Judging by the title of this piece, you may think that it will be about my manhood (ah, there I go again…)- but it is not. It is, in fact, a farewell- though I don’t know if it is temporary or infinite. Approximately twelve months ago I began writing short stories- quick sketches actually, of imaginary scenarios that would amuse me. After almost one full year, I have recorded ninety-nine stories (this being the one-hundredth) and have reached a rather distressing realization. This will be my last story.
    First, I was well aware that these sketches were intended for me, to cure my boredom and aid me in learning a new form of communication. As I wrote more and more stories, I had stopped writing them for myself, instead writing them for a modest audience of my few closest friends. My purpose was to create tales or scenarios that would amuse my following with absurd senselessness- an easy thing for me to formulate. Later, as people stopped reading, I used it more as a stage for satire and insult, trying to learn how to put meaning behind these sketches that only I would read. I tried my hand at many different styles, including dada (where I used an actual verse from the Bible), poetry (certainly not my strong point), and theatrical skit (which will never find itself on any stage.)
    Then, last night, almost simultaneous with the century-mark accomplishment, I came to acknowledge something about myself and about what I was doing with these stories. Were I an objective viewer, reading these tales cold and without knowing the author, I would understand that I am reading the literature of a very lonely person.
    I can guarantee that when I wrote each of these stories, I had no intention of creating each one as part of a whole- which would finally end as a collection of 100 pieces to a lonely puzzle. Each story was written thinking that it would amuse, entertain, relieve, satirize, frighten, or enliven the reader, or as it was, myself. Yet looking back on it, there is a pattern there, too obvious for me to ever notice.
    In almost every story, the character is going through some unholy, torturous trial- too horrible to be taken seriously… yet, it is still happening. Almost always, the enemy is some unseen evil… a figment of the mind, a concealing shadow, or a maniacal obsession. It is always giving chase, and the innocent character in the story is always on the run, fleeing. But from what? I am under the impression that shadows are the most terrifying element of human existence, not because something might be hidden… but because until proven otherwise, everything does exist in that darkness. Just like the cat in the steel box that is simultaneously dead and alive, everything simultaneously exists in the darkness, until it is investigated. And so, what does this mean to me?
    Once again, as an objective observer, I am fleeing from something- I am fleeing from everything. From reality. Now, speaking as a subjective participant, I know what writing is to me- it is an escape from reality. And I have come to realize that most of my life is spent escaping reality, escaping loneliness. I write because I am scared of being alone, (the most devastating of human emotions is not loss or heartbreak- it is loneliness) and to document all my thoughts, any of my thoughts, or even a silly story about a hippopotamus is a welcomed escape from reality. Another such escape is drinking- even in respectful moderation. As is dreaming, and watching movies, and listening to music. I reached one point in my life where I would sleep for ten to twelve hours a night. I would initially wake up after sleeping eight hours, then make a conscious decision- I would opt to remain in my dream world rather than wake up and begin living in my conscious world. Still, of all these different escapes, by far the most addictive is the writing.
    Does it work- yes. It gives me a sense of purpose, a pastime to entertain my hours and stir my thoughts. Do I do it to create art, or some meaningful statement on the human condition- it saddens me to say it, but I believe the answer is “no.” I used to think so, but now I sincerely believe that my true purpose was feeding my addiction- separating me from the reality of my loneliness. This is no cry for sympathy. I have many friends. And despite my claims of desolation and solitude, I can honestly say that I relate very well with them and that they, for the most part understand me. Yet, there is a certain part of myself, which I have yet to define, that continues sending impulses to my brain informing me that it is without companionship, and that it is completely alone. Irrational, certainly…
    So, instead of continuing to write my stories- tales of invisible demons and destructive dysfunctions- I will retire my storybook, and consider my one hundred stories to be little more than a lengthy examination of my own character, addictions, and most of all, fears. It is not always easy for an author to separate himself from his work, and read the stories as if from the point of view of a stranger. I believe it has done me good, and that only through creating this self-portrait (which I had no conscious idea I was creating) I can see a part of myself that I never would have been able to otherwise. Perhaps, in the end, there is no reality- and all these escapes I’ve listed are different stages of the grand existence. After all, what is to say that the dream-world itself is not reality, or that by penning these stories, I create the most real of worlds? Rambling, rambling…
    I will miss everything- everything that could ever exist in everyone’s shadow that I have ever met and written for; I can’t even begin to imagine what is lurking in there. Someday I will reach a better understanding of everything- reality, intentions, existence, and maybe I will decide to share my discoveries with everyone. But for now, like all the others, this is just another story...
 

THE END