was a siren's song, curiosity's worst enemy, and yet he couldn't help himself. Taking a beat to stretch his legs and attempt to move his right hand (unsuccessfully), he cautiously sauntered toward the beacon.

My ass still hurts, he thought painfully.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

As it happened, the light was closer than expected, about 120 feet or so. The sun was getting lower in the sky, though the forest floor had already been flung into relative darkness. No large, blood-thirsty animals were spotted during the surprisingly long-timed walk (to be fair, navigating a packed forest with little light isn't exactly easy). Perhaps the loud crash of his fall had scared them off, he thought.

Of course, his brain couldn't help but chime in.

Dead. meat. You think a few rustling leaves is gonna scare off a Bengal tiger from its only meal in a week? You're so dead. So fucking dead. I don't think you realize how defenseless you are, Superman. Better start praying.

The sarcasm wasn't appreciated much, but he couldn't help but notice the word praying slotted along the other usual slew of pessimistic garbage. Pray? He hadn't prayed since he was a kid, when he barely knew what praying was. In his youth, he and his immediates just moseyed into a large, odd-smelling building, learned about this perfect man who created him and everything around him, and then eventually got to eat lunch with many of his extended family, whom he didn't spend time with otherwise. That continued for the first 6-7 years of his most formidable memories, but faded off afterwards, relegated to the background in favor of more exciting endeavors: music, parties, friends, girlfriends and the like.

With such little influence that religion had on him in his childhood, why is it invading his subconscious now? Is he that desperate?

Best not worry about it at the moment, he figured. He promptly told his brain to focus: focus on surviving, and get us out of here alive. More simply, follow that flickering beauty in the distance.

Navigating through the warping branches and colossal tree trunks, he was able to cross a viable enough distance to make out the light more clearly: that flicker, that glorious, awe-inspiring lapse in the continuous transfer of energy, was no reflection. It was fire. Sweet, priceless fire. He let out an exasperated, but exhausted, laugh. He nearly cried.

What would initially start as a jolt of pure adrenaline and joy, however, turned slowly into something more sinister, more dreadful. He clamored to get that feeling back, but a pit was all there was. Why take this away from me, he thought. Can we not just appreciate this?

His brain, though, forced its way through, just in time:

Dead. Meat.

There are other people here; congratulations, you're saved. Seriously? Do you honestly think that whoever the hell is camping out here in bum-fuck nowhere is willing to help you? If it's a local, they'll run away at the sight of a pasty, injured man limping towards them, and you'll be left alone again. If it's another explorer, they'll shoot you on sight. Why do you think they carry their guns around? They're waiting for you. They're hunting.

To be fair, his brain was right. At least, most likely right. The constant urge to survive and sustain left his brain worried and anxious, but admittedly for all the right reasons. There was a sizable risk that the person nesting in this remote part of a remote country didn't want to socialize. If it were to be a local, what little Burmese he had picked up from his day-long stint in Naypyidaw wouldn't be of use here: Dar bé lao lè ? or Ngar di mhar a lo lo nae deh would serve next to no purpose. Instead, he would have to communicate like his ancient primordial ancestors: body language, eye contact, and food.

Food. He hadn't considered eating all day, figuring that he would be well on his way to catching his flight back to his origin. As soon as food entered the mind, it wouldn't leave; a stubborn, homeless vagrant who claimed squatter's rights in his head. His stomach reacted accordingly, letting out an audible growl, as if to tell his brain that he wasn't relaying his duties correctly, and owed it a great service. In response, he slung his backpack from around his shoulder to face him directly, almost tearing the zipper off in an attempt to quickly reach whatever edible items were lodged in the bottom.

He felt something metal knocking around and pushed it aside, then pulled out a single granola bar, one of only two left, and ate it, finally taking a moment to breathe.

"You really don't think I should go see someone?"

"Your mother made a stew yesterday with the deer that I strung up. That'll probably be our dinner tonight, if you wanted any."

"Dad, I just need someone to talk to."

"Look at that, they're building a new park off the highway"

"I wouldn't let anyone know about it."

"Your mother is gonna like that park when it opens, really close to home. That's nice, isn't it?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, it's nice."

Again, he couldn't put the thoughts out of his mind. The conversation had been seared into his skull, the remnants not taking a single day off from reminding him of how alone he truly was. His dad had been his lifeline during harder times, but something as taboo as therapy left him destitute, alone.

Finally, with a rising feeling in his stomach that he could be breathing his last breaths, he stepped forward through the remaining forest into the light.

It was there that he saw it. Or at least, what was left of it.

A mangled helicopter, with scattered flames all around the small clearing. The blades were bent and crooked, almost snapped off entirely at the hinges. The hull of the machine was partially submerged into the Earth, the windows shattered with glass covering the floor within a 15 foot radius. A tree held up the tail of the chopper, making the entire unit appear to endlessly list into a nosedive. So close to civilization, yet an entire world away. A short 15 miles Northeast, and they would've had a chance to survive.

