Insomnia encapsulates
The intricacies of indecision
In harbouring the inadequacy
Of clear-cut moral precision.

Half-heartedly playing society’s game —
Whole-heartedly holding on to the pain;
Elliptically remaining the same,
Cryptically—————tame.

Stunned by the cyclical appreciation
Of art and “artists”, of people and values
Who congratulate depreciation
And believe what’s on the news.

The world has so much more;
Untapped, because upheaval
Doesn’t interest those with interest
Adding to their wealth.

But wealth is not an evil —
Who stated such a lie?
Wealth isn’t money, or greed — it’s
How it feels to comfortably get by.

So who is really rich?
The bankers or the businessman?
The ones who scratch the itch?
Wealth is to understand.

Yes — to know that life is worth living.
If only because death is written;
One may as well see it out
In the hope that one is smitten.

Sweet sorrow in parting, as such —
That’s the spirit; realising that
We all possess a certain
Midas touch.

Lying awake, concentric circles
Channel Christ in the dark —
Not because he’s a supposed God’s son —
But because he got things done.

His life and death mattered,
If only in allegory —
But who could ask for more
Than a part in the story?

And so the pages press together
As the syntax encapsulates semantics;
We hold fast to optimism
Because we’re all Romantics.

The problem isn’t what to do
Because nothing is worth doing:
Life is glorious because each day
Is endlessly renewing.

“The Nihilist” is my second novel.

It is a philosophical/literary drama that is in three volumes, currently in its first draft form at 105,000 words. Part one is 25,000 words, Part two is 35,000 and Part three is 45,000.

The novel’s major themes are nihilism, life without meaning, modern-day relationships (and the nature of the love therein) and acting.

The three main characters are Razvod, the world’s great actor, and Dylan and Ella, an otherwise normal couple who, due to a chance meeting, all become utterly intertwined in one another’s lives.

When I feel Déjà Vu, nostalgia, become confused about a memory is a dream or reality or feel an impossibly strong wave of love and euphoria, I am forced to try and describe the state it puts me in. This is a problem not because I am a writer, but because I am a human being. As a rational being, I wish to understand the world. This is often achieved through labelling things. In the same way that “love” is utterly ineffective as a synonym for the feeling itself, the label becomes a symbol. These labels do not allow one to recall the emotion, but they can, if considered for long enough, bring about a faint memory of them. Because of the sheer intensity that the above experiences give me, I have always sought to find some short-hand for them. As an atheist, however, the only words I’ve ever come close to trouble me: “spirituality” and “transcendence”.

This is not an essay about religion. I will re-state once more that I do not believe in God (or any higher power) but I will also state my perhaps controversial view that I do not believe science is any more useful than religion in this particular issue. In the same way that “you feel God” is a dissatisfying manner of describing Déjà Vu, so too is “it is the neurotransmitter X crossing synapse Y”. This is not to say that science is not a fundamental need and essential tool of humanity — but I am not seeking for an explanation of these experiences. I am attempting to understand what they feel like and what these experiences could mean. In this way, I am firmly entering the domain of philosophy. Not only this, but it strays into the realm of linguistics and aesthetics. There is a reason I consider myself a writer and philosopher, and not a scientist. I am simply most interested in those issues which can only be explored through these two subjects.

What, then, of this word: “spirituality”? It should be said at the very beginning that all organised religions are, in my view, not only wrong, but dangerously so. Any truth must be discovered for oneself — never through a book. At best, the ideas of others can lead one to understand their own. I would never take another’s word for gospel. As such, organised religions are the pinnacle of self-deception. With regards to “the spiritual” and “the transcendent”, then, any definition will be of my own definition (I hope that, in reading this, you find your own definition). Firstly, the onus is on me to explain why I have chosen these word to attempt to describe the feeling that accompanies the above experiences. Here, I would like to note that I am going to avoid the word “spirituality” and focus on the word “transcendence”. Because of “spirituality”‘s connotation of a spirit in some sense, I will avoid its usage and focus on “transcendence” as it already had a secular understanding.  I will focus on two particular aspects of “transcendence” — not in an attempt to describe how it occurs (neurochemically), or even why — but simply what it feels like.

