Tag: death

Hey, Joost Zwagerman

Don’t look back at us down here
our arbitrary reactions are expected:
hopeless, sad, angry, quick to blame
You gave us the audacity to admit
that death makes us feel a way

Your book sales are breaking roofs
Nothing sells like suicide
The ads, our tragic mythologies
to make you seem better than you were
that killing your own was undeserved

I hope you’re happy.
No, I really do.
That high outside your corpse
hope you are alright, more okay
than you were inside,
writing one long obitual essay

Mistake

You made a mistake.

Red stains on an icy floor, you are biting your bloody nails. When an antagonist says “now it’s your turn,” you’re usually used to an accompanying murderous intent. But the only things here are chilling silence and a notable lack of villains. Your nails are running out. You grind the old blood from underneath with your teeth, sharpened by the rocks and sand you use for sustenance. The blood not yours mixes with a solution of spit and hate deluging from your wizened mouth. Rinsed clean of proof of sin, you are slightly less disgusted by your own hands. About two units of disgust less. That’s 48 more to go, to be precise. Precision has always been your forte. It has killed many women.

A fragile man, a pile of assorted bones, had tasked you with the destruction of a place hated only by him. “The cold is bad for my bones. Ice can turn into water, which is bad for my bones. Rid the world of ICE DUNGEON PLUS and I will reward you with SKULL TREASURES.” You were reluctant at first, having so many good memories of refrigeration. Your dog lasted long hours longer, thanks to the cold. But the promise of SKULL TREASURES convinced you, the exact tier of treasure you care to make an effort for.

ICE DUNGEON PLUS was full of traps, but those can’t hurt you. You only take action when it is necessary. There is no room for error, no room for mistakes. Death is unnecessary; you don’t take any action towards it. It’s surprising how much time you spend staring at blank walls, listening to the crackle of your own skin. A lot of the things you do can lead to death. All this inaction hasn’t done much for your body heat. You once froze a dog by petting it.

Entering the final room of ICE DUNGEON PLUS, you expected a boss, certainly. You had it all figured out: how to kill it, how to escape, how to inform the pile of bones it was done, how to spend hours telling yourself it was necessary. But you did not expect her. Unlike the bosses you’d encountered before, she did not try to kill you. Not a single action performed was towards your death.

This was the first time nothing tried to kill you; you felt less cold. Instead of ICE III, she cast you a look like transparent icicles, sharp and clear with intention. Your lips and fingers knew exactly where to go. Dry, cold skin can be surprisingly warm when acted upon. This was necessary, she was necessary. Then, a low chuckle scared you. “Now it’s your turn.” Fear, panic, health bars running low, no action can lead to death.

This was necessary, you tell yourself, biting your bloody nails. It has been hours and you still don’t believe a word of it. You eagerly activate pressure plates, expecting to be skewered; you can’t help but dodge the cold spikes jutting from the ground. You unintentionally dodge the boulder rolling towards you. You dance through a fire trap, hoping that flames can melt a body as cold and barren as yours. None of it works.

You made a mistake and you can’t help but live with it.

Nakanaide

Nakanaide is the name I was given. It is the one word that defines my existence: it is my word. Like every word, it has meaning. One that I have to live by, that I have to realise. I want people to say, “your name fits you.” I want them to mean those words. I want them to keep saying those words. I don’t want to disappoint my existence.

On an afternoon missing even the wind, with the sun in full burn, was when I first realised my name. A friend from another temple had come to visit. We were placed in a chamber together, forced to sit on our knees. We were surrounded by candles and were not allowed to move until each had extinguished itself. The shimmering haze of heat was the only thing that ever moved even an inch. We both knew this was necessary. The screaming men of our temples said that to appease the alien creature known as God, we had to endure it. I have been told God lives 15,000,000 light-years away, sleeping inside of a dying star in the M83 galaxy. The burn scars on my head and the trouble I have walking were given meaning by this God. I do not know what God means, but to me the word means bad news.

My friend always brought an abandoned fish tank along with him. It once contained a pet as well. He placed it on his lap and allowed his tears to fall into the tank. On our eighteenth time inside the chamber, my friend simply stood up. Sad water spilled into the chamber and did not wait for the candles to extinguish themselves. The screaming men burst into the room and took my friend away. I did not want to disappoint, so I did not cry. We had never once spoken, but I had given my friend the name Saiken, which means ‘bond’.

I remember another time I lived by my name. I had been gifted a pet for a birthday. It was small and frail, and I loved it for those qualities. It would lick my face whenever it was happy or when I was sad. During the day, we would play in the woods near our house and stay away from that building for as long as our hungered stomachs allowed it. During meals, I held it dearly as the cacophonies crashed down on me. In the evenings, we would stay huddled and hidden and shivered together until day arrived. We did not sleep. The stomping on wooden floorboards and the angered voices of those who did not love kept us awake.

