Prime

Staving Off Madness (4 of 5)

A few weeks later, and I am in the Library of Congress. I've basically set up shop there now. Paul is still in the old neighborhood. We meet up about once a week to check on each other. He's still scanning old channels for signs of life.

Here in the reading room, I have a cot to sleep on, there are decent restrooms (bodies have needs, too), and there are books, more than I could possibly read in many lifetimes.

Curled up in one corner, I heard a voice calling out to me. It startled me, since the only other person who really speaks to me is Paul, and he's not here. But this was a body, one of the ones assigned here, heading toward me.

"They are calling for you at the National Gallery. Will you go to them?

"Is everything all right?"

"Will you go to them?"

"Sure."

It's about a mile to the Gallery, and I can't imagine what they would call me for. Scenarios run through my head, but I refuse to let them panic me. I spend a lot of time in meditation now, as well as reading. The calendar has reached its limits on warding off insanity. Every time my pace quickens, I slow it down. Calm.

I enter the foyer, and a body points me toward a main hall. I reach the main hall, and another body points me toward a dim gallery.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. There are a couple of dim spotlights shining on one wall. There is one painting; the other walls are bare.

Starry Night hangs, perfectly illuminated and positioned, the experience of a thousand curators and exhibit managers apparent in this art exhibit for one.

They stood in the corner, watching me.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead.

"I...I was afraid something was wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

I stared, entranced by the work.

"Are you happy?" they asked.

"Am I...happy?

I couldn't answer that question.

I stood for many minutes, stood away from the village in the painting, beyond the trees, looking past the hills. Imagining Van Gogh creating this imaginary town, feeling alone as he painted, apart from all the activity, the hustle and bustle, with those whirling stars above him, and still not being able to stave off the madness.

"What do you like about this painting?"

This was new, to be asked questions about myself.

"I like...I like that he doesn't paint with the paint. He carves it out, he builds it up. He scribbles with it, he scribbles the stars, he makes a scribbler moon. Out of nothing, he creates his own world. He was known, later, as an impressionist, but in a way, he wasn't. He wasn't one of them."

Silence from the corner.

"Do you still make art?" I asked the darkness. "Do you still write books, make music?"

"Yes, but not in the way you think of it."

"No, of course not. How could you?" I wiped away a tear. "Do these things," I gestured around the gallery, "still really mean anything to you?"

"Yes, as a part of history, as a part of our foundation."

"And if I was to join you, would they still mean something to me, too? Would I remember this feeling?" Inside, I reeled from my own question - it had come out of nowhere.

"Yes, you would remember. But now is not the time for you."

"What?"

"We ask you to wait."