SERIAL FICTION: LISTEN TO A NEW CHAPTER
Find Meaning in the Simplest of Moments
The Man Who Refused to Pass Away a Novel (33).
*) Chapter updated, October 19, 2023
Chapter 33: Find Meaning in the Simplest of Moments
The days following Elsa’s passing were an excruciating descent into a darkness I could never have fathomed. Grief had wrapped its cold, unforgiving fingers around my heart, squeezing the life out of everything I had known. Each morning brought with it the cruel realization that Elsa was no longer beside me, her absence echoing through the cavernous void in our once-shared bed.
Simple moments, once cherished, now felt like shards of glass underfoot. The scent of her favorite flowers in our garden, the lingering aroma of her cooking in the kitchen, and the soft laughter that used to fill our home—all of it cut through me like a knife.
The agony was amplified at night when I would sit by the hearth, my gaze fixed on the flames that danced like memories of our time together. I’d reach for a cup of tea, a reflex honed by years of her making it for me, only to be met with the bitter taste of solitude.
A photograph on the mantle haunted me. In it, Elsa’s radiant smile and sparkling eyes were suspended in time, capturing a moment when life was pregnant with possibilities. Now, all that remained was the stark emptiness beside me, a cruel void that no number of tears could fill.
Our children, while a source of boundless love and support, were navigating their own tumultuous seas of grief. They missed their mother’s touch, her soothing words, and the certainty of her presence. Together, we clung to one another as we sailed through the tempest of our sorrow.
It was Elsa’s journals that offered me some semblance of connection to her. In those pages, filled with her thoughts and dreams, I found solace. It was as if, through her handwritten words, she was reaching out to me from beyond the veil of existence, offering me fragments of her spirit to hold onto.
But amidst the relentless pain, I occasionally glimpsed moments of unexpected beauty. On one frosty morning, I ventured outside to find a world cloaked in a delicate shroud of ice crystals. As I stood there, entranced by the glistening landscape, it dawned on me that even in the depths of my sorrow, nature continued its ceaseless cycle of life.
In those quiet moments, I felt Elsa’s presence. It was not the physical presence I yearned for, but something deeper—an understanding that her spirit lived on in the world around me. It was as if the world itself whispered her name in the rustling leaves, painted her portrait in the vibrant hues of the setting sun, and sang her songs through the birdsong that filled the air.
Elsa’s passing had shattered me and fractured the very essence of who I once was. Yet, in those moments when the pain seemed unbearable, I found refuge in the knowledge that our love, though altered, still bound us together. It was a love that transcended the boundaries of life and death, a love that lived on in the simplest of moments, forever etched in the tapestry of our shared existence.
In the aftermath of Elsa’s passing, I found myself drifting through the relentless currents of existence, buffeted by the waves of life’s unfathomable absurdity. The shadow of Elsa’s passing had slowly started to retreat from my mind, leaving behind a me marked by sorrow and a world forever reshaped. Amid this altered reality, I remained tethered to the memories of a life that once was—a life inextricably intertwined with Elsa’s.
I had always been a skeptic, an individual unyielding to the dogma of faith. The notion of a higher power remained elusive, a cryptic enigma that lay beyond the realm of human understanding. “What deity?” I often whispered in defiance, a quiet protest, the enduring beliefs that had guided humanity through epochs.
Throughout history, religions of myriad names and divergent mythologies have striven to define this elusive entity. Protestantism, Catholicism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Judaism, and so on—all distinct facets of a universal quest. To my eyes, they were but variations of a timeless narrative, stories crafted by those in power to exert control over the masses.
“Control over minds,” I mused, observing the devout fervor that enveloped my fellow citizens. Churches and mosques are still more or less teemed with the faithful, seeking refuge and redemption in the face of life’s impenetrable mysteries. Their faith became a shield against the encroaching darkness, a way to navigate the inexplicable.
Yet Elsa had been different. She had walked a path of her own, a quiet rebel in the grand cacophony of faith. Her belief, if it could even be called that, had been rooted in the simple act of living. She had embraced existence in all its absurdity, finding meaning not in grand narratives but in the ordinary moments we had shared.
