Confessions of a Epichondriac
by Asis Kindred Moore

Life is a series of repetitive tasks and repeating emotions and predictable small talk conversations. At least in my world of being, everybody has established who they think they are, or at least who they want everybody else to think they are. If you got a job, that’s what you do everyday except for the weekend when you’re off and you know exactly what you do because it’s the weekend, and we all know what goes on during the weekends. Or if you go to school, that’s what you do everyday, except for the weekend when you’re off and you do what you do because it’s what you do on the weekend, and we all know what happens on weekends. Life is predictable.

Anything predictable is by definition normal. And normal is pretty much, by definition, repetitive, which ultimately, by definition, becomes boring.

Mayhaps it’s different once you pass the legendary boundary from young to ‘old,’ mayhaps you get used to your normal life, your paychecks that get you by every month, and your routine that keeps you in line with comfort and security. But thankfully, I have not stepped yonder to that routine of comfort & security. This one life is such a wild one to live, why not be young and excitable and brilliant all the time? Why can’t we do what we really want to do before we die? What law of the universe keeps us hindered by age so toughly that we can’t do stuffs?

There’s a small number of people who view life as more than what’s right there in front of us—we are Epichondriacs.

I’ll loosen my shoulders for this one.

The moment has shifted from normal life, which is a form of day-to-day chaos, to an epic, life-changing, forceful stream of consciousness. All in a split second, a split thought. My eyes see more than what’s there, the beauty is more than I can contain, the emotion dripping down the edges of my spine into little pools at my feet. My breathing shifts into silent sobs of intensity and wonder.

Sometimes I get to a certain point where I just see things as epic all the time, even if they’re not particularly epic at all! This is classic epichondriac reflex to stimuli.

I first heard the phrase ‘Epichondriac’ from a dear friend of mine whilst visiting him for a weekend. Epichondriac … the word has remained lodged amidst the random knowledge in the wrinkles of my brain, accumulating meaning and strength, growing into more than just a word, but a way of life.

Personally, I am not that bummed to feel the world as an all time epic moment of intensity and clarity—for however long the moment lasts. I feel like it brings so much to my small life that I can praise and cherish, as a motivation on multiple fronts to do whatever wants to be done, not to mention an outlet for my writing.

“Epic.” “Very imposing or impressive; surpassing the ordinary.” Your local epichondriac would define it more as an incredible force of emotion linked to the breaking interest of the moment, especially music or drama. I can’t describe it any other way.

Memories hold the most emotion for me, sometimes even more than the life I’m living in the moment that I am living it. I cannot even begin to convey the incredible, the epic feelings that arise in relived memories. The background music as she collapsed into herself crying whilst a bee buzzed around her head. Holding damsels in distress with just two hours of sleep to keep me alive. Random memories that hold intense imagery and emotion are pure inspiration.

When I write about the moments that reach epic proportion in my life, my hands cannot type nor word as fast as I want, nothing will be as epic as it is in my head. Tragic that sometimes the memory of something is more epic than the actual event was itself. I’m sure I’d be a great psychological study for a therapist, but—they already had their crack at me once and … I’d call it a draw.

I wish ever so greatly for there to be others who shared my yearning for one true epic moment, in every moment. Every moment, everyday. This is a quality I look for in people, to share this curse—or blessing—with me, in this one precious life. I can just see the grass and trees swaying to the beat of my music blaring out the window, and wish I had someone to share that moment with.

Won’t you share this moment with me?

Asia Kindred Moore lives in Salem, Oregon, where she works as a barista at the Coffee House Cafe downtown. Asia can be reached at diminishing_soul@hotmail.com