Most strikingly, I feel a sense of overwhelming emotion. It is almost always pleasant: when I am confused about whether a memory corresponds to a dream or reality, I feel a wonderful sense of confusion — the sort of confusion that, if it was a sentence, would be: “I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m glad I’m alive to feel this confusion”. Odd — yes. But odd is exactly it: I feel as if I have lost all control, though I am not in danger. I live my life in a highly regimented and organised way. I do certain things everyday; I eat the same meals; I know where my tools are and I know how to use them; I brush up my skills; I keep my relationships blooming by paying them attention, as one might do with a flower; I set goals and I dedicate myself to achieving them. It’s no wonder that I sometimes feel depressed at this ritualistic way of living: I sometimes feel that my entire life has already been lived, from point A today to point B, my death — all of it organised. This is where one of these experiences tears the ground from underneath me: I no longer have control over my life. I cannot even remember if one of my memories actually happened or not. This is not only a wonderfully random and chaotic event, but it occurs within me: if my mind is not under my control, then what else possibly could be? The beautiful thing is that as I fall, I never fear that I will suffer: I always land in a body of water. What was firm before becomes fluid and unpredictable. The associations water has for me are extremely powerful, both aesthetically and emotionally — if yours are not, then perhaps consider the emotions you experience when sitting on a beach watching the waves lap at the shore. When I feel Déjà Vu, I feel that sort of emotion — but multiplied exponentially. This, I believe, is one of the key factors in “transcendence”. A sense that one’s emotions have been hijacked. In this case, not by a higher power — but simply by their sheer intensity, by the remarkably odd experience of not being able to locate one’s memory, or having the strange feeling of having seen this exact situation, but not knowing when or where.

The next component that I consider essential in “transcendence” is a realisation of a truth greater than oneself. This is also a highly loaded word. Thus, let it be said one final time that I have commandeered the word for my own use, peeling from it any skin of pseudo-religious connotation. I wish to detour slightly to define this word. Very recently, I began to question the deepest parts of my nature — those things I had always considered an essential part of who I was. This included my grandest dreams and the goals I had set myself to get there. I asked myself: “What if you didn’t achieve what you dream of?” I have always relied on my initial reaction: I’ll die trying. But pushing myself in a unique way, I began to do something I had long considered but had never had the bravery to do — I let myself go. I began unravelling why it is I dreamed that dream in the first place — and eventually I had to admit that there were things in the causal chain that I didn’t like. My gender. Economics. Society. I was faced with facts that, though obvious, are truly earth shattering when fully understood. This episode deserves its own space: to condense, I ended up at the fact that whilst my dreams, my identity, my gender and even my society were contingent (that is, they could have been otherwise) the one thing that was necessary for my thought at all was the fact that I was a human. And being a human is a truly remarkable thing. If you strip away my clothes and other societal baggage, what are you left with? An animal. Not just any animal: an animal that can think. Whilst this might seem like I’m heading in a new direction, I will now link all of this together: the key thought I took from this episode was the fact that I was free. Now, like many words, this has become a cliché. If you are able, consider the idea of “freedom” apart from all of those things that bias your thoughts. What does freedom mean? In the most philosophical way, it is the ability to do whatever and be whoever you want. If you don’t mind, I would like you to read those last two sentences over again — as many times as possible until you grasp them in such a way as you are forced to sit up, raise your head, catch your breath and move away from the screen.

That is a moment of transcendence.

Why do I say that? I believe that that moment where you realise that you are free (that your current goals are entirely contingent, and that you can start again whenever you like) is a transcendent moment. When you realise that you not only do not need a job, but do not need clothes, and do not need view yourself in terms of how your particular society demands that you do so… you have achieved a moment of transcendence. We are not cogs in a machine — not if we don’t want to be. We are not names. We are not workers. We are humans. We are animals. That is a fact. Society is a construction. Our dreams and goals are constructions. I used the words “truth greater than oneself” for the very logical reason that the truth of one’s abilities is greater than one’s existence or self at any given time. There is always, in any person, the potential for more. No one is ever complete, perfect or in any sense finished. The shorthand I use for this technique of remembering that one is always free is: the instantiation of existentialism. Recently, I learnt to look at the fact that we create our own meaning in a new way. Just because I have decided on particular dreams to follow (remembering that there is no objective meaning of life), that doesn’t mean I can’t start again. Whenever I like. As such, I am never tied down. I can walk out of any institution, any way of viewing myself and any depression simply by remembering that if I don’t want to, I don’t have to play the game. As human, I can create my own rules. I hope this doesn’t sound like propaganda to you, because I live in a world where clichés don’t exist. I take every word literally, and redefine words where necessary. For me, understanding of freedom is transcendence. And this concept is extremely powerful and profound for me.

