Forward: Twenty Years from Now
At one point in the craziness that became my life during its seventeenth year, James told me this: "When the world is falling down around you, don't watch it. Keep your mind focused on something else, and before you know it, everything will be alright." This, I have come to learn, was a wonderful philosophy to have . . . for a teenage boy going through a hard time. It doesn't exactly work when it's really the entire world, and not just your small part of it, that's falling down around you. I have had to learn different strategies of coping with the terror I have come to live with every day.
One day, when I was finally cleaning out a few old boxes I hadn't been through since I moved into my own place, I found the old wooden box I received for my fifth birthday from my grandpa – who died the next year – in which I keep all of my old journals. It was late January 1979, come to think of it. I decided to set aside a day to read them all, as I was between jobs at the time, and had nothing at all to do but mope around the house watching soap operas on the telly. As I was reading, my own life unfolded before me like a forgotten dream. All of the hopes and dreams of childhood became the wonder of discovery during my early teenage years, and then, in turn, slowly began to fall apart. I cried a lot that day.
Later that week, in a seemingly unconnected event, a group of friends and I met at James's house for what was meant to be a fun night to forget our troubles. Instead, like most things now tend to do, it turned into a night of pain and reminiscence. We began to talk about the lost, and the stories they could have told, as we told our own. We talked about how, twenty years from now, no one would remember our names. We would be just another group of people that lived and died, useless, forgettable. We would be nothing.
I remember distinctly the way Remus spoke of what he regretted. I wish now I had paid more attention to the others, and their reactions. He said, "I wish we had known that our innocence was running out. But then, I guess if we had known that, we wouldn't have been innocent any longer." Those words stuck with me. I have them recorded in the last pages of this year's journal, which I always reserve for the type of quotes you can't get out of your head until you know that they're safely tucked away somewhere.
When everyone else had gone home, I remember talking to James about the wedding. We hadn't set a date yet. Our engagement, at that point, had already been longer than the entire time we had dated, which can't be normal. But then again, we're not normal people. James was getting anxious and, to tell the truth, so was I. Neither of us will ever say it, but I think that we both feared the other was getting scared. After everything we'd been through, it would have shattered me. So, we set a date, in the shadow of fear and regret.
That night, we had all discussed our own mortality beyond what we had all already come to accept. We knew that we could all die the next moment, in the blink of an eye, but this was different. This mortality meant that we would be forgotten. We had discussed the wish to tell those people twenty years from now about our lives, and warn them of the dangers we had, so far, lived through. I left that night thinking nothing of it.
When I returned home, I saw the tattered old books spread across the coffee table, on the couch, across the floor. I hadn't been able to bring myself to put them away. I remember thinking of how my own life was recorded in those books. All of the struggles, heartaches and tears, all of the joy I felt, all of the love I shared, was there, written on the pages bound by a dozen or so tattered bindings, well-worn from use. I remember wishing how there was some way those people twenty years from now could see those books, could read of the life they possessed and learn from her mistakes. I went to bed that night thinking nothing of it.
When I awoke that morning, I entered the living room with my coffee in hand, and stood in the doorway a moment, staring at those books. Have you ever had one of those moments when you just know? I have them a lot. I knew what I had to do with those books.
I have compiled those books into this, a warning, a life – a story. Isn't that really what all stories are, life and warning? Maybe one day, if I should die in this war, someone else will pick this up and publish it, so that everyone can know our lives. I guess if you're reading this, someone already has. Or, perhaps, you will be the one to do so. I have done this for you, whoever you may be, so that you can know. Knowledge is the greatest gift mankind can have. It is all that I can give you. Read this, so that you may know our lives, remember our names, and gain our knowledge. Read this.
I am an emotional person. I am irrational and passionate. I loved more than some could ever imagine. I lived more dangerously that most would dare to dream about. I lived - a lot. It's reassuring to know that the life I lived will not have been in vain, if you read this. At the moment, it's all I have to live for.