By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: June 22, 2005

Terry looked like a warm, comforting eel. He claimed to like cars when we first met and I was quite turned off. But eventually I saw that it was a kind of affection for a machine built by the hands of the common man. There was something noble in that. We were having an argument about what it means to write authentically. He is much older than I, but still holds on to his dreams. He told me everything I already knew about epic poets from antiquity, who invoked the muses and through them the words just flowed. I have become much more disillusioned. Writing, I proclaimed, was like driving through rush-hour traffic, trying to assemble furniture, picking up litter on the highway. In short: it was a bitch. Even so, he insisted I sit down and just “write” to see what came out. So really, I’m sloughing through this for his sake, out of respect for his advice. I apologise, dear reader, for whatever inconvenience I cause you as I subject you to this experiment. Don’t blame me. Blame my gentle friend Terry who is convinced of the beauty of myths and stories, of their ability to touch the lives of shmoes like you and me. He is old and illusions make him happy. Let it be.
I, on the other hand, know much better. As I’m sure you do as well. This is the part of the story where I stop caring and when you start questioning. I’m trying to be as efficient as I can. But let’s see where this goes. Perhaps that’s what Mohammed thought after the first revelation, “Gee that was totally unbelievable. But ok, I’ll see where this goes…” But unlike Mohammed, no one is commanding you to read.
I should begin by telling you that this story is about a paradox. A contradictory dichotomy. You see, I have this killer disease and probably have only about 20 more years to live. Perhaps you do too; I guess you’ll have to wait to find out. Maybe you should write a story about it like I am just in case. But anyway, I have this killer disease. And unlike other killer diseases that lay silent and then spring into action in some dramatic, unexpected moment, I already well acquainted with mine. I have named him Roger. I have to walk around town being reminded that sooner than later, I am going to die. It’s like having a post-it note stuck to my brain that says: DEATH. Roger is going to be gross and uncomfortable, or so I’ve been told. But I mentioned this paradox, didn’t I? Right. Well, I’m still quite young you see. Only 20. At that stage of my life when I’m trying to figure out what I want to do, what I value, you know that semi-anomic post-teenager stuff. And yet, while I’m trying to figure out what I want to do what my life, I’m being reminded that soon I am going to die. Herein lies the paradox, which is going to be the central theme of my story. It’s supposed to touch you and make you keep reading, or so Terry says. He’s quite smart, so I’m sure he’s right. When he reads this he’s going to either be amused or disappointed that I wrote that.
At this point I’ve already told you my central theme. So if you’re getting really bored, or need to do something more important you’re welcome to go do that. The rest is kind of just filler. Although to be honest I’m not sure what you could be doing that’s important. I use to think that things like philosophy, ideas and yes, even writing, like this thing that you’re currently reading, were terribly important. But then I thought about it much more carefully. Consider that you’re reading this thing I’m writing, and you’ve kept reading. Now although I don’t believe in free will – because if you think about it, all your actions, life experiences, people you’ve met, have lead up to this very moment in which you’ve “decided” to pick this thing up and read it, but if you erase all those other things, like watching a film backwards, destroying the images as they are played, you’ll find you won’t ever be able to come back to this moment – let’s assume you haven’t been forced. I suppose if you think there is some value in reading this thing. Ok, very well, what do you think that value is? Please, none of that “stories give us a common humanity and create the thread of our society” bullshit. (ELABORATE HERE) I’ve heard it enough from Terry. He keeps looking at me, in his gentle prophet/eel -like way and talks about the importance of stories. Writing and creating as wholly human acts. (ELABORATE HERE) But dear reader, you are going to die! And this little ditty that I’m writing at 1:12am on whatever the date today is isn’t going to matter at all. All that will matter is one very simple, very basic, but utterly impossible to answer question. At the last moment of your life, one giant thought bubble will pop up above your head: Have I lived a good life? And then you’ll have a very small moment, quicker than the pulse, to answer with a yes or a no. I suggest that you take the time to think through your answer beforehand, just in case you forget or are too hopped up on pain killers to understand the question. I guess one of the things that I want to do with this story is to get you, dear reader, to think about this question. After considering it for some time now, it seems to be the only thing left that is of objective importance. Everything else can be deconstructed back to language or machines. I suppose thinking of this highly objectively important yet thoroughly depressing question is one of the so-called advantages of knowing that you’re going to die. I’ve been asking people what they think, reading various scholars and theologians. The responses are often conflicting, although all seem to agree that you must, as I think Rumi noted, “unfold your own myth”. Basically means that you choose the answer to that question according to your own values. Seems like a bloody cop out to me. It’s the preachy, quasi-intellectual way of saying “I don’t know”. I don’t know either. So if you haven’t left to watch porno or clean the kitchen, and have stayed expecting some kind of answers about death and the authenticity of life, I’m sorry, but there isn’t any. Actually, I have to pee. So hold on for a sec.