Transcendence is extremely hard to define with accuracy, but through the use of this example, I believe I have now arrived at a point where I can attempt it: transcendence in my sense (the Labernian sense, if you like) is this:

Transcendence: a moment of realisation (accompanied by profound and overwhelming positive emotion) where you, as a human subject and unity of consciousness, understand that no matter (a) the present, particular circumstances you find yourself in and (b) the current goals and dreams you have defined for yourself, existentially speaking, you are free at any time to re-conceive your identity, views and direction in life. Not only do you understand this fact — you feel able to act upon it.

In Déjà Vu, in the dream example and in the love/euphoria example, I believe that transcendence is the result. Those moments where we feel the ground slipping from underneath us are, as I have said, beautiful — never worrying. Why? Because it is a little piece of our particular identity at that time falling apart. It may have pejorative connotations, but “falling apart” here is a wonderful thing. Behind that little piece of identity is a crack — and if we peer through the crack, through which a strong beam of light shines — we find something truly remarkable. We find transcendence. We find that behind our identity now, we have an ability to create and recycle infinite identities. When this little crack is exposed, thanks to those types of experiences — we understand a truth greater than ourselves: our infinite potential and freedom. Just because the truth is greater than our current identity, that doesn’t mean it is in some way foreign to us: the truth is our freedom. The freedom is very much of this world — it has nothing to do with a higher power.

My idea of transcendence (as understood through the examples of dreams and Déjà Vu, etc.) is rooted firmly in the here and now. It is rooted within the world of science and the knowable world. The reason it is transcendent is because we cannot hold on to the realisation of our freedom at all times. We cannot stare at the light forever: we must step back and rebuild our identity, whether improving the one we began with or starting afresh. Life is still about survival: we need an identity to survive. We need to know who to keep close and who to push far, far away. But the wonderful thing is that, as humans, we have the ability to reassess those things — and infinite many other things — whenever we experience a moment of transcendence. I cannot claim to know why, precisely, but for whatever reason, life affords us these little moments (through dreams, etc.) and it is all we can do to take advantage of those moments.Regardless your own theories of dreams and Déjà Vu, I hope that the next time you experience those unique feelings, you linger on the significance of those moments a little longer than normal, perhaps looking out for that little beam of light.

You might just envision an entirely new future for yourself.

* * *

The search goes on, although
The rules never change.
Views hang like mist, but
Beliefs remain. We are
Locked in to who we are
Trapped in a thinking cage.
Poke your fingers through:
Hope to touch
But resign to your nature.
You cannot escape.
The human condition
Governs us. From
First to final breath, from
Birth to ugly death.
Feel free to dream
And love
And cry
And fight
And write
And hope –
These are your provisions.
Ration them. Do
Aim for peace. Do
Learn to love the cage.
Bang against its rusting bars
And bleed your aesthetic throat:
Do it to mask the fact that
Though you know these truths,
The search goes on.
Do it to pretend that
The rules never change.

Nihilism, Existentialism and Philosophical Depression

“. . . [A] philosopher, to deserve our respect, must preach by example.”[1]
– Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

Philosophical sincerity

If the above is true, then acceptance of nihilism necessitates detachment from society, a self-imposed isolation and even a philosophical depression – perhaps suicide. By ‘philosophical depression’, I mean that a clinically depressed subject reached that state through philosophising – specifically, through realisation that the nihilistic doctrine is either true or inherently plausible.

Nihilism can take many forms: the meaning can be stripped from any and all fields (ethics, epistemology, metaphysics, etc.). The brand of nihilism that tends to lead to philosophical depression is the most general form of existential nihilism: that there is no meaning of or to life. All human endeavours, if this doctrine is true, are fruitless. All achievements are really inseparable from failure. Good and evil are both empty concepts: they are both nothing. Morality is nothing. Love is nothing. Humanity is nothing. Life is nothing.

