There are two things you must, well, should know about me, about what I’m going to say. (1) I’m going to write like a dying man, yet, (2) as a man I am not, to the best of my knowledge, dying (soon I mean—we are all dying, of course).
Let me elaborate.
Like a dying man, I don’t know where I’m going, I am not very lucid, but I want the last breaths I take to be reminiscent of my life—that is, I wish for my life to have been important, meaningful, and for my last breaths to convey it as best they can. In this goal I am very certain, very lucid. I’m a madman begging to be heard on the non-merit of a flickering soul.
But I’m not dying, nor am I close to death, nor, to the contrary of well held beliefs, do I even want to die—at least not most days. No, I have decided that, for now—with certainty—for now, I’ll live.
And so, total honesty is not to be expected from the living, of course.
After all, I was just going to lie and say I was dying. But there has to be some honesty in truth.
So I’m not dying. I just want to be heard.
And so expect nothing as truth except the essence of what I wish to be true, and expect nothing as false, only what I wish were false. Expect nothing like the world’s sweeping dramatics; all the world is not a stage for such bit player. Expect nothing of me and my story.
–And why must you make man into myth for his words to be important? And why do you create perfect imitations: perfect lives in perfect world, perfect lawns under perfect lighting, perfect lips on perfect lips? A day has never been Techincolor. Don’t expect it.
All I’m trying to say is, well.
People expect too much these days.
Now I’m not angry or bitter or anything like that. I’m not accusing you of forcing me into this half-lie. I know it’s necessary—the half-lie—but not necessarily your fault. That’s why I’m telling you the truth. About the lie, I mean. I digress. I’m not accusing.
I ask you to give a living man the attention that must be paid for his living, although I’m no Nora. To give a living man the attention that should be paid to a dying man, although he is no Caesar. Let him tell his story without the daily grind of logic or sense, without resorting to the last gasp of theatrics which we expect, inevitably, to come.
I will not gasp. It will not come. I’ve already come half way, you must do the rest. I’m offering to die for you, all you have to do is believe me.