The Circle

I am dead. I have been dead for forty years. The reason I want to tell you my story is not the fact that I am dead. The dead don’t care that they’re dead; it’s the living who fear Death. Since I have no enlightening story about Death that would comfort or scare you, I won’t be writing about that. The point is rather to warn you that the saying you’ve come up with, "As you sow, so shall you reap," is much more intense in its prophecy than you actually believe.

"Where should I begin?" "Always start at the beginning." I died at birth, so I have nothing to say because of undeveloped state of consciousness when even my unconsciousness was underdeveloped. I know I died due to the doctor’s disbelief in my Mother’s actual labor. Their negligence led to me getting stuck halfway out. I’ve heard that emotions in the Living evoke the greatest fear, especially when it comes to stories about dead babies, so to avoid evoking yours emotions, I will refrain from writing in detail. Let’s just say there was a lot of blood, fear, and panic from all those present. I couldn’t return to my Mother’s womb, nor could I move forward into Life. The torture was brief, and soon I was no longer among the Living.

Since then, I’ve been here. I’ve been told that some writer named Dante called this place Limbo, and that those who died at birth, not having been baptized—whatever that means to you, reside here. Actually, we call this place Nowhere, because it is located neither in space nor time. The idea of seven walls surrounding us is a myth, but Dante was right about our torment—Desire. Don’t be fooled, though. It’s not the desire for life, but for salvation—though no one here knows what that salvation might be or where it would lead.

Since I died before I was alive, I know nothing living about the world of the Living. Everything I know, I’ve overheard. That’s how I know that no one, except for the myth about Jesus—which no one is sure is true—has figured out their salvation. What terrifies me is that no one here wants to return to the Living and risk salvation through that.

Some of you will be disappointed to hear that there are no favorites here—no one who was worth more in life. Only here do you truly understand that human value has no measure. Nothing that can’t be counted exists. There’s no Dantean forest, no streams, no seven gates. There’s simply one set of plain doors through which the Living enter into Death. We all have jobs to "contribute to our community." We eat and drink modestly, but we have no sense of taste. We have set periods for sleep, but we don’t sleep. We could throw parties, but no one does because it’s pointless without alcohol or music, it’s claimed. We have no sense of smell, but that’s a blessing, considering there’s nothing here to smell, and it’s probably better that we don’t, in case something stinks like in Life, they say. Ah, yes! Sex! We can kiss and make love freely, but we don’t have the sense of touch, so… sex is off. Men say, "At last I don’t need for protection anymore and this happens!" Women say, "Finally I have no emotions and this happens!" But no one’s unhappy, because dissatisfaction is an emotion, so… superb. Thus, we’re left with the sense of speech and hearing, so we can talk and listen for eternity—which, for some, is Heaven and for others, Hell. Consequently, even here, you must choose your company wisely, or you may already Dead die of boredom.

Anyway, today is The day. As I’ve mentioned—I am forty years old, and today is my birthday. But it’s also my death anniversary, which is less important, but definitely more confusing. As a child, every year celebrating both my birthday and my death anniversary on the same day, I never knew whether to be happy or sad. It wouldn’t have affected my feelings, which I don’t have, but I would have liked to decide "how I would feel if I could." But as more and more of the Living passed through the Doors of the Dead, I became puzzled: how is it that no one ever wanted to return? I say puzzled, but truly, I was afraid because, from what I’ve overheard, some of the Living believe in something called Original Sin—whatever that means to you—but here we only know Original Fear. It manifests only in certain cases. In my case, since I died in a moment of sheer terror, that Primal Fear has stayed with me all these years. It usually arises when I’m about to appear in a new environment or during a public speech—likely because I don’t think I have anything useful to say, given that I’ve always been Dead. That fear grips me even now, and I feel like it’s visible on me.

Legally and theoretically, it’s not forbidden for the Dead to return through the same Doors to the Living. The thing is, no one has ever wanted to. Imagine the absurdity of a lover’s suicide. He entered the Doors still under the influence of Death, rolling in the sand, crying, holding his stomach, and shouting that he loved her so much he couldn’t stand it. When I calmed him down, I asked if she loved him back, to which he said yes, but he loved her more, and having become addicted to her, he couldn’t stand it anymore and would never return. I think it was his story that complicated this whole idea of love for me, and I don’t get any of it. Then take, for instance, the cancer patient who left behind pain and suffering—no need to explain, for him, this is Heaven, not Nowhere. Or the old man who died at ninety-two in his sleep, hated his job, his wife cheated him, and his children forgot him. He hated Life itself. He never went back either.