The move from answering the question “Is there a meaning of life?” with “No” to depression is not a difficult one. In fact, it seems the only sincere move. If philosophy has any significance whatsoever, then – regardless how shocking, dark or difficult it is to accept the results – if one believes that a thesis is true; this realisation must influence their life. To philosophise and ignore the results is not to philosophise. As Camus, paraphrasing Nietzsche, wrote, the philosopher who ignores their reasoning does not deserve our respect.

Thus, the vital question arises: what is the nihilist to do? What options are open to the nihilist who denies that life has any intrinsic value? In this essay I shall argue that the creation of subjective meaning – even arbitrary meaning – is not only compatible with nihilism, but is what the nihilist who continues to participate in society is tacitly committed to.

The nihilist who continues to live

Camus writes that “the meaning of life is the most important of all questions”.[2] The nihilist’s position can never be composed of formal logical steps: it is a philosophical commitment. It is a perception: the perception of that which is not there. More precisely, it is the perception that all of the objective meaning that humanity has commonly ascribed (to God and morality, for example) is not only mistaken, but hypocritically so. The nihilist believes that it is quite literally obvious that there is no meaning to life. The ramifications of nihilism are far ranging. It is not simply the grand projects that have no meaning. The reason Nietzsche wrote aphorisms is because he realises the arrogance inherent in trying to build an entire schematic philosophy. His aphorisms are like philosophical bullets that tear through the reader’s noetic structure: far from Descartes’ foundational project, the nihilist is highly sceptical. They do not wish to build: they wish to destroy. And this compulsion is all-powerful.

To believe – not in some dispassionate way, but truly, sincerely and thoroughly – that life is meaningless, pragmatically, one must ask oneself the question: why do I continue to live? Camus argues that it is largely due to “habit”:[3] we are used to existing – it would be a burden and a shock to stop. If the nihilist does not commit suicide and continues to live, we may legitimately ask them the question: what are you doing? What is it that you hope to achieve by continuing to exist? The thought here is that by continuing to exist, the nihilist is making some sort of silent statement that life is worth living. But this is a naïve way to think: if life is, strictly speaking, meaningless, that does not mean that dying is somehow meaningful. The nihilist is more than entitled to continue to live (as apathetically as they wish). They have found themselves alive: whether they choose to carry on living or to cease existing, they are forced to make a choice. Even no action is action.

Whilst they are not necessarily stating that life is worth living, I do believe that they are stating certain other things. The difference here is between the generality of existence and the contents of an existence: the nihilist continues to live, but what are they doing with their life? Whether the nihilist decides to write an essay about nihilism, decides to withdraw from society, or decides to dress in black – they are speaking volumes.

Regardless of their philosophical position, the nihilist is still subject to their human nature – biologically speaking. Assuming that the mind and brain are in some way connected, the nihilist will still continue to feel. They will still need to eat, drink and rest. Whilst philosophising can affect many areas of life, it cannot impact on the irrational, unthinking aspects of the human machine. The tension, I believe, is this: the nihilist who continues to exist is forced into two reactions. The first is the clichéd anarchic nihilist who seeks to destroy the structures they find hypocritical. The second way is to respond as Shakespeare’s Hamlet did: through philosophical depression.

I should note that I believe the first method leads very directly to the absurd: the anarchist undoubtedly enjoys their behaviour. Nietzsche writes that nihilism “reaches its maximum of relative strength as a violent force of destruction – as active”.[4] Biologically speaking, it is clear that the release of adrenaline and endorphins will continue to have their effect regardless of the philosophical intent that led to their release. I also believe that the anarchist can be depressed. It is to the nature of this philosophical depression that I shall now turn my attention.

Philosophical depression

The tragedy of nihilism is that the human machine continues to want to live. It acts as if there is a meaning to its existence. Perhaps there is: to pass down the genetic code it carries. But this is not the sort of meaning that we are searching for. The human body is a survival machine, whereas the human consciousness is a feeling entity. We will, we feel, we yearn for meaning, we strive to do what we ought. The moment we realise the stark reality – that these things are not grounded on anything objective – is the moment nihilism takes hold. Camus describes it as being “undermined”.[5] It seizes the mind and the body: darkness ensues.

