Awakening into Oblivion

It is well known that the concept of self awareness is a common discussion topic among self righteous authors who value their own work above any view and aristocrats who are in no need of spending effort to stay alive. I am a lost character whose hopes are tied to the outcomes of those discussions.

I do not know my name. Actually I do not have the slightest idea regarding who I am. Regrettably, I am far from understanding how such a situation is as real as the fact that I am alive. My feelings tell me that I belong to this dimly lit room in which I sit, overwhelmed by the scent of mold and paint, since the beginning of time, until the end. Nevertheless, with a thousand curses to my fate, I must admit tht I have no memory of this place that I currently reside.

This note that I am currently writing is neither a complaint, nor a desperate cry for help. Especially when I am in no condition to determine whether or not I am in need of any help. I guess I am writing only because I am supposed to.

I see only very little details regarding the room that I am in, as I sit on this chair; outworn due to overuse, having crude engravings which can only be felt with a touch rather than sight under this dim light. Before me is a massive cedar reading table with a massive tome on it, inscribed on gazelle skin without a title or a scribe’s name.

I compared the letters and inscriptions found on the other pages of the tome to the ones on a couple of blank pages which were separated with a thin leather strip, that I now scribble upon. Without doubt mine were the hands that authored hundreds of pages written on high quality parchment constituting this unnamed tome. Strangest of all facts is that I know none of more than twenty different languages as I was able to identify, which was used to express all the memories filling out those pages. I have no intention of losing what time and space that I may have by writing down the possible explanations, diagnoses and scenarios that I imagine. Only thing I emphasize is that I believe I must leave something behind to express me, that I may be able to understand, when the imminent memory loss comes to happen. For this reason only I shall write down every bit of feeling that I have.

I cannot form a portrait of myself in my mind because I do not have a mirror or a reflective surface that I might use to observe my visage. With the touch of my cold hands I feel my thin yet well-kept beard from my lower lip to the tip of my chin and fashionably trimmed moustache. The back of my hair was trimmed short starting from the magniloquent two-ply collar emerging out of the expensive looking black velvet coat that I am wearing. I see that I have a brass ring on my left hand, in which a night color gem has been fairly inlaid. It is astonishing that I experience no physical need at the moment, for my logic tells me that I must have long started to get hungry within the time that I consciously carry out my research and note down the findings. I do not know how I survive in this place. There must be someone or something who takes care of my needs. I can tell that they are very attentive and elaborate given the good condition of my clothes.

I cannot detect window or a door in this damned room. The outside of the area which is dimly lit by a light without a source, is as oblivious as my memory. Perhaps the only spot which is properly lighted in the room is the cedar table and the tome which apparently consists of many parchments added one after the other, inscribed by myself, yet in languages unknown to me. Assuming that these chubby hands were the ones that skillfully used the quills to author all those manuscripts, it is impressive that there are no ink marks on my fingers save from the ones which have just happened while I scribble this note.

As I am approaching to the very end of this parchement, the final thing that I care to signify is a dialogue I witness. I suppose, the reason why I cannot comprehend the source of the voices in this room is, that I am overwhelmed by the fear of loneliness and forgetfulness. Still, I shall write down what I hear, with the hope to understand it the next time –if there will be a next time- I read it:

“Mr Corbin, I shall quickly express my concerns. As you may have alreaddy guessed, the reason I asked for you is to have a little chat about your advanced skills in humor, outperforming your unique ability to produce excellent portrait imitations. The superiority of your latest Rembrandt is beyond discussion. The brush strokes, gradient and the shades among the colors and the facial expression of the scholar is exquisite. However, Mr. Corbin, as I think you are also well aware, imitation trade is a serious business as it is important and profitable. I wish you abandon the arrogant humor which you are trying to mask with your youth before it permanently damages your career.”

“But monseigneur Perierre, I don’t know what you are talking about. What is this humor you are mentioning?”

“Don’t be funny my good man Corbin. The parchment in front of the scholar is only half-full in the original of the portrait you imitated; Rembrandt’s “A Scholar”. Your scholar seems to have overworked, don’t you think?”

A Scholar; 1631 - Rembrandt van Rjin (The Hermitage, St. Petersburg)