Published July 17, 2010
Well, I don't really know what to think of this yet. It's very new, and fresh, and raw. I plan on going back and editing it a few times this summer before I hand it in to my teacher in the fall--so any advice would be much appreciated! I want to make sure it is somewhat understandable to the reader and not too awkward. And I'm pretty sure "unfound" isn't even a word (but despite it not being a word, its still the best one I can think of for that spot). Well, it was an assignment for school...and it was supposed to be a short essay...but I had fun writing it. That's why it is being posted. Oh, and does anyone besides me think there are spots that are too trite?
I had never felt afraid of death before. I have never encountered a life-threatening experience, and I have never been close to someone who has died. Death is far from me with a stretch of years in between. It is a ferocious beast, but there is a safe distance separating death and me.
One night I was lying in bed about to fall asleep. A sleepy haziness descended and rested upon my leaden eyes. It muddled everything together—all my thoughts blurred into one, and the past day became one thought. All my days and memories came together at that moment, collapsed, and expanded into a horizon of sleep and dreams. I could remember the past and feel the future. I was three, sixteen, and a ninety years old all at once.
I closed my eyes and for the first time something ancient and forgotten welled up inside of me. It was rising, rising from a deep instinct to a churning gut feeling. It rose still, past my heart with a shock, and in my mind became a thought; the thought became a word, and for the first time I knew what it meant to die.
The ninety-year-old in me felt it near—felt it hovering over me like this was my deathbed. The three-year-old shuddered, and the sixteen-year-old snapped my eyes open, alarmed by the fear that was suddenly flooding my mind and saturating the sheets with cold sweat.
Something that had been dim was briefly illuminated. I had often peered down that long hallway of my future, but its end was hidden, trailing off into mysterious shadows. In the glimpse of light I saw the hall end abruptly at a door. I had always subconsciously known that it couldn’t stretch on forever, but that was the first time I had ever seen or felt such a finite end. It was not the door itself, for it had always been there, but the thought of that door clicking shut that made me tremble. What if one day I went through and closed that door behind me? Would that trodden hallway still exist, lost in darkness like an undiscovered Egyptian tomb? To history I would be invisible—every second of my life left unfound.
I suddenly felt transparent, like my life meant nothing and I would simply fade through to the other side. A chill gripped me. I might vanish one day and the world left behind wouldn’t even realize I am gone. I am ultimately invisible. So with grim resolve I decided my future—the future that cannot be seen beyond the door. Let this life be what it may. One day I will close that door from the other side and I won’t look back.
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Ah, Rellety that is a wonderful suggestion! I will definitely add that to the end of my piece. And as to the philosophy behind it...well, I was half-asleep at best (not when I wrote this of course, but when the event took place), so it was more of a subconscious epiphany than anything else. My message wasn't that this life is meaningless--there is far more to life than being seen. But rather (I agree with what Rellety had to say here):
So this is interesting; your out look on invisibility is that one is, here on earth, insignificant, but yet hope may be found when we move beyond? I much enjoy the reality that that we are all really un-individual, meaningless beings that exist, and i know that I'm stretching this, but we exist, in my opinion like a breeze: we may blow once, fleetingly, we may be lovely or harsh, we are a force indeed, but, as you say, we are invisible. ^_^
What I would only improve is the consistency of setting; I would say that if you introduced your thesis with an actual place and time, then you should, once the idea and its points have been explained, end with a return to the setting, say, you fell into a peaceful sleep after your conclusion of hopefulness of what lies beyond the door. But as you may know, that is the very worst thing i could presume to advise you to change, and the matter is small. Perhaps you wouldn't prefer to alter it.
Good luck on your improvements!
This is quite interesting. I love the take you have here; typically abstract philosophy with this kind of bent focuses on 'I'll live my life fully then die' as opposed to your (more original) take: 'This life is ultimately meaningless, so I'll wait and see what's beyond it'.
Watch, I'll have gotten that message COMPLETELY wrong.
Anyway, if it is indeed how I interpreted it, I think the message is very strong simply for its originality. I love the way you solidify abstractions into personas, with the 'three year old self', 'ninety year old self' and 'sixteen year old self' all reacting to the realization of death. It created a sudden depth and, again, originality that I very much enjoyed.
Honestly, I'm not too experienced with essays, so as far as form and function go, I'm quite useless. However, as a reader it kept me interested, kept me surprised, and made me think, so I would say you did a very solid job here.