The following pages were found in a ruined room in a run-down motel that had been derelict for over forty years. I, the chief architect of the new development building, found these pages in a routine inspection before demolition could take place. I want to submit them to a broad audience as I cannot make sense of them. It is my hope that someone, anyone, may find something from them, as upon reading them, I fear that they may perish and be lost forever.
Day 1
It is raining again, reader. It always rains on a Tuesday. I don’t know why, but it has been that way for years. Tuesday’s rain is the only way I can keep track of the days. I can only see the rain; I cannot hear it, as the small window that allows me to see into the world only showcases water on the glass. Is it even raining? I often ask myself.
Nevertheless, I am deciding to keep this written account of my days as a reminder of a past slipping away from my mind altogether, as without a past, can I even have a future? Lest I lose my mind completely, at least I will have something to read – perhaps I will believe that it is a fictional account by another; at least that way, I will know that others exist – for I sometimes feel that I am the only one left – even if I have no way of knowing they exist. But they must exist! Since I can write these words on paper. Who provided the paper? God and all Its machinations did not spring paper into existence…no. There must be others, and these others have given me tools. From this simple fact, I know I am not alone despite my solitary confinement in this confinement.
A small comfort because I am alone. I cannot recall how I got here. I woke up, and here I was. A room with no doors, just a window. I thought I had been snatched in the night by some secret organisation, but why would they take someone like me? I am just a box maker and live in a part of the city that is nowhere remarkable. ‘Unskilled’ and ‘poor’ is what they call me. Also, I don’t have any friends, just those I work with. Unmarried too, I loathe it. Unmarried and friendless, what a life I have, eh? Life has passed me by… that’s what I used to say. I have no dreams or aspirations, yet I am here in this room…for some purpose and against my will. How did it happen? I ask myself over and over again. I want to start with the basic facts. You might do well to know that I am an existing entity that must prove I exist to find a sense of purpose in this unassailable room of constant objective being. Does the room exist for me, or do I exist for the room? I cannot tell anymore.
Day 2
You know, I tried to look out of the window once. I have a room that can be described as a hotel room – a bed, a bathroom, a running machine, and a food tube. The tube only gives me one thing: a kind of vegetable soup and bread. Twice a day. I don’t know where it comes from, but they should let me cook if I am a captive here. I was a good cook…mostly stock food: soup, pasta, chilli. These things can be stored for many days since I was poor. I don’t have the luxury of eating that expensive healthy food.
Day 3
I woke up again. I don’t know how long I have been asleep. It feels like days. I had a feeling of floating...not upward, but downward. A kind of sinking into a bottomless nothingness. No matter what light comes through that forsaken window, the light is always on. I long to gaze into the outside world…just for a moment. But I promised to write down things that make me feel alive. The room seems to expand and contract with my breathing…is this room part of me, or am I part of it?
Day 7
It has been a few days since I have written. I created a makeshift scaffold to look out of the window. I swear the window raised itself higher! No matter, I fell and lay injured for a while. There was nothing I could do, so I just lay there. Sleep was the only thing that seemed plausible in my condition, but when I awoke, I was in bed, and there was no more pain. I need to figure out what’s going on. Anyway, I have decided to start writing things down earnestly, and I shall do this tomorrow when the rain comes.
Day 8
I am a human being. But how can I be human if I am the only human being? The window has an answer to this, but it is unreachable, so, in the meantime, I assert my existence as a human being. Yet I have tools and objects around me, so I cannot exist alone despite my confinement in this room. Also, I am writing in a language, so to write in a language, I must suppose there is a reader for these words. I might burn these pages, but the very act of writing already supposes that there is an audience capable of understanding my words. Even if it is myself, a future self that exists in the forgotten future. What can I say? Existence is reality. Here, in these pages, I exist, and others exist. In the room, the room exists, and I exist. Are these two different types of existence? The rain is back.
Day 10
I have taken a break. This is why there is a gap in my entries, and I am running out of paper. I have been fatigued for two days. Thinking is hard! I wish I were back with my boxes; that was easy. I don’t know why I am so upset here…I don’t have any responsibilities, yet I complain about them at the expense of freedom. I used to ‘be free’ to do as I please, but now I cannot leave this room. I long for the opportunity to entertain the idea that I could do something other than run on that machine. Why do I run? To break the monotony, of course!
Day 11
Things are strange. I have more paper. I have a major concern with the tube that feeds me, and I really want to know who is keeping me. How can things get added, and where is that food coming from?
Day 13
Why do I continue to exist? For what purpose?
Day 15
The rain is here. I have read back the previous days’ writings…a morbid curiosity. One of the things that I have been thinking about recently is why I should continue to exist. I have thought about suicide, a grand gesture to end this psychosomatic torture of isolation. But then, why would I do that? Perhaps I am dead already? I am no saint; I have robbed Peter to pay Paul, as the saying goes. Maybe this is my punishment…but why the isolation? I remember back in High School; I read once that someone far more intelligent than I said that ‘Hell is other people”. I don’t know who said that or the point he was trying to make, but if I could see them now, I would tell them to be alone in a room for as long as I was. I would give anything for someone to talk to. I don’t care what about. I haven’t spoken in days…I am afraid that I will develop a split personality or something. But then, who exactly is writing these words? I am, but I am I! Am I not? I wish I could hear the rain…anything but this meaningless endeavour for an audience that will never come! Who am I kidding?
Day 17
Yesterday, I looked for a way out. I don’t want to talk about it.
Day 22
I have been looking at the rain, trying to remember what it sounds and smells like. All I can smell is the sterile air of this room. The window has lowered, I swear! I can actually see the whole frame from my bed. Is it because of what happened the other day? Who is controlling me? I thought it might be God…you know what happened with Job? The devil and God made a new wager, and I am their experiment. How long does it take to break a human being? Who made the bet, though?