It was in the leafless season that we escaped into the forest again. The sounds of snow trampled underfoot gave both it and I a sense of joy. Our one-sided snowball fights and games of hide-and-seek had given meaning to the snow. I was very good at hide-and-seek and was always able to reunite with my dear pet, no matter how well it managed to hide. The last place I would ever find it was inside of a hunter’s camp, on a spit roast. I did not want to disappoint, so I did not cry. I had named it Hatenaku, which means ‘forever and ever’.

I once loved a woman. She took me away from the screaming men and the candle room. She carried me on her back to the first house I would call a home. A house does not have to be a home; my first house was not. To me, home means warmth. The woman taught me how to read, she taught me how to write, she taught me how to talk. She taught me about the words in the world and how each word has meaning. She told me her name was Hakuchuumu, which means ‘daydream’.

It did not take long for the screaming men to find us. Hakuchuumu spoke to me: “Do not cry,” and so I did not. I asked her the meaning of those last words, raising my voice like the lost child I was. All she did was smile, a word that still means nothing to me. The screaming men took me away from my first home and brought me back to my first house.

Nakanaide is the name I was given. It means ‘do not cry’.

Our planet has but one sky

Our planet has but one sky. When we look up at night, barely removed from the safety of our homes, we see more stars than there are houses in our village. The stars form shapes – supposedly, seven stars in particular represent an ancient hunter. The main square is designed with this legend in mind. Funnily enough, no one has ever cared to call it anything else than ‘The Square’; no one knows what the hunter’s name was. Our whole village is laid out like that, shaped like things we are familiar and comfortable with. The way houses seemingly slither up the hill where the mayor has their residence, I wonder what the astronomers opposite the sky would call it. We just call it ‘serpentous’.

Our houses are all shaped differently. The shape of my house is familiar and comfortable to me. It’s a place I enjoy to return to. It doesn’t have a roof, nor does anyone else’s. We are all astronomers here, you see. Everyone is an astronomer – how can you not be when the sky is above you and beautiful? We think of our favourite shape, then go to sleep. While we sleep, we dream of our favourite shape. Those in the village who find their perfect shape, become that shape. These are what we call houses. My house is shaped like love.

The sky is filled with one planet by day. We share the same sky with the astronomers living there, but they are a bigger part of our sky than we are of theirs. What they do up there, we can all see from here. When they leave the house, which all have roofs, they don’t rush to the top of the hill like we do. For astronomers, they don’t seem to be interested in looking at the sky much! They wear strange headgear and walk in chaotic streaks. They don’t say hello and tell one another what their favourite shape is when they pass each other on the street – streets that are all shapeless. Nothing they do has a shape, nothing they do has any real meaning.

During the day, we go to the mayor’s residence on top of the hill and use their many telescopes to look at the sky. We’re supposed to look at the stars to find new shapes to dream of, but I often look at the shapeless astronomers. I peer at their covered heads and nauseating movements. How unpatternedly they walk. Fooling me into thinking they can move in a straight line before twisting and churning their blotty bodies to avoid colliding with another. I imagine their speech is burbled and terrifying.

They speak in seventy-five different tones per minute and cannot think about anything but repulsion. Their astronomy is slamming a pencil onto paper and scratching crude approximations of circles into their own skin. They are shapeless in every sense of the word. The mayor tells me nothing good can ever come of them. The mayor is right. They visited us once.

I was young when the astronomers opposite the sky came to us. They came in something we had never seen before. No shape we knew compared to it; it was vulgar and nauseating. Some of them emerged from that migrainous stain and started doing things to the village. Those actions in particular truly had no shape to them. People simply fell over.

The other astronomers turned them into something none of us had ever been before: shapeless. My mother held me close as one of them walked up to us. The way she held me, it reminded me of my favourite shape – love – so I went to sleep. When I woke up, the astronomers and their formless vessel had disappeared. I also had a house to call my own.

Traces

Everywhere I have my eyes wander, I see you. Well, not you in full corporeality. That’d be strange and it’d hold implications to how powerful you really are. I guess it’s more that you’ve left little pieces of yourself all around. Again, not literally; your body’s all intact. I made sure of that.

I notice you when I’m in my garden. Flowers are the only things I care about. Colours, aromas, life – they provide everything I need. I need to stay grounded, reminded of here. Your name is a flower. You said you loved the pink ones the most. You asked me what they were called, and I didn’t know. Neither does the flower. I don’t want to give it a name it won’t like. I was given a name I don’t like. You touched the flower and it left some of itself on you. You left some of yourself, too. I don’t go to my garden anymore.