Philosophical depression is no different from clinical depression: depression is depression. Philosophical depression is, rather, the manner in which clinical depression is arrived at. I am accepting all of the biochemical explanation for depression (serotonin depletion, etc.), but am focusing on the psychosomatic transition from philosophising to suffering.

The nihilist who continues to exist will inevitably become depressed. The tension between what we seem instinctively to seek and believe – indeed, the very philosophical principle that questions are worth asking – and the nihilistic reality of the matter (that there are no answers to the great questions) is quite literally insufferable.

The result is quite literally to ask the question: “To be or not to be?”[6] If we choose the former, for whatever reason, we will be slave to “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”. Our world is one ruled by luck and survival of the fittest – not because of God’s will. What is at stake here is not trivial: as Camus notes, “many people die because they deem life is not worth living”. Perhaps it is the case that those who cannot kill themselves – due to fear, or uncertainty – will, eventually, ruin themselves. Perhaps, in a fit of passion, they will cheat on their lover, quit their job, or commit some heinous crime (as Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov does in Crime and Punishment): these are all results of nihilism’s powerful repercussions. What nihilism does to the mind cannot be measured: only the sufferer knows in “the silence of [their] heart”.[7]

What else can a passionate and intelligent thinker do but become depressed when the world they live in lies to them? Nietzsche is the prime example: a great mind tortured by its own discoveries. Refusing suicide at first, relishing his own greatness, he could not hold out indefinitely: eventually his mind crumbled under the weight of its discovery. The human mind longs for meaning, but the world will give us none. The question is: is there any hope for the nihilist? Is there any way that the nihilist can salvage something out of their life? I believe that they can.

Existentialism as saviour

Existentialism is not only compatible with nihilism, but it is born out of it. Sartre argued that our “existence precedes [our] essence”.[8] Thus, there is no objective meaning in the world. Sartre does not even believe that there is a human nature: he believes that each man must create their own. What is the difference, then, between the nihilist and the existentialist? I am going to argue that there only the acceptance of authenticity and a passion for life separates the two positions.

The reluctant nihilist may not want to step into this territory of crafting their own subjective meaning. But the gap is incredibly small: all the nihilist has to do is accept that the concept of “value” has some semantic meaning. Perhaps the nihilist wants to refuse: but how can this be done? Clearly the nihilist understands what is meant by the word “value” – how else could they reject the label? Once this is accepted, the nihilist already has one foot in the door of existentialism. The nihilist is more than welcome to reject all objective meaning: so long as the concept of “value” makes sense, the nihilist can craft their own.

The beauty of existentialism is that the meaning a man gives to himself can be as arbitrary as he likes. The meaning one gives to one’s life can be as simple as: write essays about nihilism – or continue to philosophise – or to participate in anarchy. The problem of morality is the one downside to this way of thinking, but the arbitrariness of the legal system goes some way to fix this. With particular reference to philosophical depression, however, the compatibility of nihilism and existentialism becomes not only clear, but persuasive.

The nihilist has continued to live. They have refused suicide, for whatever reason. Though they continue to exist, they find themselves tortured by the incompatibility of their in-built search for meaning and the world’s refusal to give them anything objective. They find themselves depressed through philosophising. The question is: how long can the nihilist continue to exist in this state? Surely not indefinitely. The solution, then, is for the nihilist to craft themselves an existential meaning: to overcome their depression.

In doing so, the nihilist will not become the hypocrite they so despise. They are not searching for some objective meaning, or entering into the mistaken schema of society. They will simply be doing. They will be doing for themselves – making use of their existence. There is nothing in the nihilist doctrine that makes action hypocritical. “Nihilism . . . can be a sign of strength”:[9] so long as the nihilist maintains the ironic distance advocated by Camus, in realising that life is absurd, they can continue both to hold that the nihilistic doctrine is true and, most importantly, continue to live. How else could a nihilist live an authentic existence? How else could a nihilist deserve our respect if not by acting on his nihilism?

