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The Investigative Craft of Writing
The Man Who Refused to Pass Away, a Novel (25)
Chapter 25: The Investigative Craft of Writing
For a substantial duration, I have been diligently engaged in the composition of this novel, a peculiar amalgamation of diary and journal. Its essence has taken the form of a narrative; one might venture to call it a novel. Why, you might ask, do I devote myself to this endeavor? Is it driven solely by an innate compulsion to commit words to paper? Yes, that is part of it. However, the underlying motivation runs far deeper—it resides in my affection for the act of writing itself. Writing bequeaths me contentment, for it compels me to delve into the recesses of my life’s experiences and emotions, necessitating contemplation of the events and incidents intertwined with the existence I share with my loved ones.
Upon perusing the chronicles, I inscribe, and curiosity oftentimes takes hold of me. I find myself ruminating on the words I have committed to paper, casting them against the backdrop of our shared experiences—Elsa's and mine. Simultaneously, I contemplate the occurrences of the present and those that are on the precipice of unfolding. I ponder the matters that provoke my trepidation—those elusive subjects that resist assimilation.
I commit my thoughts to paper concerning the intricate and ineffable aspects of existence—those elements that prove elusive to verbal articulation. I undertake this task in pursuit of extracting emotions that lay dormant within me, emotions whose complete dimensions and substance I do not yet fully comprehend. Writing, for me, serves as an attempt to summon forth the invisible, to render manifest that which I feel but do not comprehend. It is a means of processing my life.
In the present juncture of my existence, marked by the formidable challenge of a grave illness afflicting a beloved individual, writing serves as a conduit for the emotions and thoughts concealed within me—those emotions that at times elude my grasp, which reside in the realm of the inscrutable. There exists something within me that I can sense but cannot entirely define. It is a nebulous presence, difficult to discern. Writing, therefore, emerges as a method to externalize these nebulous sensations.
I understand my place in the grand tapestry of existence, but can I, with certainty, proclaim that I possess unequivocal knowledge of my position in life? At the very least, I cannot assert that I have a clear roadmap guiding me through the labyrinthine corridors of my future. The days ahead remain shrouded in uncertainty. Or do they? I am not entirely ignorant of the terminus that looms at the conclusion of this protracted odyssey, which is my life.
Deep within, we all possess an awareness of the conclusion that awaits, yet most prefer to avert their gaze, choosing not to contemplate, let alone discuss it. Each of us is graced with a commencement and a denouement. Life commences at our birth, and it concludes with our final breath—an unchanging timeline bound by profound finality. What transpires between these two fixed points is life itself—the singular possession we may lay claim to, thus rendering it our most cherished.
Throughout the annals of history, humans have harbored an enduring curiosity, an innate yearning for the existence that lies beyond these two fixed points in their ever-evolving lives. Many seek to believe that realms persist beyond death and even before birth. In our corner of the world, such beliefs gradually wane, like the straws that have sustained humanity in earlier times and continue to do so in various belief systems today.
In response to the question of whether this is the extent of existence, I am tempted to assert that we do not possess definitive knowledge of anything else beyond the realm that exists between birth and death. Everyone is a unique entity within a unique universe, and everything that transpires between these two points is what exists and, therefore, holds significance in every individual’s life. Some entertain the belief that something lies outside their own unique universe, and they are not mistaken. Beyond my personal universe lie the universes of all other individuals currently inhabiting this planet. Every universe stands as a distinct entity, separate from all others.
In relation to these numerous universes with which I share no direct connection—the majority of the eight billion souls currently dwelling on Earth—I can adopt various stances. However, I do acknowledge their existence and possess some knowledge of certain of these eight billion universes. I acquaint myself with these external worlds. From within, I am privy only to myself, and I have some understanding of the universes that reside closest to me. Foremost among them is the universe I share with the one I love, with whom I coexist in matrimony—Elsa and I represent the closest of these celestial bodies.
Writing serves as the conduit that draws me closer to the core of my being. Solely through the laborious process of composing this narrative—this narrative of Elsa and me and the life we have woven together—I inch ever closer to the heart of my identity. I delve more profoundly into the entity that resides closest to me apart from myself—Elsa. Through this endeavor, I transform into a more intimate acquaintance with myself and my cherished companion. I become versed in the grand enigma of life and in the interstice that lies between its two defining anchors—birth and death.
What, then, can I do if the presumption holds true—that all that exists resides within the span from birth to death? What if, thereafter, there is nothing for me within my unique universe?
In such an event, the paramount imperative is to make the most of the time that unfurls between birth and death. My mission in life crystallizes into the pursuit of extracting its utmost potential, birthing significance, and defining purpose.
But what does this endeavor entail? What does it mean to infuse life with meaning?
One might posit that it encompasses the quest for deeper comprehension and wholehearted acceptance. Bestowing meaning signifies the embrace of life’s joys, the experience of intimacy, and the procurement of inner tranquility. A meaningful life, for most, entails the exchange of love, the receiving of love, and the warmth of cherished relationships.
Achieving inner serenity and harmonizing with one’s nearest and dearest is within reach for many. Yet forging peace and a sense of security with respect to the external world can prove more formidable. It implies an acknowledgment of the world as it is—a world graced with beauty yet tainted by malevolence beyond the dominion of any solitary individual. What I do understand and can undertake is the endeavor to fathom the world and the motivations that steer humanity. I may not grasp the entirety, but I can decipher fragments. Through such understanding, I may come to terms with the world as it exists. Amidst the expanse that stretches from my birth to my death, I may, at times, discern the essence of existence and find solace in its embrace.
