1)
You know I lose myself inside myself. Enough that I don’t know how to write a letter about myself.
After all, supposedly:
“There is nothing here.”
I write furiously. My hands tremble. I could burst into a grim laugh to express the helplessness of rage… — you can’t do that in a letter.
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2)
There is not enough of you.
Your words are not enough.
No matter how much you speak to me — it’s not enough.
No matter how much you write and I read — it’s not enough.
No matter how much you feel — it’s not enough.
Not enough!
It is not your fault.
There is not enough of your being.
Especially now, when we were already in that Big City of the Future, and on Saturday evening I couldn’t hear from you …
Not enough of me either.
My words are not enough.
No matter how much I speak — it’s not enough and never as it should be.
No matter how much I write — not enough.
No matter how much I feel — not enough.
No matter how much I do — not enough.
Not enough!
I feel guilty. And furious.
Because you deserve more, and a thousand times better. Maybe you’ll leave, because maybe one day that’s exactly what you’ll want. And I’ll stay here alone. Why sit in an empty room painted black — on a cold concrete floor?
That’s how it is with Monty.
That’s why I’m not sure you’ll stay, although you have allowed me hope — and now I have it — although it wouldn’t be good if that hope bound you in any way.
Little Creature — that’s what I’m afraid of.
That is why, if I could, I would burn the Garden.
Then Monty would die — and I — and I — and I — and I.
Only the purest “it” would remain — the shell.
But then certainly you would no longer be here. Therefore, I cannot burn the Garden.
Let it remain as it is. Or maybe something can be built?
I sit, so dull and undefined, by the wall of some burnt house at dusk. I don’t have the strength to stand up.
I think you know what that is.
You know much.
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3)
If I made the first step balancing above the ultimate abyss — if I struck the first blow at a man with a knife, in a surge of anger — in revenge for being hit in the face — if someone forced out of me that animal behaviour — if I once crossed the first boundary — the boundary of revenge by violence — there would be no return. One would have to go further, consistently, until the end, one or the other.
There would be no way back. I would never return to the initial state — before the knife strike.
Therefore, such an act demands the next, and the next — an aggression no longer restrained by anything — an explosion of everything that has sat inside for years, deep down. And then not only that man who struck me, but the whole world, every person around would have to feel the revenge of what would come out of him then. And destruction would follow him as wide as he could make it — he’d be able to bite with his teeth into the throat of the most innocent of innocents — until he would be stopped completely — either by death or by total physical incapacitation.
Such was the dream of past years.
If I were to fall asleep forever, I would prefer such an ending to the railway tracks.
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4)
How would I like to appear in the Little Creature’s dreams?
Uninterruptedly.
As an object — somewhere in the background — almost unnoticed, present but not intrusive. And sometimes, when she needs it, as someone close and understanding. Someone close enough, someone who understands enough.
And Alienne — listen — these points — these are, hahaha, CONFESSIONS. Confessions of something that sounds terribly banal, because so many idiots have spoken of it too rashly, that when one uses such words now, one sounds like such a rash idiot oneself. Confessions of something that only time can ultimately confirm — time not lost, future time, the time that lies in reserve.
Besides, all this cannot really be defined precisely, nor named, in the case of such a unique being as the Little Creature.
In any case, perhaps on the occasion of this awful letter — worthy of burning — and using this absolute, irresponsible freedom:
I confess something to you. Or maybe rather something. Something that would like to be as gentle and painless as intention, but ultimately often causes things to be the worst and the most painful — perhaps just like now? (And I’ve never confessed “something” to anyone — so by confessing “something” to you, I confess a great deal indeed — Little Creature.)
Choose for yourself what you will take from all this.
As for me: please choose something.
“I adore generalities and I love not naming anything by its name!!” — he shouted, folded his hands like a little child, pursed his lips and began shifting from foot to foot, slightly embarrassed.
Before you give that “something” a name (and you may be certain that the name you choose will be the most accurate possible), look how they all speak of me — and remember, this is only the beginning of a dreadful, gloomy story, whose beginning and ending are unknown…
⸻
Oskar speaks in him.
To the Little Creature he says:
“It is not good, nor cosy, nor pleasant inside. Don’t listen to this pseudo-sentimental idiot when he talks sweetness. The only feeling he is capable of is hatred — and even that in a limited way, for it is only hatred toward himself. Sometimes he doesn’t even know when he is pretending — and gets lost in it. Beware of him — every bouquet of flowers he brings may hold a cobra or a scorpion. Look how he treats those considered closest to him — that tells you everything.
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Alien speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“We are something proud, and in all our rush and need for self-destruction we love ourselves selfishly — perhaps in that very way — through the need for self-destruction, the cry of the desire to live breaks out from us (paradoxically), to live at any cost, even at too high a cost. We are proud and blind to many things that the Little Creature sees; therefore we will hurt her more than once, and more than once she will feel the need to strike us.