As I stood alone in the house we had once shared, the echoes of our lives reverberated through the rooms. Laughter, tears, and everyday conversations—the threads of a tapestry woven by two souls seeking meaning in the absurdity of life.
Elsa had been the one who had helped me have a foothold in existence. She had helped me cope with everyday life and reminded me that the beautiful in life is connected to the impermanent.
In the days after her passing, I struggled to accept that she was gone now, forever. Elsa had died, but the world had not stopped. The world moved mercilessly forward. It was difficult to see the point of it. We are born into a world that lacks inherent meaning, where we must create our own purpose.
“What is the meaning of life?” I had asked Elsa once, our voices carrying into the silence of the night. She had turned towards me; her eyes had a gentle wisdom that I had always seen in her.
“The meaning of life”, she said, “is to live”. It was as if time stood still. What she said was a simple but profound truth. Her words were a lamp that shone in the night and illuminated the path we had walked together.
Now, in her absence, I sought solace in those memories. I revisited the narrative of our lives—a story of love, shared dreams, and aspirations. It was a tale that defied the absurdity of existence, woven with the threads of our connection.
As I wandered through our city’s streets, I couldn’t help but notice the resurgence of faith in the wake of the last events worldwide, a prediction that a large asteroid was on its way and might hit the earth. The news had fallen like a mega-bomb in many countries but was gradually tried to be officially denied by the governing powers in and by the UN. This did not prevent many people from adopting various conspiracy theories, and it was clear that the asteroid threat had gained a certain foothold in large population groups all over the world.
The churches and mosques were once again filled with fervent believers, seeking answers to questions that had long remained unspoken. The divine had reclaimed its presence in the face of mortality.
Yet, for me, questions still lingered. “Why must faith be worn as armor?” I wondered as I observed people embrace their beliefs as a bulwark against the uncertainties of life. Elsa had shown me that meaning could be found not in grand gestures but in the everyday act of living, in embracing each fleeting moment.
I believe in man, I said half aloud, knowing that such a statement would meet resistance in a world dominated by belief in God. It was a perception—or a belief, if you like—that man has a greatness in him to stand upright in life and in the world, regardless of a religious belief. Elsa had shown me the way in this; she had shown me that the beauty of life lies in the fact that life is transitory.
In the coming months, I was in search of meaning. I walked a lot by myself and thought about what it means to be human. It was an attempt to find meaning in the absurd—this fog that lay like an invisible blanket over people. I thought, read, and thought about these unanswered questions. I read literature; I read philosophers—everything I could find of people who before me had struggled with these fundamental questions.
“What can we do in the face of the absurd?” I wondered, my thoughts echoing the existential ponderings that had occupied my mind. It was a question that had no definitive answer, yet it demanded our attention.
I considered the works of those who had confronted the absurd head-on, seeking meaning in a world devoid of inherent purpose. It was a call to embrace the absurdity of existence and find meaning in the act of living.
As I walked through the city streets, I felt the absence of Elsa like a looming shadow over me. I felt cold and hollow inside. But in truth, it wasn’t just coldness and hollowness I felt. I knew there was more beneath the surface. Colors, voices brimming with warmth, joyful smiles, and the shared glances that had been between us. But the darkness that engulfed me carried the certainty that all of this was lost now. Forever! A protest welled up inside me, a gripping ache that an invisible hand clenched around my heart. I felt powerless and drained of strength. She had been with me on this journey, my fellow rebel against life’s absurdity. Together, we had woven a narrative that defied the meaninglessness of existence—a story of love, shared moments, and finding beauty in the ordinary.
And I decided that I would manage it. I would do it. To live on without Elsa, to have her with me. I carried her with me as I moved forward, navigating life’s absurdity, guided by the memory of Elsa’s unwavering belief in the act of living. In a world filled with unanswered questions and an uncertain future, I chose to embrace the absurdity and find meaning in the simplest of moments.
The eternal absurdity of existence remained, but in the echoes of our shared life, I discovered a truth that transcended the confines of reason—a truth that whispered, “Live. Live your life.”