No one, no one ever wants to return. And that is precisely what terrifies me today. Because… I want to!

Ever since I’ve been here, I can’t stop thinking about my Mother. Those nine months in her womb are the only experience I know. Yet I can’t even say "know," because I have no memory of that space. Still, every night I dream of being cradled—that is, of the womb I was in, how she hummed songs when I moved, how she giggled. I can’t stop wondering: how did she handle my death? If they say emotions can kill, did she ever pass through these Doors? The Dead talk about some strange bond between child and mother, so I thought maybe I’d recognize her if she came. That’s why I signed up to work at the Doors under the pretense that I’d be the best to greet the new Dead since I never felt emotion and couldn’t be swayed by them. But according to my calculations, if we haven’t already passed each other, she has at least another fifteen years of Life left. And I’m out of time.

According to our laws, women who reach forty are considered useless and unnecessary for the community, and if by then they haven’t returned to the Living, they must go through the next set of  Doors, behind which no one knows what lies—since no one has returned from them either. I‘m thinking: I have two Doors. Both lead into the unknown, but sooner or later, I’ll have to pass through the second one—I'll die again, enter the first, live in Nowhere for forty years, and pass through the second. But I will never be able to return to the first, to Life. Why should others describe Life to me? I’m not an imbecile. I want to go through that experience that everyone shudders at. What if they’re wrong?

That’s it. I’m going. As I slowly and cautiously approach the Doors, the mass of Dead follows behind at the same slow pace. I hear: "She won’t, will she?" / "She’s not crazy." / "Don’t do it." / "You’ll regret it." / "It’s horrible over there." I got rid off fear by blending all that murmuring into one composition, remembering how they described the sound of ocean waves. Though I think I might be making a terrible mistake, not once do I consider turning back. I grab the cold handle… hold my breath… and… open it!

Ah! Attack! Light! I’ll go blind! Slowly… slowly… breathe, they said, adjust… Ah! It’s impossible! The light, the unbearable noise—planes, buses, cars, motorcycles, trains… the Living! They’re so loud, shouting, cursing, spitting, fighting. A half-naked woman in fishnet stockings is beating a man on the street, then urinates with a penis in the corner, before returning to beat him again. In the shop windows, televisions show wars, murders, the ozone layer breaking, polluted water, poisoned air, tainted earth. I collapse on the doorstep of the Doors between the Living and the Dead. I can’t go back, but I can’t go forward. I’m stuck. The last thing I hear is: "We warned her."

I am awakened by a strong slap on my bottom. After the invasion of Life on my senses, I immediately start screaming. My Mother is happy. I didn’t mention this earlier, but if you cross the threshold between the Living and the Dead, you get one more chance—but from the moment you first died. And so, I was born again. Unfortunately, already aware of the world I would be living in.

Today is my fortieth birthday, and once again, I have nothing to celebrate. In these forty years: my father was an alcoholic, he beat and mentally abused both me and my Mother, and, interestingly enough, even to this day, he forbids me to feel or show any emotion—Life/ I’ve been struggling with panic attacks, anxiety, and depression for the past twenty years. I’m overly emotional, says to doctors. I say—Life/ I chose acting as my profession, likely because it’s the only place where emotions are not only allowed but encouraged. Yet, as the Dead warned me, it’s those very emotions that are slowly killing me—Life/ I married a psychopath—a man without emotions, who could very well be Dead. He used my emotions as a weapon against me. I divorced him—Life/ I spent ten years trying to have children, suffered two miscarriages, and somehow feel that it’s the price I pay for dying at birth, and yet returning—Life/ I don’t have my man, no friends. The Living lie—Life.

But I do have my Mother—my Life.

Yet, I can't help but notice the irony in it all. Although I am born again, or rather, just born for the first time—I already know that my great achievement of crossing back into Life will one day mean nothing. What a fate for a newborn. All I have realized is that, in the end, Life is truly meaningless, and that even the Living are cursed by Desire and the eternal search for meaning.

And so, one day, I will stand before those same doors again and wonder- why I even crossed in the first place?