Sorry. Like I was saying, you might as well go watch porno. Kant cannot be proven to be true anymore than porno can. But in case you have nothing else to do, which is often the case with me, I better continue my story. Now that I think about it, it’s kind of ironic: I am going to die, and yet so often I have nothing to do. Or if I’m doing something, it really feels like I’m doing nothing, like I’m just kind of floating around. Terry said that the idea of nothing was invented. This seems totally strange to me. What were they doing before they were doing nothing? It’s like they’re doing nothing and not even knowing it until one day, some guy got sunstroke and starting to think about nothing, and realized that he wasn’t thinking anything and decided to call that “nothing”. Nothing seems more like a feeling to me. It’s deep, dark, and full of silence. Kind of how I imagine death to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally hoping for the heaven/hell scenario. But if that doesn’t work out, then I suppose death is like when you close your eyes and it’s so quiet that you don’t remember where you are anymore. It’s like that, just you’re dead. So you won’t be able to say “this is how death feels”. It will be nothing. Truly. Nothing.
I thought that I’d write stories in the time I have left before I die. Terry says that stories stop time, capture something and save it from being destroyed. But as I already told you, I can’t see any point to writing stories. Plus they are so hard to write, and I’ve already told you about porno and Kant. And the only people who really appreciate stories are the ones who don’t think too much. (ELOBORATE ON WHY) Everyone thinks too much. It’s like the way a lot of other people I know with a similarly killer disease approach death. They don’t think about it, sort of a self-induced lobotomy where they remove the part of the brain that’s able to realize you are going to die. I think most people do that, it’s easier. But I don’t want that. I know people who are dying like me who don’t ever think about it and neither do their families so that even when they are about to die they don’t let go. They hang on, but their body is dead, so it starts to decay and stink up the room with their family around them who are usually weeping like severely damaged robots. It’s a very sad situation. I don’t want that. I want to answer my question, YES, and then die.
I am starting to question if this is authentic enough, or if I’m starting to “sell out” by being mediated by my so-called intellect. Maybe if I mention that I pass gas it will make it more authentic. There, I said it. I fart, Terry, are you happy? Have I finally touched my readers? Actually my killer disease means that I fart a lot. I don’t die from it or anything, but I have some bowel problems. Quite painful actually and passing gas makes me feel a lot better.
Sometimes people ask me what knowing that I’m going to die is like. Which seems silly, because you dear reader, I’m sorry to say, are going to die too. But it’s like something we’ve all experienced, except that there is no future for the dying. They can only look behind. Right now you’re reading these words (if you’ve stuck around that is) which means you’re not looking behind you or directly in front of you. But if you kept reading these words, and then in the back of your mind start to think about what if there was someone behind you, who was about to put their hand on your shoulder. You start to get paranoid and start to imagine what it would feel like to have their sweaty palm hover over your shoulder while you’re reading these words. What if they were right behind you? If they were so close to the back of your neck you could feel the heat of their body in the surrounding air you as your read these lines. You begin to imagine that air getting warmer. Now you might be tempted to look back and make sure there is no one there. If you’d like to do this, please go ahead. But remember that if it was death that was right behind you, waiting patiently, you’d look up from reading this and you wouldn’t be able to see him. And you’d get paranoid and look back again. But again he wouldn’t be there. And you’d keep looking back to see nothing, only emptiness where you were expecting something to be. This is what it is like to know that you are going to die: there is no forward, only looking behind to see an empty space. I’ll give you a moment to look back.