We say of ourselves that we are Mayhem — Mayhem is the son of chaos, destruction, and error — for it was by error that we were conceived. The truth that our mother became our mother by mistake allows us to be Mayhem and the Stranger, and therefore:”
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Mayhem speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“He will spring at you from the most unexpected places in conversations. He can exhaust you mentally — he can torment another rational being so much that they lose self-control.
He can tire you by being in many places of his and your worlds at once — he is unstoppable if he decides to play, to achieve absurd goals, or to run around without any goal at all. He can race through a thousand useless, irritating ideas, or circle obsessively around one thought — bordering on monomania.
Then he forgets that anyone next to him — or worse, inside him — exists. But there is also a part of him I dislike: Soho. Down below he pretends a little in what he writes, but in truth he is somehow organised and still tries for something. What he says — I would say myself. Yes, Soho is a bit twisted…”
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Soho speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“He can satisfy himself with the worst junk, with anything; he doesn’t need to eat or drink like other people when he allows himself to be that way. How he dresses, how he looks, what he reads, what people surround him — it all becomes irrelevant (although recently he found someone “the truest” among people, and would prefer not to lose that person).
He would probably feel quite at home as a homeless man, forgotten by everyone. He is blind to many values — the fact that it is not so obvious is due only to habits he developed from his surroundings — nothing flows from him himself. Therefore sometimes he calls himself a machine. Sometimes he believes he is dead.
You see how foolish that is.
I, Soho, am the one people know from the computer — perhaps I will write to you again.
I, Soho, first noticed the Guardian of the Garden:”
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The Guardian of the Garden speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“He is happy you chose to come here. Because you are inside the walls of the Garden — where no one is allowed. For instance, you see the little poems; for instance, no one else will see your letters because they are in the Garden. If you want to burn the Garden and kill me — he, the dog who is ready to give so much for the Unreal-Real Dream of Dance, will accept it with gratitude.
He trusts you.
As do I.
Yet Little Creature, if you kill me and burn the Garden, I will revive and return as the Ugly Dwarf, and I will rule it so that no one else will enter whatever rises on the ashes of the Garden.
Perhaps you, however, will be there first — before the Ugly Dwarf — even after the burning?
Yes, he is definitely glad you came to the Garden. I see it in the great northern lights blazing to the north of the Garden. There are horrors in him too, such as Mr Leech:”
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Mr Leech speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“I believe and know that he is fundamentally evil.
I believe and know that he cannot give you anything good.
For example, you do not see that he says nothing precisely in those moments when something must be said most in the world? That he does nothing in those moments when something must be done? The only thing you can do with him is create what you need inside him, tear it out and take it, without caring about him at all. Then you may come back for new things, and when he is no longer useful, you can throw him away like an old toy. I have nothing against it. He isn’t worth even a minute of your attention — and he knows it too, but until now, certain beings have defended him from that awareness. You must know this fact — it must be your foundation whenever you decide to engage with him in any way.
There is also that entire Bat:”
⸻
The Bat speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“He prefers the night.
He likes black.
Is he drawn to evil…? Perhaps a little — as an idea.
He is deeply negative — have you noticed?
He speaks of the future like a pessimist, even says he is waiting for the Verdict and its Execution. True, he speaks of Him, but on the other hand, haven’t you noticed that sometimes unintentionally he mentions “them” or “him” — sometimes he attributes to “him” noises from nowhere around him.
The Bat knows things about him that perhaps even he himself doesn’t know. I reach deepest into the borderland between him and “them.” He fears his contact with “them” is too close. Sometimes he flees from “them” to “Him.” But don’t you see that “they” are far smarter than he? Maybe they are leading him by the nose… right now…
Little Creature… do you realise what that means for you, if “they” are leading him — if he eats at the wrong table and serves the wrong master?
Listen also to the music in him — Little Creature, listen to what that music whispers — whether it is white and good, or sad and evil and dark.
My sister in pain is the cruel Dizzy Doll, twin of Mayhem:”
⸻
Dizzy Doll speaks in him.
She says to the Little Creature:
“I’ve been in him for a long time. I am similar to Mayhem. I think we all came to him long ago when he had nothing and no one. He invented us to defend himself from himself.
But I won’t speak of those stories and fairy tales.
I, Dizzy Doll, become him often; I am here all the time. Because of me, he can contradict himself and not worry about it. Because of me, he loses track of hours and days. Because of me, money is just paper, and people are dolls with whom one may play. Dizzy Doll can save him from the worst situation with a fairy tale — he can just forget it.