There was absolutely no chance that any search party would have found the poor souls in time.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. The woman seemed like a Burmese native, and had been operating the helicopter, he surmised, due to her position on the ground in front of the pilot's chair. She had been catapulted out of the vehicle onto the slightly muddy forest floor. Luckily, she was face down. He didn't have to witness her pain. The man was more gruesome. His safety harness had stayed in tact, if barely. His head was hanging low from his shoulders, too low for the average person, nearly wrapping back around and touching his mouth to his stomach. He noticed the tendons in the back of his neck, protruding and stretched.

He guessed that he had snapped his neck on impact and died at that moment. Both of his arms appeared to be dislocated from their joints, and were haphazardly thrown into and around his lap.

He fell to his knees in front of the grizzly scene, moved his broken right wrist into his lap, and cried.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

There was nothing of value in the wreckage. He didn't want to venture too close to the small fires anyway (Go near that thing, it explodes and you're dead meat.) He was able to spot a small box of bandages on that outskirts of the clearing, slightly burnt on the sides. Slipping it quietly into his backpack, he backed away slowly from the wreckage, letting it cautiously fade back into the jungle's overture until that familiar flicker was all that remained.

The final 15 miles of the journey passed in a blur of dark oak, olive colored leaves, and spots of overcast sky. Every time he blinked, the memory cast its shadow over his closed eyelids, and imprinted an unavoidable sinking feeling in his stomach.

Trip log: October 23rd, 1967. Indo-Burma Rainforest. Day 4.

…memories of it. I can't seem to get away from it, and my mind is constantly following me. A trip to the jungles that I read about years ago should have helped.

He shifted his attention to the bottom margin of the page, and began to write:

Why hasn't it helped? Why hasn't it helped? Why hasn't it helped? Why hasn't it hel-

The small pencil snapped under the pressure, careening the wood and graphite onto the forest floor. He stood there, amazed that such a trance overtook him. A final conversation slipped into his conscious thought, one he had the previous month with his coworker.

"How are things with you?"

"Fine."

…

"...Just fine? Nothing else?"

"Nope. Nothing else."

"I feel like you're lying"

"Why would I be lying? What reason would I have to lie?"

"Jesus okay, okay."

A strong feeling of shame washed over him, causing his dirty face to slightly scrunch into a furrowed mess of sweat, dirt, and guilt. He found himself staring at the graphite on the darkened ground.

He was close to his destination now. He noticed a slight change of smell wafting through the air.

Once again cutting through whatever dense growth had obstructed his path, he let out a sigh of relief. The famous Inle Lake stood in front of him, about a third of a mile ahead, expanding vastly into the distant, hazy cloud cover. Mild disappointment immediately overtook him, though. He had read about floating villages along the lengths of the lake, home to many natives and locals who could help him. Today, though, there were none. Perhaps the lake is truly just that big, he thought, as he made the final steps toward the shoreline.

The floating villages would have been a true sight to behold, but despite the disappointment, he was ultimately glad. The trek had been long and arduous, and having people around to mark the end of it seemed unnatural, unfitting. After 4 days of critical thinking and decisive action, a wave of calm rushed over him. He even felt it in his right hand. It was just him.

He sat along the banks of the lake, a slow slope into the water. Not a single soul could be seen around him, just the sound of the water lapping the shore, the birds flinging themselves from tree to tree, and his own brain, relaying to him the last conversation that he wanted to consider. Still, it invaded his thoughts anyway.

"I don't think you should go"

"Why not? This could be good for me."

"I'm not sure, I'm getting an odd feeling… Are you hiding something? What do you plan to do out there? In the jungle?"

"Nothing really. It'll be a nice long weekend."

"You have a tour guide right?"

…

"...Right?"

"Yeah, yeah of course."

"Okay, well your mother and I are worried, but I'm sure you'll be fine. Just don't get eaten by a tiger. You'd be dead meat."

"I made it this far, right?"

"Right… By the way, how's your situation going? Did you take my advice?"

"I'm good, Dad. I took up card collecting."

"That's great! The Coakley's were starting to talk. Can't have that."

"...Yeah."

So many lies in one conversation, it was hard to keep track. As much as he hated lying, there was really no other option. How could he have told his father why he was really here?

He sat there, transfixed at the continuous pulsing of the waves along the shoreline. His right hand rested neatly in his lap. It had gone somewhat numb.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Time had become non-existent to him; he wasn't sure how long he sat there. The clouds listlessly shifted along the expansive lake, casting moonlit shadows down into the depths. Despite the dark sky, there were no more flickers of light- no society around. No helping hands, no one to listen, no one to send to look for the crash. It was, truly, just he and the universe.

Tears welled up in his eyes once more, but this time he wasn't sure why. That is until his brain, right on cue, told him:

It's time.

Indeed it was. Right now seemed like the perfect moment. Once again he slung his backpack around from his shoulder and unzipped it, more carefully this time. He reached into the smaller, attached pocket and pulled out a 12oz bottle of whiskey that he bought from a local shop when he first landed. It was still unopened. He unscrewed the tightly fitted cap and held it up, saluting the vast lake beyond him. He drank.

He calmly returned the bottle to his backpack and exchanged it for another item. This one would need no opening, no additional assistance. It was ready to go. So was he.

The metal barrel flickered in the moonlight.