Summary

Leonardo Palma Batista, a Brazilian tech worker living in Berlin, reflects on the loss of his friend and contemplates the ephemeral nature of life and dreams, questioning the value of pursuing dreams when faced with the reality of death.

Abstract

Leonardo Palma Batista, a 32-year-old Brazilian living in Berlin and working in tech, shares a personal essay titled "Life and Death as a Writer." He grapples with the recent death of his close friend, whom he met in law school, and who embodied a cool and confident demeanor that left a lasting impact on him. The loss prompts a profound introspection about the nature of dreams and their significance in the face of mortality. Batista recalls his childhood dream of becoming a cartoonist, which he attempted to achieve through the use of carbon paper due to his lack of drawing skills. This memory leads him to ponder the nature of dreams as a blend of memories and experiences that, despite their intangibility, hold a miraculous quality. He draws parallels between the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of dreams, particularly through the metaphor of skiing and the sound of a branch snapping, symbolizing the abruptness of death. Ultimately, Batista confronts the reality that life, like a dream, is short and precious, and that the pursuit of dreams should not overshadow the act of living itself.

Opinions

Batista expresses a sense of disillusionment with dreams, viewing them as obsolete in the face of death.
He holds his late friend in high regard, considering him to be exceptionally cool and influential in his life.
Batista reflects on the unpredictability of life, comparing the control one has over their actions to navigating through chaos.
He believes that dreams are a composite of our experiences and emotions, and despite their sometimes illusory nature, they possess a form of existence and can be considered miracles.
Batista acknowledges the importance of living fully in the present, suggesting that the pursuit of dreams should complement life rather than replace it.
The essay conveys a sense of urgency to live and possibly write, inspired by the memory of his friend, emphasizing the brevity of life as a writer.

Life and Death as a Writer

To my brother Rafael Naninni Hazor

My name is Leonardo Palma Batista, and I am a 32-year-old Brazilian living in Berlin, Germany. I am a nerd, like most of you here. I am married. Work in Tech. Yeah, I know. Boring. And why am I telling you all of this? Because I no longer care about my dreams. Carbono is a dream, and dreams aren’t real. Call me Leo, call me Carbono, it doesn’t really matter at this point. Dreams have become obsolete!

Last night I lost a friend, and today the world has shifted. I woke up and didn’t know where I was. What time is it? Where are my glasses? These aren’t my sheets. My pillow is wrong. It took me a minute, then I remembered. This is a hotel room, your best friend is dead.

He wasn’t just a friend. He was one of the good ones. I met him in Law School 12 years ago. There were 4 of us back then. Like brothers, always together. And he was the best one, cooler than all of us put together. He was so sure of himself and comfortable in his own skin, but at times, he was sensitive too. His Italian blood let the emotions float to the top, but somehow he remained cool. Always cool. He was happy. He knew some things we didn’t. Some of these things I had the chance to learn from him. Others, I will never know. He is no longer here teaching me anymore. Death is silence, a page left in blank.

He was so cool he smoked Marlboro reds like we were back in the 50s. Not that I don’t risk my life too. Here I am, skiing down this mountain as fast as I can, thinking of death. Focus. Breath. Your movement, your decisions, and how you go through space and time define the outcome of your life. Or, am I dreaming? Is it all chaos, after all? One moment you are here, the next you are gone. Time simply stops, even though you weren’t going fast at all. In fact, you had just woken up.

When I was a kid, I had a dream of becoming a cartoonist. Like the Japanese Gods that gave me TV dreams. Sometimes I play some of those old animes on Netflix, and I am still amazed at how creative and technical they are. I believe they might be the purest form of dreaming humans were able to synthesize. Thing is, I lacked the talent to draw. And back then, I also lacked the persistence to learn. I even took classes, I practiced, and I failed. My resilience was running thin, I wasn’t comfortable with not achieving success at my dream of drawing. So, I cheated.

Back in the nineties, we still had writing machines at home. Writing machines need carbon paper, and soon, I realised how to draw without knowing how to draw. My cartoons and magazines soon became all crumbled up because I pressed my pencil hard on them to mark the white paper beneath the carbon. My friends were impressed at first. I told them the drawings were blue because I used a pen, not a pencil. They believed me. They were children, after all. But my drawings, or copies, had marks on them from where my hand pressed down. Soon, even the children understood what I was doing.

Carbon paper, Carbono. Bono Carr.

I believe dreams are memories lost in the chaos of our consciousnesses and egos. A turbulence of emotions, instincts, and insanity. But somehow, amidst all that chaos, our dreams blossom. They do, in fact, exist. Even though they are copies of different times and places and things, knitted together impossibly, like a trick, they take on a life of their own. They are miracles.

Last night I had a dream. A branch snapped. Skiing is a dangerous sport. I was careful all the way down, leveraging my weight at every turn. In the end, there is no recollection of anything happening. There is snow everywhere, there is only white in that world. No sound. Then, a branch snaps. That is all I can hear. The wood splintering, its fibres snapping. Gone.

Writing is a passion of mine, I hope my stories reach people and all that a writer wants. But this is just a dream. My friend lost his life forever. His real life, not a dream. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snowy tree branches try to hold me and fail. I keep falling. Snap. Snap. Snap.

How far have I jumped? How long until I land?

How silly is it to dream when you can live? So, I am going to live? To live for him, in his name? Or, am I going to write? I hope my dreams are along the way, but there is nothing in life that deserves to be replaced by a dream. Nothing!

What will I do now that I know death? Will I live? Will I write? Maybe life as a writer is short, like a dream. The clock is ticking, and every second is a broken branch. Snap. Snap. Snap.

What will I do now that I know I am also dying?

Leo “Carbono” Batista