I, Dizzy Doll, most infuriate all reasonable people. I let him promise things, though he knows in advance he won’t fulfil them. Along with the Bat, I am his greatest danger. I believe I could kill someone outside him, convincing him that the person is a puppet and that he himself does not objectively exist.
Besides, I cannot kill a human.
Oh — and I speak in the feminine because I’m a man. Exactly for that reason.
Meet also the one everyone knows: “Me”
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“Me” speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“Hi. He uses me to deal with people.
I am a fully functional set of spontaneous reactions with feedback, designed to give the biological organism in which this ‘something’ resides the most comfortable existence possible by arranging the least troublesome relations with people.
You once called me a ‘silly shell.’ Quite an accurate term.
How did you get through me? I cannot understand — after all I am a very effective oddity developed over long years.
Anyway — bye, kisses!!! Listen to Joker — actually, this entire letter should never have been created, he is not ‘reasonable’…”
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Joker speaks in him.
He says to the Little Creature:
“This tall, skinny middle-schooler (lately there have been many jokes about them, have you heard???) with his naïve eyes thinks he is funny. And he dumps the responsibility for that on me…
Hahaha, he so lightly assigns me this banal role, and does not even know that I power his entire existence — if he didn’t treat this world as One Big Joke, he would have ended himself long ago.
He lives only because I let him burst out laughing when he hears of his grandfather’s death (and he once burst out laughing in such a situation); only because I taught him to laugh stupidly, with drooling saliva, at all the ‘reasonable’ and ‘trying’ people. Otherwise that fool would not have survived even three days under the weight of this beloved, highly educational world.
Joker has an everlasting smile, a smile for every occasion — wide — burned in with acid and mutagen — a grim, happy smile of something that walks with an axe among sheep in a flock, striking left and right — that’s a bit what I am — Joker, who in the Garden on a throne of gold…”
Stan is a noble creature, Stan speaks in him.
He speaks about him to the Little Creature like this:
“Normally I am not here.
But today I appear, exceptionally, to tell you that personally, I consider Joker an imbecile.
That’s all.”
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He-I speaks in him.
He speaks about him to the Little Creature like this:
“Sometimes I speak about ‘Him.’
I want to be useful to Him as much as possible in the present situation. I’ve gotten a bit lost, and I feel too far from Him. On the other hand, I am as close to Him as I can be. He still has a lot, a lot to teach me. I don’t want — I don’t want to be a hypocrite.
I cannot pretend to be someone I’m not. And yet, despite my will, people take from me whatever appearances suit them and mercilessly make me into whatever suits them. That’s their problem. I have no intention of straightening everyone out — it’s enough that you know, because you wanted to know, and He knows.
I cannot destroy your relationship with Him — never allow me that — I know you know this, and that you will do exactly that, but I would like you nevertheless to read these words under my hand, here, in this letter.
If I pose any threat at all to your relationship with Him — then remove me.
If I take your time and energy meant for Him — then remove me.
I will not leave by myself, because I am not able to judge it; besides, I do not want to, and no longer know how to walk away on my own, but you know, don’t you? You know how it is.
And this is Dummy:”
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Dummy speaks in him.
He speaks about him to the Little Creature like this:
“Dummy means ‘mannequin.’ Dummy means that he holds himself back from natural gestures, and then feels sad because of it. On the other hand, when he allows himself a human, natural gesture, he feels ashamed and despises himself.
That’s more or less how it is.
I am Dummy — I have the greatest sense of guilt in him.
I speak as the second-to-last to tell you that perhaps, in this pointless, stupid, crippling guilt of his, he may not manage to say openly to you the things that are sometimes the most important. You know, at heart he is terribly allusive, so allusive that he sometimes gets lost in his own allusions. That’s why he often saves himself — from what, no one knows — in vague generalities.
I, the mannequin, can hold him back so much that he resembles a catatonic — truly. You have not seen him in that state — it is not a good sight, and certainly the behaviour is repulsive for anyone who does not understand Dummy.
I’m sorry, but in him there is this illness. And it is not good, it is disgusting.
I am Dummy, and he is Monty:”
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Monty speaks in him.
He speaks to the Little Creature like this:
“For such an exhibitionistic and nasty letter, one may stop liking me.
One may shrug.
One may use the power given by possessing it to break this whole senseless being-of-mine about which I write with tears, break it like a dry twig underfoot.
Perhaps nothing good will come from this knowledge, Little Creature.
I know nothing…
And that is, I think, how I love—
And maybe that is exactly my low—
No one knows — and no one will know or understand, not even the strictest judge of these words, unless they are the Little Creature and Him.”
What is behind the door?
Like opening a door and finding a whole crowd inside, all talking at once and none of them lying. Wild, exhausting, honest, and strangely brave to let it all stand there.