Thanatos

             Young ladies typically keep a diary, intending to vividly recall, after a week, two, or perhaps a month, every detail for the purpose of future gossip. Diligently, they transcribe into their diaries the intricacies and conversations meticulously gathered after each social event or encounter. It is precisely for this reason that young ladies invest their precious time in the company of pen and paper. Rarely would anyone choose to keep a diary without substantial grounds. However, I may conceive something even less conventional.              And so, here I am, finding myself daily in the solitude of my own chamber, unburdened by social engagements, not anticipating the web of gossip, inexplicably taking up the thankless task of journaling. And here is what has come of it.              A meager social life has never cast me into despondency, as a mere taste of it was enough to forever disillusion me with its charms. Therefore, if I am to indulge in gossip, it will be about fictional characters.              With envy, I immerse myself in Gothic romance novels, depicting bygone eras and customs. These books fill a void in my life that will always remain empty. They contain something that can never exist in reality. In them, there is an incomparable abundance of meaning and stories. I long to temporarily find myself there, in a harsh but plot-filled world of literary reality.              A fictional world is neither the past nor the future. It is not a segment of time, history, or logic. The realm of invention is perfect, like a dream or a fantasy. It’s imagination infused with reality but devoid of its constraints. Everything foundational in reality becomes mere props and stagecraft in fantasy. This is the beauty of the realm of invention. It has clear motives, pure emotions, and uninterrupted action.              And at times, it seems to me that the main character from there gazes at me with envy, just as I gaze at her, and she wants to take my place in my, albeit empty, yet tranquil life. She knows how to love and wants to live, but something always impedes her. While I, with the world outside my window, warmth within the walls of my home, and bread on the table, do not desire to live, to love, or to be happy. Perhaps she doesn’t just envy me; she despises me.              Angélique de Sancé de Monteloup (fr.), Catherine Earnshaw, Jane Eyre, Maggie Cleary, Mina Murray, la Presidenta de Tourvel (sp.) — they all despise me, and yet I yearn to immerse myself in their lives for just an hour. True, there is one exception: Elizabeth Bennet. I would love to live her life entirely, and she doesn’t envy me in the slightest. Her life is a balance between my reality and the tales of gothic mistresses. Elizabeth Bennet, perhaps, is envied by all of us. Four in the morning.              February.              Outside, the orange glow of lanterns, reflected off the snow, illuminates the frosty night, while my room feels stuffy. The dim light of an economical lamp allows my tired eyes, worn from hours of reading, to follow Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet strolling near Longbourn on the eve of their engagement. And the story concludes, leaving me reluctant to close the book.              Dawn approaches. Reality sets in. I feel the morning chill and know that I am alive. And I know that everything passes. The melancholy over a finished book will also soon pass.              It’s easy to understand, when reading a book, to whom the multitude of words, letters, actions, and thoughts belong. But when living, it can be challenging to imagine: who thinks my thoughts? My desires, who desires them? And what, essentially, am I? I come at night, I awaken at dawn, and I suffer during the day, so there’s something to come back to at night. I am the alcohol, I am the intoxication of the universe, I am what is called the soul. And, as the soul should, I suffer because I feel life.              Beyond myself, I encounter people every day. And you are a person too. You study currency courses, read the news, keep track of conversations. You understand a lot, offer advice, try to be clever. Where are you headed? But strive, or else you’ll become empty, like me. And in my emptiness, I find unbearably dull. Yet, this boredom doesn’t prompt me to pay attention to your pursuits. I wonder, do you follow mine? Do you want to know more about me?              All my desires boil down to one: sleep… Oh, the sweet heaviness of the centuries. Oh, this frightening descent into sleep. It feels like you won’t return ever again, but in the morning, you do. I return. And again, I see you. Who are you?              You are my captivating solitude. And I am a capricious fool, knowing no other joy in life than melancholic sadness. What am I lacking, and for what purpose was I sent into this world?              Capricious, raging passion in my bitter and crimson soul. As if my thought is bathed in blood. As if my thought is the heart, pumping blood. The heart of the entire world. And it beats and beats, again and again. It has no choice. Blood must pulsate. Life must go on. And life goes on, even when I am overwhelmed by indifference to it.              