The spectrum of subjectivity

Nihilism, existentialism and absurdism are all positions on the same spectrum. The spectrum may well not be linear. But they are certainly connected: all three positions hold that there is no objective meaning of life. Nihilism, in particular, is destructive and sceptical. Philosophical depression is the only sincere outcome. The passionate nihilist may well burn out and commit suicide before realising that to craft their own meaning – as arbitrary, ironical and sceptical as they wish – is not a contradiction. The existential nihilist is merely the nihilist who continues to exist. As soon as the nihilist realises that in accepting that the concept of “value” does, ironically, have a value itself, the nihilist should realise the absurdity of their situation. Absurdism, indeed, is the true remedy to philosophical depression. To realise that there is no objective meaning to life and that any attempt to build a subjective one is entirely arbitrary is to realise the absurdity of existence. To realise the absurdity of existence and to laugh at this fact and live life as passionately as one possibly can – that is nothing short of heroic.

References

[1] Camus, A. (year) The Myth of Sisyphus. Place:publisher.

[2] Nietzsche, F. (year) The Will to Power. Place:publisher.

[3] Shakespeare, W. (year) Hamlet. Place:publisher.

[4] Sartre, J-P. (year) Existentialism & Humanism. Place:publisher.

I found him unconscious.

He was slumped over the coffee table in the lounge, foaming at the mouth. I screamed, with both of my hands immediately smothering the sound – it never left my body and echoed inwardly, chilling every part of me. How could he be here – there – like that? Him? He was the man who would never . . . he was the man who helped others – I mean, he was the one who should have found others like that – he was . . . he was the man. End of story.

I somehow mustered the strength to not only approach his clearly motionless body, but also managed to move him from his slumped position into the recovery position on the floor. As I did so, I couldn’t help but notice all of the items on the table. Such a precise set, such a carefully organised, meticulously ordered set of items!

There were little bags of all sorts of powders and chemicals, scales, stopwatches, reams of paper with various calculations on, lots of paper printed off at home with seemingly endless notes made on them. Then, there was a little notebook with very precise instructions, almost like a recipe: ‘Take 1.0 grams at 7:45pm, another .5 grams at 7:50pm’ – so many notes. I had only a few seconds to take all of this in. There were other things on the table too: lots of books, piles of them. I don’t know where he had hidden them all this time. There was a particular book that was open right in front of him – it was called ‘PIHKAL: A Chemical Love Story’.

I had to take in so many things at once: it was so overwhelming. This was one of those moments where every second that passes can influence life in infinite many ways: what should I do? Check his breathing? Call an ambulance? But there were so many distractions: what had happened? This was so out of character. All of these drugs all over the table; how could he have overdosed? He could never have accidentally overdosed – it must have been on purpose. All of those instructions… So quintessentially him.

Stunned, and finding it incredibly difficult to take my eyes off the table, I returned to him: in his hand was another piece of paper. I saw the word ‘ambulance’ written and immediately scanned it. It said that he had called an ambulance and it was on its way – in fact, I think it was intended for the paramedic. It contained a list of drugs – followed by a series of doses and times taken. I shuddered as I read it – it went on and on. It was no short list. This was a calculated and very definite overdose. The very word itself instantly came under scrutiny: I, for the first time, broke the word, the symbol, from its meaning. This was no drug addict. This was no ordinary man. This was no accident. There was a reason for this.

There was a reason he was lying there, unconscious, on the floor.

The door was open when I came in – that must have been for the paramedics. This had all been planned well in advance. He must not have been expecting me. I trusted him enough to know that he really had called an ambulance: he was no idiot. Knowing that there was nothing I could do, I knelt by his side and tried to make sure he didn’t swallow his tongue – that was all I could do. That, and keep myself together. I looked once again at the table and was again overwhelmed by the amount of material: this was the lounge in our flat, the very same room I had been in only a couple of hours ago. And now it looked like a laboratory.

I kept looking back between him and the table – I almost felt like I was outside of my own body. I spotted something on his left forearm – a bandage. I peeled it away and was shocked to find a tattoo. He didn’t have any tattoos. He must have gotten it a few hours earlier. It said: ‘PROTAGONIST’. I didn’t know what was going on; I placed the bandage back over. He was going to be okay, so he’d need the bandage back on. Not knowing what to do with myself, I returned to the table.
A note called out to me – it had my name on it.

