Notes from Nowhere
By Stephen Semcho (Joedooey42069)
(I do not own the rights to "Notes from Underground" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
I only attempt to mimic his style in this short story.)
I am alone. No, I am not lonely, for I desire not the presence of others. I am simply alone; a man who, in spite of such a persuasive and opportunistic society, chose my solitude above all else. A man who, when presented with the chance for success – in their terms, public fame and fortune – not only looked Opportunity's gift horse in the mouth, but closed it's mouth shut and sent it back with haste. I do not live by myself, more importantly, I do not live, I am only alive. When a man discovers the difference between living and merely being alive, he should be allowed a permanent respite from his existence. I have no companion, I have no friend – likewise, I have no foe, nor have I any pursuer, save for my own vices. My own vices that drove me to cower in a black hole under the earth like a mole who, digging his endless tunnels through an abyssal void, is blinded by the light of day and sent reeling backward in blindness and pain. It is the mole to which I have compared myself most often, yet the abyssal void through which I burrow is only the confines of my own mind, and the blinding light of day is naught but the very art of companionship, from which I have shied for my entire life, if not all the time consciously.
The confines of my mind through which I dig yield not the soft, pliable dirt as the mole encounters with his large claws, but dirty, vile, sullied paradigms for failure. I have no large claws, only the shattered remnants of a conscience that is my spade. And unlike the mole who, when encountering a solid wall through which it cannot dig, goes around in search for another passage, I do not search for another route to the tribunal of my mind. When I run into – slam into, more precisely – an impenetrable wall in my mind, I retrace my steps and head in the other direction. For I know my mind has kept these areas sealed off for good reason, and even if it has failed me in the past, it knows how to protect itself – even from its host. Because, if I have learned one thing in my "life", it is that the mind is in no way connected with the body – it controls the body. The body carries the mind, but only in the literal, physical sense. The mind, in turn, carries the body emotionally, mentally, socially, etc. The mind has the authority to block off its secrets to the carrier if it feels obliged to do so, and it frequently feels obliged, take it from me.
I write this not to plead for sympathy, nor to exact a certain feeling of fear or self degradation upon my audience. I write this now, my chronicles of my solitude, because I essentially feel that I must. Don't ask why, for my answer – if I even have one at all – would be severely unhelpful and probably raise more questions than answers. But I write about how I became who, or what, I am now...for what reason, you ask again? Listen – maybe it will become apparent.
When a boy enters school, what is that which he admires and cherishes most? His peers, his relationships, and most of all, his parents or teachers? When I entered school, I was the same. My companions respected me, accepted me; my teachers took me under their care and taught me the secrets of the world. My parents, however, rejected me – ignoring their only child, preferring to waste away their livers with acidic alcohol and waste away their lives by festering in their own pool of misery and degradation. So school – my only true companion then, became much more than that. It became, in essence, my purpose, for nothing else in my life held purpose at that point.
Schoolbooks, papers, information, but much more than that, it seemed, percolated into my head. What did I ever owe my knowledge? It bestowed upon me its riches – unconditionally blessing me with all it had, the way a true parent or guardian would act. So into it I poured all that I had – virtues that were previously latent within me, dedication for the sake of knowing – and our relationship was perfect. It was unique, it was rare. It was everlasting.
Apparently my knowledge proved flawed, for the relationship I had previously thought would be everlasting and pure turned sour and painful in an instant. Unbeknownst to me, I had devoted more than simply my virtues and dedication to this relationship. It had become my life. It had blinded me, or so I thought, from all I held dear at that time in my life – friends, family, etc. In anger, I turned away from it. I shunned that which had so gratefully brought my life purpose, then had so cruelly deceived me into its plan. I felt scorned, betrayed by my one true friend. How did I respond? I secluded myself from all I knew, completely. Even knowledge. The one person I knew the least and needed to know the best was myself, and the best way to do this was without outside influence.
I ran away from my house and sheltered in random places here and there. Finally, my soul settled on this dank hole, sunk into the ground and safe from anyone, or anything that tried to follow me. I was alone then, and I still am today.
But as I said before, I am not lonely, for I seek not the companionship of others. As time – years – passed in my solitary hovel, my mind once again met with the old friend Knowledge, met him at the coffee shop, and reminisced on old times. But they did not meet again, for the damage had already been done. It was there that I realized that it was only my mind who had been run over by this stranger I called Knowledge and had so fervently adhered to in my younger days. Truth be told, my mind was hurt. Hurt because it had never been so betrayed before.
Intelligence is a dangerous thing. If ever I had the choice to have been created by God – or whatever power bestowed me with my characteristics – the way I wanted, I would have gladly chosen "pleasant" over "intelligent". Intelligence is not only my most condemning vice, it is my most distinguishing characteristic. Which is why, I my add, you find me, scrunched in an uncomfortably sized hole in the side of a wall that was buried years ago, spending my time idly searching through my mind for the answers it lost so long ago.
When man is left alone, away from all that shaped him and formed him into the beast he evolves into anymore, and left to look at his morals and his quality as a human, he is merely trapped in a room of shadows and phantoms; of guessing and knowing, of fire and of ice.
Most importantly, however, is knowing how man acts in death. And to speak from plain truth, I think I know what that feels like. It feels as though you live no longer – your soul, if you once had one, has been ripped to shreds, and your conscience, shattered and beaten, stumbles along feebly, locked forever in that conflict, the eternal strife human beings raise with their minds.
In death, the mind wins. And in death, you are alone. Not lonely, mind you...just alone.
