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Excerpts from the Adrien W***** was fifty-two years old during the time he wrote the following entries. On January 15, 1984, he died of malnourishment in Seattle, Washington. Tuesday, November 15, 1983: Listen to this: I am the devious unwanted cell of an organism blanketed tightly over the surface of a planet. As I was told. Though I might be something else, I’m finding it very easy to accept this theory. The thought of trying to identify myself as anything else twists my stomach in the most nauseating place; which, in case you wondered, is every place. Today the sun was obscured by gray clouds. There wouldn’t be any rain; there was just this blissful twilight all throughout the day. It was the sort of weather for looking out of windows, which is what I did. Mine being especially interesting, I don’t dare clean it. The dust plays with the light in ways artists can only dream of imitating. Lucky it doesn’t rain too often. The glass bends and curves, it makes things fatter and thinner. Everything looks much better through a window. Then I suddenly woke from my daze in time to hear a woman yell at me from the outside. She made an ugly face and stuck out her tongue, this is what she said: “You’re (an explicit) cancer on this (explicit) Earth.” Yes. I guess I see your reasoning. I can’t remember the details of how it happened. I have an absent mind. Last week I was insane, now I’ve decided that it’s just absent-mindedness that keeps me from noticing things. At first I wanted to tell her just how bluntly insensitive she was, but the words were glued to my tongue and I felt I would vomit. Maybe she had the right to call me whatever she wanted. Then she was gone, enveloped in the cover of the downstairs market. Was I stunned? I don’t know. I hadn’t a clue about anything at that moment, and I haven’t made much progress since.
Friday, November 18, 1983: I am insane again. I must be. I’m growing afraid of everything. I’m being forced to expect the unexpected from even the most mundane things. Soup is no longer soup. Perhaps I’m eating it wrong. This city has become ridiculously scrutinizing. It must be the war. Empty coats are floating down the streets with no particular place to go, secretly conscious of everyone. I can no longer walk down a street without feeling the guilt thrust upon me by their eyes. The purpose is slowly oozing out of existence. That is what scares me most; that which I can do nothing to stop. It is nothing physical to hold in, it slips more elegantly through my hands the more I try to keep it. Much like I can do nothing about losing my hair. Dozens of fine gray strands cling to my fingers every time I run my hands through it. I physically ache at the thought. If I don’t cease to exist for lack of purpose, being bald will definitely be the end of me. If not either of those then I will be literally scared to death the next time a dog passes gas in a suspicious manner. What a rotten time to lose my mind, with the economy in the (explicit). Change of pace: I’ve looked up cancer. This is part of the definition I found: Cancer is a disease in which a group of cells display uncontrolled growth and invasion (intrusion on and destruction of adjacent tissues). And so on. Through an implication, you can deduce that I will intrude on and murder someone adjacent to me. (Illegible section) Going over it doesn’t seem to do much. I tire of thinking indoors but wandering outside is becoming a very unappealing option. I can’t think without people seeing through me as they would a glass statue. I feel my body movements are what give me away, but I can scarcely control myself any longer. I often awake from a different consciousness, unable to recall what I’ve been doing. What’s this in my hand? I look: it is my pen. What am I doing with it? I’m sure, like all things, this nonsense I’ve manufactured will pass. I look forward to reading what I’ve written today and ridiculing my former self.
Undated Page: People have forgotten how to converse. Today, I went to the train station; I could no longer deal with being indoors. Whenever I’m not paying direct attention, the walls close in a few inches. I’ve checked with measuring tape, but always end with the same result. I no longer trust measuring tape. Actually, I no longer trust anything. Going to the train station was a mistake, I soon noticed. I was one with the crowd. It pulsed and I pulsed along with it. But when I spoke, I made no words. When I screamed, I made no sounds. Without noticing, I left the station. I wandered the streets. Faces came and went; all were simultaneously equal and different to one another. I couldn’t recognize anyone, but they all seemed to know me. The stores all around me grew increasingly similar; I might have been walking in circles around the same places. I looked down at my feet as I walked and it felt an eternity for my left foot to overtake the right one and land itself on the ground before it. Another eternity for the right one. Finally I caught myself in a mirror. I couldn’t recognize my own face. The features were familiar; I know what a nose is, I’ve seen eyes before, but it was as if I had met myself for the first time. What was this? This is a sickness, dignifying as a dying goat’s droning bleat. But I am not sick. I am naught but a malignant mutation clinging to a malfunctioning organ. The destroyer of meaning. All this accounted for doing absolutely nothing. Where has it gone wrong? Damned if I know. I found my home. I went in, sat down. I can no longer recall ever being a child. (Sentence crossed out.) I dream of sleep. I wish I would sleep for years, until everyone forgets me. I haven’t eaten anything for days. This perpetual migraine is all I have to keep me company.
Thursday, December 30, 1983: I have a joke to tell, but I’ll save it for later. Don’t expect much, or you will be disappointed by my poor sense of humor. As for myself, I’ve lost forty pounds over the last three weeks or so. I must seem a lot less intimidating. Ha ha. A wave of calm has overtaken me for the past few weeks. It might be the lack of sleep or food. Whatever it is, I’m thankful for it. This Journal has been a safety line to humanity for me. I’ve written entries daily for nearly a year now on the same bench, at the same park, usually around the same time. And if I were to highlight any part of my life, it would be these few moments I spend pressing ink onto paper. All around me children play and laugh and make noise freely, conscious only of what they can see. Here I sit and watch jealously, knowing that my old muscles wouldn’t be able to keep up. Right now, the sky is yellow at the horizon and the clouds are dabbed with pink at their edges, and I wish I knew how to paint so I could capture this sort of beauty. For the past month and a half, I’ve been giving thought to my identity. I’ve come to no conclusion. I know no more now about who, what, or why I am, than I ever have. But I understand that I cannot know everything, and somehow that is comforting. I promised a joke, and here it is: I’ve written my epitaph, and it reads; “Here lies Adrien W*****, an Oncologist.”
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