I wish I could tell you something beautiful, like that every person has a single truth in his heart that he needs to tell the world. But I can't. I can't lie to you. Nothing beautiful stays. Whatever is beautiful—if anything is—is always breaking apart and being renewed. As soon as I would tell you, you'd start to forget it. Then it would die into nothingness, never to be remembered. That's our destiny—to become as much of a non-entity after death as we were before birth. I'd hate to tell you something beautiful because it would only go to nothing in the end. Everything is always dying because consciousness is fickle and fading. That's what I'm most afraid of—becoming nothing. I tried so hard in my youth to get the attention of others because it felt as though they kept me alive with their looks. I could never keep up though. I died too often, and now I'm too old and too tired to try. Writing you this letter is the only way I know how to keep myself around anymore. Since I have no intention of giving it to you, I've succumb to relying upon myself to keep my self alive. It's narcissistic, I know, but it's better than letting go of my grip on
Benjamin stopped writing. He grew frustrated and wanted to leave. He crumbled up the piece of paper, picked up his books, and left. On his way out into the setting sunlight, he dropped the note into a trashcan he passed by. He saw it land on top of a plastic cup full of ice before walking on. The wind was warmer than the surrounding air and felt to him like being breathed upon.
He passed some of his peers. He did not recognize their faces, but overheard familiar discussions about recent parties. His level of dejection increased and he lowered his gaze to watch the sidewalk. He intended on visiting a copse of nearby trees, although he had no intention of stopping there. Benjamin was unsure about where to settle. He hated how his emotions revolted against him and how, in so doing, made light of themselves. Now he was in a frenzy. By this time tomorrow, he thought, he may be feeling fine and laughing with Aubrey. He was disgusted by the progression of time and its way of belittling the present. He felt himself insignificant and hopeless.
A patch of tall grass at the intersection of the curb and sidewalk flicked in the breeze, its heavy crown of seeds bending the blades downward. Benjamin observed this and the sporadic piles of geese droppings along his way. He was approaching a man-made pond. The noise of crickets disturbed the ambient silence as his pace remained even. Sweat began bubbling on his forehead in reaction to the early summer evening.
Benjamin was disappointed in what life had become. He had no clarity regarding what exactly it should be, but knew well enough that something was amiss. There was not enough grandeur, not enough wish-fulfillment, not enough love. There were instead games to be played, forms to fill out, and intricate dances to perform with the gatekeepers. When he was younger, he did not think extensively about the actual experiences of his adulthood, what it would be to live as an adult. He only imagined he would be important and well-liked. Somewhere in the midst of trying to become important, he realized he would not be. Ever after, living was difficult.
He abandoned the pavement and heard the slosh of the field beneath him. Four river elm trees grew on the north side of the pond. Benjamin watched the gentle jostling of their limbs. Their silver diamond leaves shimmered in waves. He thought of how foreign they looked against the expanse of flat land on the periphery of the campus. Someone planted them many years ago to make amends for the forest of previously felled trees. They made for a refuge. He would rest against them and wait for his dismay to pass like the clouds.
