And so I lived. I trudged along. Forward, slowly and for a long time. A very long time, for ages. I built stories. I watched as they tended to the fire, burned brightly, and finally faded away. Others I destroyed in a moment. I played roles, usually secondary. I pretended. I allowed believing in me, while I believed in nothing.

Sometimes I forgot who I was. I forgot how one forgets a scent, how one forgets a stench. Never completely. One can stop thinking about it, but one cannot fail to recognize it. So I was reminded. Sometimes it took a long time, but inevitably, it did happen.

There were also times when I felt the urge to confess the truth. There were times when it was overwhelming and irresistible. And it happened that I confessed a truth which, to my astonishment and despair, turned out to be nonsense, like everything else. I couldn’t confess the truth, because that truth was not alive. It had frozen, dried up, its circulation had ceased. Its root had crumbled, its anchor had broken. It turned to ash.

And what now?