Day 24
I have decided that to leave this room, I need to die. Perhaps I will die twice? But I have no means to commit the act. I tried to fall from a great height, but all I could do was knock myself out. I also want new food! Whoever is there, please just give me something different. I do not want to live in this room alone. I cut holes in the pillow...eye holes. In the end, it turned out creepy. Why is death always the answer? I have been here for many rainy days, but the thought didn’t manifest until the 87th rain. 87 rains! How long is that….
Day 29
The rain. It torments me. I want to feel it. Also, I have decided against suicide. It is futile. Instead, I will put myself into these writings. A source of my existence, not for myself…well, for myself, who else is here!
Day 30
Since I arrived, I have never shaved. I have no idea what I look like anymore, and I don't have a mirror. Like the Shawshank redemption movie, I have been trying to chip away at the wall. But there is something odd about the walls: they don’t have any give or piercing point; it’s like trying to pierce steel with a wooden spoon.
Day 36
What is the point of my existence? I see the rain and nothing! The universe is mocking me! I cannot have the pleasure of my previous life, and this life is borderline…and I have crossed the border into nothingness. There is no reason, no purpose. I am convinced that the rain is the universe’s manifest mourning for an existence that cannot be understood. Only the room sees my slow decay…a decay that I am not even sure is happening. The things in this room are tormenting reminders of a world I once knew...a world of people, life and suffering! The words on this page must be an anchor; they must be…
Day 43
I only write when I see the rain, now. I saw a shadow on the wall earlier. A figure. It wasn’t me; how could it be with the light in this room? Did I imagine the shadow? Perhaps I have finally cracked, and the devil is coming to claim his prize! I cannot feel my body, not in a numb sense like how nerves die…but in a more weightless sense…like floating in water. I wish I could see my reflection. Have you ever seen yourself without a mirror? Maybe other people are mirrors…living mirrors that reflect ourselves in a kind of infinity mirror. Yes! I am sure the only problem is that most people will only see the smallest image and not the true essence. But what does it mean to have an essence…I am a box maker…I cannot understand that! I cry with the rain now. Not always, of course, but I should be one with the rain. Maybe I am one with this room?
Day 50
Today is a writing day…I feel it. However, there is no rain. Have I lost a day? I am compelled to write, but I have nothing to say…
Day 51
There has been no rain again. But more importantly, the window has moved! It is now at eye level! I can see out of it! How I have longed for this day! All I can see is a light. I actually blinded myself; it was like looking into the sun. I do not want to think about anything other than when the light dies—for I know you cannot have rain and sun simultaneously in the exact location! I need my sense of time back!
Day 52
The window is more prominent, I know because the room is brighter. Maybe the artificial light is dimmer? No matter. I have tried to understand my predicament, and I am content to know that the window is providing me respite from the horrendous entrapment of my mind. I read once about the moment a victim of torture begins to identify and accept the torture. The torturer has to end the tortured existence of those who receive it. Has that happened to me? Am I now accepting and identifying with the room? Maybe I can make a box…I always liked making boxes.
Day ?
It has been a while. Things have changed. There are two windows now – one on the left wall and one on the right. The left one was always there, but it was out of reach. It hasn’t rained since day 43, according to the one who exists on these pages. I say that because I feel that we are separate entities. Akin to the artist and the artwork. Yet, he is I and I am him. This is my final entry in this…whatever this is. I have lost all hope. The window light revealed itself to be looking into a light source.
How the window moved, it hadn’t. I couldn’t see it, so I perceived a window out of sight and reach. Being a simple man, I cannot explain much, but perhaps something in these pages shows the human spirits fighting against the void. I am reminded that it only takes one bad day to alter your reality. Why do we assume we are predisposed to a good life when the nature of existence is contingent? I left the room. A door appeared during one of my cycles…that is what I call my time…and I felt such a rush of life in me that I ran toward it and broke through it. All I could see was a hallway and other doors. I ran to one end of the hallway and saw another person! In my bewilderment, I rushed them but could not find any words. My mind was speaking, but my mouth had lost the motor skills to articulate my thoughts. I ran back to the room for a way to communicate, but the hole in the wall had been removed, and now I am back…back to where it started, only with two windows instead of one. Seeing what I have seen, I must believe that something is beyond my current confinement. I have seen it! But as I write these words, I wonder if this has a point. Why exactly did I leave? Why did I come back? Perhaps the I in these pages is the one who suffers, and the one...the real one…is merely a vessel. For what am I without recourse to communicate? Am I an object in this room, or am I ‘in’ these pages? I do not know, and I confess that a part of me does not want to know. How simple life was in the box warehouse. That’s all I have now: a memory of what was and a projection of what will be. But having that is not enough. I exist as a nothingness amongst objects, tangible things that can only give an insipid meaning through me, not for me. This is why I leave these pages…I cannot exist in the abstract – a no-body; I must exist in the real world – a some-body.
Here are the pages I discovered. I can only assert my discomfort at the ambiguous nature of the other person they encountered: who were they? Why were they there? And what of their previous life? I cannot be alone in wanting more; I always want more from what people write. Having re-read the pages, I wonder if there is some truth in the idea that writing with the hand is a form of communication with Being. Using a computer to replicate these writings for prosperity is moving away from the very Being that the author of these pages desperately tried to cling to. I hope I have not assimilated the truth of these pages into ‘information’ as truth is often concealed within things and must be wrested from its concealment. This fault is mine if I have supplanted this poor soul’s truthful heart for a heartless form of information. Reflecting on these words, I am struck that this soul’s truth is exclusive and selective, revealed during the writing process, and information is cumulative: I have laid it all out for transparency. My God, what have I done…