By Stephen Semcho (Joedooey42069)
(I do not own the rights to "Notes from Underground" by Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
I only attempt to mimic his style in this short story.)
I am alone. No, I am not lonely, for I desire not the presence of others. I am simply alone; a man who, in spite of such a persuasive and opportunistic society, chose my solitude above all else. A man who, when presented with the chance for success – in their terms, public fame and fortune – not only looked Opportunity's gift horse in the mouth, but closed it's mouth shut and sent it back with haste. I do not live by myself, more importantly, I do not live, I am only alive. When a man discovers the difference between living and merely being alive, he should be allowed a permanent respite from his existence. I have no companion, I have no friend – likewise, I have no foe, nor have I any pursuer, save for my own vices. My own vices that drove me to cower in a black hole under the earth like a mole who, digging his endless tunnels through an abyssal void, is blinded by the light of day and sent reeling backward in blindness and pain. It is the mole to which I have compared myself most often, yet the abyssal void through which I burrow is only the confines of my own mind, and the blinding light of day is naught but the very art of companionship, from which I have shied for my entire life, if not all the time consciously.
The confines of my mind through which I dig yield not the soft, pliable dirt as the mole encounters with his large claws, but dirty, vile, sullied paradigms for failure. I have no large claws, only the shattered remnants of a conscience that is my spade. And unlike the mole who, when encountering a solid wall through which it cannot dig, goes around in search for another passage, I do not search for another route to the tribunal of my mind. When I run into – slam into, more precisely – an impenetrable wall in my mind, I retrace my steps and head in the other direction. For I know my mind has kept these areas sealed off for good reason, and even if it has failed me in the past, it knows how to protect itself – even from its host. Because, if I have learned one thing in my "life", it is that the mind is in no way connected with the body – it controls the body. The body carries the mind, but only in the literal, physical sense. The mind, in turn, carries the body emotionally, mentally, socially, etc. The mind has the authority to block off its secrets to the carrier if it feels obliged to do so, and it frequently feels obliged, take it from me.
I write this not to plead for sympathy, nor to exact a certain feeling of fear or self degradation upon my audience. I write this now, my chronicles of my solitude, because I essentially feel that I must. Don't ask why, for my answer – if I even have one at all – would be severely unhelpful and probably raise more questions than answers. But I write about how I became who, or what, I am now...for what reason, you ask again? Listen – maybe it will become apparent.
When a boy enters school, what is that which he admires and cherishes most? His peers, his relationships, and most of all, his parents or teachers? When I entered school, I was the same. My companions respected me, accepted me; my teachers took me under their care and taught me the secrets of the world. My parents, however, rejected me – ignoring their only child, preferring to waste away their livers with acidic alcohol and waste away their lives by festering in their own pool of misery and degradation. So school – my only true companion then, became much more than that. It became, in essence, my purpose, for nothing else in my life held purpose at that point.
Schoolbooks, papers, information, but much more than that, it seemed, percolated into my head. What did I ever owe my knowledge? It bestowed upon me its riches – unconditionally blessing me with all it had, the way a true parent or guardian would act. So into it I poured all that I had – virtues that were previously latent within me, dedication for the sake of knowing – and our relationship was perfect. It was unique, it was rare. It was everlasting.
Apparently my knowledge proved flawed, for the relationship I had previously thought would be everlasting and pure turned sour and painful in an instant. Unbeknownst to me, I had devoted more than simply my virtues and dedication to this relationship. It had become my life. It had blinded me, or so I thought, from all I held dear at that time in my life – friends, family, etc. In anger, I turned away from it. I shunned that which had so gratefully brought my life purpose, then had so cruelly deceived me into its plan. I felt scorned, betrayed by my one true friend. How did I respond? I secluded myself from all I knew, completely. Even knowledge. The one person I knew the least and needed to know the best was myself, and the best way to do this was without outside influence.
I ran away from my house and sheltered in random places here and there. Finally, my soul settled on this dank hole, sunk into the ground and safe from anyone, or anything that tried to follow me. I was alone then, and I still am today.
But as I said before, I am not lonely, for I seek not the companionship of others. As time – years – passed in my solitary hovel, my mind once again met with the old friend Knowledge, met him at the coffee shop, and reminisced on old times. But they did not meet again, for the damage had already been done. It was there that I realized that it was only my mind who had been run over by this stranger I called Knowledge and had so fervently adhered to in my younger days. Truth be told, my mind was hurt. Hurt because it had never been so betrayed before.
Intelligence is a dangerous thing. If ever I had the choice to have been created by God – or whatever power bestowed me with my characteristics – the way I wanted, I would have gladly chosen "pleasant" over "intelligent". Intelligence is not only my most condemning vice, it is my most distinguishing characteristic. Which is why, I my add, you find me, scrunched in an uncomfortably sized hole in the side of a wall that was buried years ago, spending my time idly searching through my mind for the answers it lost so long ago.
When man is left alone, away from all that shaped him and formed him into the beast he evolves into anymore, and left to look at his morals and his quality as a human, he is merely trapped in a room of shadows and phantoms; of guessing and knowing, of fire and of ice.
Most importantly, however, is knowing how man acts in death. And to speak from plain truth, I think I know what that feels like. It feels as though you live no longer – your soul, if you once had one, has been ripped to shreds, and your conscience, shattered and beaten, stumbles along feebly, locked forever in that conflict, the eternal strife human beings raise with their minds.
In death, the mind wins. And in death, you are alone. Not lonely, mind you...just alone.