It might sound absurd to you that an untroubled silence was the final wish of this dying man. Yet after living a tempestuous life, what one can truly wish for is an uninterrupted state of calming tranquility. Especially in the last few years preceding my death, I was a sad, old, and lonely man. And I was proud to be a sad, old and lonely man. At least I did not fake who I was. I did not continue making a fool of myself by imitating the clowns around me. I hated them for they were never willing to respect this old man’s final yearning for solitude. And following every intrusion, I treated those responsible in the worst ways possible, often calling them names and cursing them for being such dejected creatures. Many put my utterly unacceptable, but what seemed to me as an awfully normal behavior down to my delusional state of mind, old age and drunkenness. But no one ever spoke of me as an old, delusional and depressed alcoholic. People never cared about how I felt. They never gave a rat’s ass about who I truly was. And even if they were to care a bit, I wonder whether they would be able to understand my true nature for they were simply too thick to come to such judgments. The moralists amongst you might question my darkened and presumptuous comments about the human nature. Well, I am no philosopher, but let me tell you this. A woodsman knows which wood to cut after truncating a great many trees… and I, a forester more or less, have cut a good number of thick wood in my life to know which one gives the best fire, and which other makes the perfect table. This forest surrounding me, however, is good only for a Sunday hike at its best.
I was a human before I was cursed, a human that none of you have ever achieved in becoming, before my body and soul were trapped in these busts and statues that I can barely affiliate myself with. But it was deemed necessary by my ministers for a nation so nascent, and fragile to have someone serious, or something respectable to look upon. I surely was not the serious one, but they nevertheless liked the thing they stared at day after day, and month after month, with an increasing infatuation, and an almost erotic affection. For many, such attention could have orgasmic consequences. But I was too old to even feel a thing.
Death was sudden, painless yet also pointless. It did not take me from one place to the next as I would have expected, but rather reified my presence in this dreadful world. At that moment, it still made more sense than to endure endless conversations with those who invaded my privacy night after night. I had to run away from these people, so far away that I would neither be able to see nor hear a single face or word. Some nights, I would continue to drink until the early lights of the morning in the privacy of my study room. People thought I was busy dealing with the problems of a troubled nation. Rather, I was busy dealing with the problems of myself. I drank without a doubt a good amount to pace myself to death, to have that final blow to my already bloated liver. It felt good, honestly… to die, I mean, and let go of all the responsibilities of this world, leave all my idolaters without any sense or meaning to continue with their miserable lives.
It took people 15 long years to decide what to do with my body. First, my very right to be eaten away by worms, roaches and centipedes was taken away from me. Even I, as a democratic dictator of my time, had given people the right to eternal peace. But rather, I was mummified, my guts and intestines filled with cold and stinky fluids, and held intact by cotton swabs. Try living for 15 years with wet, ticklish pieces of cotton stuck up in every single hole of your body and maybe then you will understand the amount of suffering, let alone the irritation it causes. So stop asking me why I am so cranky.