I thought that those who don’t care rule the world. After all, when you don’t care, you don’t need anything, and when you don’t need anything, according to the law of villainy, you can get anything. But when you realize you can get anything, then having something is uninteresting.              I don’t care, but I have nothing. I have nothing. I don’t even have a normal human life. I am consumed by yellowed book pages, dotted with small letters, like the mouth of a monstrous predator with cunningly arranged teeth. Trying to escape its jaws, I thrust myself deeper onto the sharp teeth with my flesh, and the wounds bleed even more, and thus, the appetite in the belly of the terrible monster flares up more fiercely. And the sap of my veins oozes into its throat. So, as long as I groan in this slaughterhouse, I live. When the suffering ends, so will my life.              I want to sprinkle quotes. I want you to know them too. I want to stop being lonely. I want someone to understand me. I need a friend. If only you would talk to me. No, not just listen, but talk. I want to feel the warmth of understanding. I want to feel that I can still feel warmth.              Who are you? Answer me! Don’t be silent. I beg you, just don’t be silent.              Tell me, will you be my friend? Because I want you to be my friend. Then I could tell you something about myself. And you would remember me later. A day, a month, a year, several years could pass, but I would remain in your memory, and if needed, you could recall me, remember my story, and say that we were friends. Because I also want to remember you. I want to know something about you.              And if only my clock started ticking again. If only I could carry memories through the years. If only I weren’t so lonely in the greedy and thirsting jaws of yellowed pages. Promise that you’ll be my friend. Promise…              I wasn’t always like this. I was a living person, just like you. But I hated life. I remember everything. One day I will escape from the vortex of time, go back, and start everything anew. And then, I’ll do everything right.              Funny, isn’t it? Do everything right! As if one can know how to live correctly. I can endlessly love life and still one day realize that I’ve erred again. What if I forget everything? Forget all my intentions and again fail to love it?..              I will open my eyes and see bright light. Light and nothing more. My eyes will begin to adjust to it, and finally, through the light, shapes and objects will emerge. I will see the world! I have waited for this for so long! I will be so happy!              I remember everything: how this world was born, how it evolved, how it became what it is. And now I am a part of it. I am its future. I will do everything to preserve it and make it better. Because this is my world.              Have you ever experienced déjà vu? Because I have. And I know what it is. When I came into this world, when I took my very first breath, I must have thought and felt exactly like that. And then something happened.              One day, the world became a puzzle, a mystery, a pitcher with prohibitions for me. One day, the foundation of my life became prohibition. I didn’t even notice it. Gradually realizing the power of words and mastering the art of speech, I forgot who I truly am. Words spoken by people infused new knowledge about me. And the last drop of my previous memory expired with the first word I uttered.              Now, words were shaping my reality.              People need words. Without words, there is no deception. Without deception, you can’t establish prohibition. Without prohibition, power is impossible.              That’s why I need a friend. I know you love life. And you’re not a fictional character. You live every day. You precisely know why it’s worth loving life. That’s why your story is more interesting to me than those I can read. You’re real. And you are my friend.              I willingly plunge into the forbidden history of my soul. I must be resolute in my decision because the very existence of the world forbids this action. Unraveling the mystery veiled by prohibition, I will cease to exist in this reality and venture to a place where, with the help of my prohibition, I will create my own world, my own secret.              I have broken all the rules by talking to you. Soon, I will be no more. I will remain only in your memory. My prison is not the kind you can escape from. My guard sees everything; there is nothing I can hide from him. And now he is coming for me. I will try to plead for forgiveness with good behavior, so I won’t say another word to you. Forgive me, my friend.              Only I remain. Once again, only I.              I don’t regret time or space. I always knew I would lose. You cannot help but love but waiting for love in return.              I endure. Day by day, I patiently walk into nothingness. Is there anything for me to wait for? It seems not. Don’t pity me. I am fine.