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Dear Schobert,
I've wanted to write for a while, but never found the time to, nor do I know what to write now that I do. There is nothing about me worth telling you; I am still the broken person you knew. There is nothing worth about our friends telling you either; you probably know them even better than I do.
Speaking of our friends, Schwind's gone. I received the news earlier today.
Three lines—is this all I have to say? Months of silence, all for this?
If only to fill the margins of this letter, let me reminisce. Do you remember our first meeting? If you do, please tell me about it; I have told this story too many times, to too many people. Details improvised for drama are unwittingly raised to the status of truth—even memories can be rewritten.
I found a diary from long ago, undated, its pages ripped from the spine and chewed voraciously by termites, until what used to be entire pages of packed scribbles now leave merely a few legible sentences. These sentences were about you. Please excuse my silence concerning their content, because the moment I read these I because I don't remember writing them myself. Perhaps had I never read these words, they would be lost to me forever, and the universe would be in order.
So I burned the diary. I watched those words fade in the fire before finally being reduced to soot; no one will ever need to know, no one, ever. Yet, why do I remain so uneasy? Why do I remain bound by thoughts that may quietly slip into nonexistence, now that all evidence of them is gone? Is there a god? Is there a god, but one stone-faced to my wails and woeful prayers, lifting their finger only to deliver punishment, such as now? Why?
Do not cry for my lack of faith, my dear friend. As I said, I am still the broken person you knew.
My past was not all terrible, but I believe it is because people choose to forget their misfortunes, so that they may attribute rosy shades to the lens of memory. My dear friend, remember the name we made for ourselves—Schobert? Back then, the letters sent to us would be placed in one envelope, such that neither of us knew which was for who; you would chance upon my little secrets, and me yours, and we would tease each other about it. I see your face now, so infinitely close—so infinitely carefree! But I mustn't think further on it; I know too well that memories can be rewritten. What if my memories do not match yours? Would I then be living in a dream, an islet founded on false nostalgia to keep out the tides of depression? What if I am?
And yet memories remain so vivid. Amid my reverie I realise, summer in Vienna has already come. There are the aged visages of our companions, expressions still beaming with idealism; the crumbly, fertile soil, warmed by the sunshine; the artistic drip-dropping of rain on stone pavement; the deep grooves of carriages on roads, telling stories only to those who listen; the lively calls of cicadas; the hardy silhouettes of trees; and you. It is only the Viennese summer! I murmur to myself, but no: It is the piece of my past that died with you, the home now stranger to its resident. I reach, but there is only its dark veil.
It's late now, and I'm probably drunk on champagne. I would write this tomorrow, if not for the knowledge that tomorrow this will end up in the fireplace just like those diary pages. Do not pity me; it is simply my way of making grief tolerable. People cannot forget all misfortunes after all—it simply lingers in the unconscious, patient and meticulous, eroding them to its own twisted fancies. I have lived too long, till my future is empty talk and my past dissolved in oblivion, till all that is left must be an islet—the present, one without you and without your memory. But you are still here!
Thinking of you will only cause me pain. I refuse to let pain rewrite my memories, so this is what I do. But everyone wants to know about you and your legend, and their enthusiasm is impossible to turn down; so I speak, day after day, of our stories, to groups who will come and record my words verbatim and then leave me forever. Am I telling our stories, or truths twisted into drama? I refuse to recall, even for the sake of accuracy; but with each passing day of this disregard I will find your name ever more alien.
Thinking of you will only cause me pain.
I envy you! I envy you, because your world without me hurts less than my world without you. Do you still remember me? Do you still remember me, when in Heaven no wish is left wanting—when my love is no scarcity for you? Meanwhile do I breathe still, wandering, coughing the wistful remnants of your love like a fire burning itself unto futility—its light is no longer seen, its warmth no longer felt. I hate you—the words tear my throat like shards of glass—and I hate my broken self.
(A few drops of tears are scattered across the paper, blotting the word "hate" almost beyond recognition.)
While you were gone, there was a new invention called the camera. It's much more accurate than a portrait, but you have to sit in front of it for hours just for a black-and-white photograph—that's what it's called. There's a photograph of myself in the attachment behind this. You must look as young as I remember—this is what I must believe; but I am old and white-haired now.
Will you still recognise me in this photograph? Some say the camera steals your soul, eyeing it with sneering suspicion; perhaps the tides of worldly suffering has decayed my radiance, I think in moments of defeated cynicism; or rather, maybe my soul has always been so colourless.
I suppose you won't recognise me; all too much has changed—I am no longer the youth you knew. But at the same time, in a way, I have never changed: I am only a shell whose soul died along with you, tumbling and groping weightlessly through unending void, seeking something I cannot even name.
And somehow, thinly cloaked in responsibilities that falter in face of my duty to you, I have carried on till now—breathing, falling, wandering.
I believe I will die soon. For no specific reason, I think—I believe, simply due to my old age, I pray to die soon; perhaps I will then be able to give you this letter in person. But can we ever meet again? Can my colourless soul ever set foot on your vibrant sanctuary?
Even if we are separated for eternity, I will always miss you, just like the person you loved.
Your dearest friend,
Schobert