Dialogue Within

"Dialogue Within"


The thirty-third step of life, and at each one, we risk falling into the abyss. This was what Arthur pondered as he drifted off to sleep on a stifling summer night. "Well, nothing to worry about," he thought, remembering the Stoics who said, "Learn to use what nature has given you and don't complain."


Sleep came to him surprisingly quickly as the wind, playing with the poplar outside his window, breathed some coolness into his room. As is often the case, we humans tend to dream about fragmented and loosely connected pieces of our subjective past. But Arthur dreamed of a cemetery that he had visited with his parents only once as a child.


He walked, guided by some pre-determined route. It was a deep, windless night, and in the milky full-moon light, he saw the silhouette of a person sitting by one of the gravestones. He was being led straight to them.


Standing on the other side of the gravestone, he was surprised to see the name and life dates of his grandfather, who had passed away suddenly when Arthur was only a year old. He sat down directly on the ground opposite the strange person, harboring vague suspicions about the reality of what was happening.


He did not hear a voice, but suddenly it dawned on him that Death was before him.


He did not see a face, but this figure--infinitely distant from all known images and descriptions--always appeared before his eyes, no matter where he looked. We are used to imagining other worlds according to our ever-changing systems of perception and cultural constructs, and the entire projection with the cemetery and the figure in the long black robe was merely Death's attempt to rewrite another reality into a familiar scenario for Arthur.


This dream was one of those that held you in chains, and the one who dreams it understands that they will only awaken after watching and experiencing the entire "script" from beginning to end. Arthur understood this and, with a surprising calmness, began to wait.


To describe their "dialogue," if it can be called that, the usual human language will be used. In reality, their conversation would have resembled more a stream of thoughts initiated by Death in Arthur's mind. They seemed to float in the air next to this stream, like being beside a river. Arthur watched as his questions, barely formed in his mind, took various shapes, glowing in the darkness as they floated ahead, and Death's responses were merely the questions returning, their shapes and paths altered.


Dialogue with Death
"Translation into Human Language"


-- Have you come for me now? -- Arthur asked, lowering his eyes but still seeing its visage.


-- No, -- Death replied.


-- But everyone says you have only one task.


-- People are far from reality. The cultural forms that describe me are as distant as my goals. Yes, I can take you, but this time my purpose is only to pass on his knowledge to you.


-- So, I'm not alone? -- Arthur guessed that it was about his grandfather.


-- All of you are alone. Even attaining immortality and drawing infinitely closer to each other, humans would never cease to be alone. You have examples of this in what you call "mathematics." Moreover, human emotions are dynamic in different directions, so even the strongest unity risks being lost. Your emotions are as temporary as your lives.


The next thought that floated through Arthur's mind was about faith and religion.


-- People still have no consensus on which of the many religions is true. Even among the followers of one faith, there are different branches.


-- People need to believe in something. Your ancestors invented and adapted religions to unite tribes into more resilient communities. Religion is a crutch for faith, and faith is just a false oasis in the desert, leading the weary traveler.


-- Is there a chance that this oasis could be real?


-- No, it never is. Its purpose is to lead, not to be real.


Arthur felt that his questions (thoughts) were too banal, but he couldn't help himself. In life, he would not have found such an honest, close, and wise interlocutor.


-- What is love? -- Arthur asked.


-- Love is an instinct dressed beautifully and taught manners. Once, you used only the feeling of preserving the species, but a series of coincidences began to complicate this feeling. Inspired by nature, you invented love. Courtship rituals have become more complex over the centuries, new forms have emerged, and with the development of languages, writing, and art, this has grown into what you call love. It is a gift from nature and your culture. To you, it's like a beautiful and majestic building. But outside of your consciousness and culture, it's just a strange construct and a chimera.


-- I knew it, we live and die in beautiful but illusions, -- Arthur lamented.


-- Who knows? After all, these illusions are the very soil for minds, for inspiration and creativity. These same illusions created me in your mind, for Death does not come from the outside. It lives in the head of every person as a result of layering information from the outside world onto the inner world.


After a short pause, Death suggested to Arthur that instead of asking questions he could grasp on his own, it would be better to ask something he believed lay beyond the current understanding of humanity.


-- How can I become the person I strive to be?


-- And what kind of person do you strive to be?


-- I want to be precise, like a machine, so that human illusions do not disrupt this calibrated mechanism of thoughts and actions. And at the same time, I understand that I am still human, and I cannot abandon my essence, cannot abandon my roots. So where then should I draw inspiration and the passionate desire to make this world better? If I swear off writing, choosing one side or the other, then in the first case, I will write something that won't ignite hearts, won't inspire creativity, and won't motivate anyone to new pursuits. In the second case, I will write something far from reality, dictated by emotions and unaccountable fantasies, something that will be simple pulp fiction, like dime novels or other trash. It seems to me that the best literature is always a beautiful symbiosis of science and art, and it's important to make it better and of higher quality.


-- Do you want practical recommendations? Or metaphorical comparisons?


-- There's enough of the latter in life already.


-- Well then. I'll repeat what you've heard hundreds of times. Just write. Every day. Live it and rid yourself of vices. Let Seneca and Marcus Aurelius serve as the tuning fork of virtue.


-- Thank you, -- Arthur said, feeling a sense of calm and knowing that he would soon wake up.


-- Until we meet again, -- Death replied.


-- Until we meet again, -- Arthur wanted to respond, but he uttered these words only after opening his eyes and seeing the early summer morning.