‘Sammy’, it began: ‘I’m so sorry. I am sorry – and yet, I am not sorry. If you didn’t guess already, this is what I was talking about yesterday. The simple fact of the matter is that, I have been hiding things from you. Not out of spite, but simply because I have found it difficult to continue to remain on the pedestal I have been placed on. I have loved being there: loved being looked up to and seen as an inspiration – but after . . . well, after you know what, I have struggled. I turned to something I had previously used to enrich my life and purposefully found myself abusing it.

‘I wanted to test the limits of abuse. I wanted to see what the difference was between use and abuse. I wanted to shatter my conception of “addiction”. I have. The problem is that – and you know me – in order to class myself as free from my addiction, I have to do things dramatically. On a grand scale. This is that. I truly hope you haven’t been the one to find me. I hope that you read this while I’m recovering in hospital; I hope that when we meet again we can share a glance that confirms everything we’ve ever spoken about: I hope that when that glance occurs, we’ll be able to smile instantly. Our friendship transcends any particular event, any actual occurrence: it is stronger than this. I hope that, regardless of the outcome, you will forgive me.

‘You know I have been working on something. That something is in my room – on my pillow. It’s all in order. It’s a cross between my philosophy of life and my autobiography. I’ve printed it all out – all I need you to do is send it off. Please, get it published. Regardless of the outcome – whether I live or die. That is my message to the world: it contains my essence, my existence, my meaning of life. There has never been a book quite like it – there never will be again. Please, Sammy – treat that book like my ashes. It is everything to me. I have made copies of it, but read through it – see that everything I’ve ever said to you is true. See my reasoning for it. See the reason for my existence. The reason literature is still relevant – the reason I was alive in the first place. Part four, in particular, will appeal to you – the rest of it is my story, the journey I’ve been on. But part four: that is for philosophers. It is the philosophy of my life.

‘I hope I wake up. And I mean that: I truly hope I do. But if I do not, I hope this book goes some way to explaining what I was all about.

‘I love you, and I love everyone around me: I did not do this out of sadness. Know that.’

He signed off with his name.

My tears were falling onto the hand-written note; I tried to wipe them away but I was smudging the ink. I had no idea what he was talking about: a work? What sort of work? He was a writer and poet, yes, but what could he have written? I know it may seem strange, but I absolutely had to see what it was. I knew that the ambulance was on its way, and I had to see what this thing was – it’s what he would have wanted.

I burst into his room and saw on his bed a pile of paper. A lot of paper. It was hundreds of pages – I rifled through it. I skipped to the end – a work in four parts. It was presented as a manuscript – he was being completely genuine. He wanted me to get it published. The cover page read: ‘The Protagonist’.
The very same thing he had gotten tattooed on his wrist. What was it all about? This wouldn’t be a quick read – but it would be the most important read of my life. As I stood there with the work in my hands, skimming over words – I saw my name, I saw the name of his close friends – I heard paramedics calling up the stairs. I placed it gently where it was and closed his bedroom door. The paramedics arrived and began to try and resuscitate him – I helped them as much as I could. A few minutes later they saw it was necessary to take him to the nearest hospital – thanks to his notes. I collected all of the instructions and joined them in the ambulance.

Truly, that was the worst moment of my life – but when I returned home and read the work – that was perhaps the greatest moment of my life. Everything we had ever spoken about: everything I had ever seen in him, everything he had ever dreamed of – it had been achieved. He had done it – he had really done it. He had translated his entire life into those words; he had written something that could change the world and everyone in it. And now I can perform the greatest deed I can do: I can do as he implored me, and spread those words.

What follows is precisely that work.

Darkness in all: smiles disfigured;
Homogeneously configured:
Weak wills everywhere — too much lust,
Too much hatred — not enough trust.

Pavement holds his gaze all day long;
Keep your head down — he can’t go wrong
If no one knows he exists –
Let alone the scars on his wrists.

Don’t pay him attention: it’s not
His wish — secrecy’s all he’s got.
He really doesn’t ask for much –
All he asks is that you don’t touch.