“If you forget that I exist, remember that I was.”

A Midnight Letter, 29 September 2000

Little One,
It’s just struck midnight. Nice — letters are pleasant to write at midnight.

I feel sad that the most dreadful crises seem to pass me by — like the one from the night before last. You, too are spared small catastrophes — but that’s good. Lately, as you probably know, new things have been happening in the Garden. Good things.
I said on Friday that on Saturday, I would hold my own funeral.
It took place — not at all solemnly.
I departed quietly, in a dull and ordinary way.
No one said anything over the coffin; it was simply covered with earth in silence.
Simply put, once again, I am no longer alive to people, whose weariness has grown overmuch. Since the funeral, I’ve also learned something else.
So that everything from the future — all that I was meant to remember — does not happen, so that the things you reminded me of do not come to pass,
so that the Garden may exist, I must leave the Grey City.

It is very hard, and yet so easy.

You almost always appear in my dreams — only not always so easy to recognise; sometimes you are someone else, and only through something characteristic do I realise it’s you. It’s truly extraordinary. First, for the sheer privilege of your appearing in my dreams at all, and second, for all my different “incarnations.”
That saying about forgetting... It’s pleasant, yes... but what do we need it for?
When it comes to you, here there is MEMORY. Here, there is no forgetting.

You write:
“I hope you never forget...” And I reply:
“I hope you never ask me to forget you — not from the past, and not now.” Because asking me that would be like asking me to kill myself in yet another painful way.

Oh yes — during that film, I burst into tears. I remember exactly when and how.
And when I was asked, ‘What’s wrong? Did I do something?’ — it reminded me precisely of what had caused my sudden crying. I remembered one of the worst moments of my life. It was terrible. And later, I spoke with Him and begged him earnestly, though I knew he probably wouldn’t grant my request, might not even have heard it. You see, there’s often this question inside me: “Did I do something wrong?”
But I know it leads nowhere, so I never ask it.
After all, really, I did everything wrong — and for everything, I owe an apology. Because, Little One, you deserve something infinitely better than anything I could ever do.

You write, I will cause you much pain. Is that wrong? Tell me, is it wrong?
When I was thrown into this world, no one wondered how much pain it would cause me. And yet, in the end, I bless those responsible for throwing me here.
So why should it be any different now, here?
Besides, the second draft reads: mutually.

So far, we have the full moon. I don’t believe the dark new moon will come —
just as you didn’t believe in the abyss.

---

Introduction to Ethics of Evil:

“Living, a human being constantly makes decisions, in thought and in action.
These decisions are never supported by complete knowledge of what is being decided.
Whoever must decide based on incomplete information takes a risk. This is the typical situation of a game.
Entering the world, a person is thrown into a game whose rules are unknown to them.
Yet even on the lowest levels of development, life is entangled in conflict—
and therefore, in a game whose victory is merely the postponement of death.
For this reason, all phenomena of life, from the simplest to the human,
can be studied through a single framework: the theory of decision-making,
especially its branch concerning conflict situations—namely, the theory of games.”

Photo by Liana S on Unsplash