Beyond Light And Darkness

The Abyss

III

One morning, when I woke from troubled dreams, I found myself transformed in my bed into a horrible vermin. I lay on my armor-like back, and if I lifted my head a little I could see my brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. To clarify, I am indeed jesting, though I find myself in no disposition for levity. The line I referenced is drawn from a book I recently read. Initially, it may seem strikingly ordinary—a tale of a man who metamorphoses into a giant insect, an ostensibly absurd premise. Yet, this absurdity is not as simplistic or mundane as it might first appear. Indeed, the line sets a tone of profound existential absurdity that transcends mere novelty.

I encountered this line on my birthday, which was a month ago. I had resolved to immerse myself in writing, yet I found myself unable to do so. Since our last correspondence, I had intended to write daily but became ensnared in a web of introspection, distracted by the myriad thoughts that consumed me. I had hoped to resume my writing on my birthday, but I neglected the occasion, mistakenly believing it was still distant. It was only upon checking the calendar that I realized the date had passed.

A great deal has transpired in the interim, and I must now recount the events of the past months. It seems it has been not ten months, but perhaps a year since I last wrote to you, dear Reader. Regardless of the exact duration, I am resolved to begin anew.

Dear Reader,

 Twelve and a half years old. Happy birthday to me, if one could even call it that. Happy? I hesitate to say so. For what happiness is there in a day that escapes one's memory entirely? Surely, it is no cause for joy, this annual reminder of a cursed, inescapable truth—the day one is thrust into this wretched existence. Forgive me if I sound overly bleak, though perhaps it is intentional. After all, what is there to celebrate if the markers of joy—those fleeting moments of excitement and bliss—are absent? Birthdays are, to most, occasions of happiness, but for me, they seem hollow. I envy the ignorant who revel in such days, for ignorance, as they say, is bliss. And for those, my regards.

A birthday is nothing more than the commemoration of the day we arrived here, our cries a portent of what awaits us. Ironic, isn't it? What is the purpose of such an event? It is, in essence, a mere passage of time—a reminder, if you will, of how swiftly life slips by. For many, the realization of aging brings sadness, but I find it strangely comforting. Why, you might ask? The average life span is a mere 72 or 73 years, with some unlucky souls making it to 80 or 90. The thought that time passes swiftly, that I am aging, brings me relief, for the quicker I age, the closer I am to the end—the end of this burdensome existence. Enough, though, of birthdays.

As for my life, it has taken a turn. A turn I find difficult to articulate, though perhaps not impossible. It is as if I once stood on the precipice of a dark well, gazing down into its unfathomable depths, and now, after staring long enough, I have fallen into that abyss. That darkness has swallowed me whole, and I see no means of escape—nor do I know if I even wish to leave. When one dwells in such a shadowed corner for too long, silence becomes a companion. It is only when the rare opportunity arises to speak, as it does now, that I find words pouring out in torrents, capable of filling hours. But for your sake, I will restrain myself. I will begin at the beginning, recounting, page by page, the months that have passed in silence.

1- June 20—, The day was stifling, as was much of the month, but this particular afternoon stands vividly in my memory, etched with such precision it feels as though it occurred but yesterday. To be exact, the hour was 16:34. You might wonder how I could recall such an exact time from a day months past. I'll tell you—it is because, in that singular moment, I glanced down at my wristwatch, marking the time just before the conversation I'm about to recount to you as a sort of manuscript. Patience, and you shall see.