I notice you when I’m at my beach. I had grown up there. I spent whole seasons throwing pebbles into the water. I was afraid of water, of what it might do to me. I still am. Drowning isn’t like in the movies. It’s a peaceful, solemn process, without resistance. I’d hate to have died like that. You and I met here. I was surprised you could see me, weren’t afraid of me. I showed you all the places I could remember where I once stood. We threw pebbles at the sea together. We left in the evening; you left footprints where you trod. I didn’t. The tides washed away those marks of you, but I know they were there once. They still are, in a way. I don’t go to my beach anymore.

I notice you when I’m in my home. I don’t know how long I’ve been here for, or how long you’ve been here for. You asked me about my birthday once. I think I’ve had 32, but I stopped counting after that. You said you were spending your birthday with me. I liked that. We sat near a tombstone engraved with a name I don’t like, and you ate the cakes you’d brought. I don’t eat. A breeze did wonders to how your hair looked for a short while. You left your basket here, and that was the last time you left a trace. I don’t go to my home anymore; it is our home now.

I still take care of you. Every day, I pick pink flowers from our garden and gather pebbles from our beach. I place them in our home, arranged in patterns we like. Your grave looks the nicest, I made sure of that. Everywhere I have my eyes wander, I see traces, reminding me that all of you is right here.

This is our house

This is our house. Pleasant piano music plays in the background. We don’t know where it’s coming from, but we don’t care. We are in love. We dance to piano music every night. You always lead our dance.

It’s not a big house, but we don’t have many belongings, anyway. We sold most of them to move in here. You even had to sell the statuette you loved so much – you know, the one your mother gave you? Right before she passed away? It was of a beautiful human, made entirely out of jade. Its expression was very stoic and cold, but that’s to be expected of a statue. Kind of reminds me of you, actually. I don’t mean that. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Five days have passed since I made that terrible remark, and you haven’t spoken to me since then. I think you’ve forgiven me, though. I mean, we still dance every night, and you lead everytime.

Sometimes I miss my old alembic. I had to sell my valuables, too, you know. There’s this space on my desk where it used to fit so perfectly, its perfect glass painted with the reflection of my research. I complain about it every day, but you never respond. I miss your voice.

Not that I care much; I still get to use this desk. You built it for me for my birthday. Besides, I filled up the space with my diaries. Every day I write about you. I love writing about you. More text about you means there’s more of you. I love you.

I work from this nice desk most of the day. When I feel overworked, I look behind me and see your moveless self. The bed sheets hide most of your body, but they accentuate your uncovered arm and face. Your hair has such a nice glow to it. Your skin may have become gray and dry, but you’re still perfect to me.

I put a window above your bed. I felt you weren’t getting enough sunlight; you stay in bed all day. You only get out when night has fallen, because that’s when we dance; that’s when you lead, and I follow. I keep telling you to be more active, but you don’t respond. You never respond. We just dance. You don’t talk a lot. You don’t talk at all. I love you.

But I’m getting distracted. I have to focus on my research. I’ve lost track of the amount of time I’ve spent working, the amount of animals I’ve dissected, the amount of loaves of bread I’ve eaten. You don’t cook for me, and I don’t know how to cook. Bread is all I eat, but I’ll manage.  I don’t care about my own body. I only care about yours. That’s the reason why I’m doing this, that’s the reason I’m doing all this research, instead of dancing with you. Don’t worry, we’ll dance when it’s nighttime. We’ll dance all night, and you lead. You always lead. I will follow.

It’s been another two weeks since my last diary entry. I feel tired, ill, and scared. Your dancing is getting sloppy. I can tell you’re having trouble leading me. Are you sick? Don’t you love me anymore?  No, of course you love me. You have to love me.

My research is making progress! Instead of experimenting on animals, I’ve started experimenting on myself, and the results were amazing! I lost my arm, though. My favourite arm, my right one. I used to stroke your face with it. I hacked it off – it hurt a lot, but not enough to stop doing it -, and I managed to give it a life of its own. It tried to strangle me. That’s understandable, that’s okay. I ate it afterwards. I’m so hungry.

But this is good news! When my research is complete, you’ll be able to get out of bed by yourself. Maybe you’ll even stop decaying! Then we can dance ALL day! I lied when you said you always led our dances. I’m sorry. I’m the one who leads. You can’t.

This is our house. Pleasant piano music plays in the background. It used to be your favourite song. I play it for you all day. I miss you. We are in love. I miss you.

I love you.