Death is Eternal #395

Sunday. April 7, 2024. 2,500 words.

Another Death is Eternal, another week that I’m panicking because I left to do everything on Sunday instead of writing a bit every day. So now, I can’t sit back, relax, and enjoy the day because I have a million things to do. I got too used to being unemployed and having all the time in the world. I need to get my shit together and establish a new and more productive routine. Maybe next week...

Contents

1. Poll

2. Frozen Illumination

3. Writing: Under Pressure

4. Bye!

5. Life (from April 1 to 14, 2024)

6. Death is Eternal review #271: The Vigil by Ram V, Dev Pramanik, and others

7. The end

1. Poll

I’m a bit surprised by the results, but I’m okay with it. Since you don’t want any change, I won’t change anything. Thanks for participating!

2. Frozen Illumination

The professor’s words echoed through Liz’s mind like the distant chime of a bell, resonating with a clarity that surpassed mere auditory memory. “You’ll only find what you’re looking for if you start exploring,” she had said, her voice imbued with a gravitas that demanded attention. “And ‘exploring’ doesn’t mean reading; it means going out to the world to search for whatever answer you’re looking for.”

For Liz, it wasn’t merely the truth within those words that lingered; it was the layers of meaning woven within, a tapestry of metaphorical significance that tugged at the corners of her consciousness. As a historian, or rather, an aspirant in the field, Liz had traversed the halls of academia with distinction. High grades, Dean’s list accolades, even the coveted title of valedictorian—she had collected them like rare artifacts, treasures to be admired and displayed. Yet, beneath the veneer of academic success, a disquiet simmered.

Liz found herself adrift in a world where truth wore the mask of subjectivity, where the past was malleable and the present obscured by veils of indifference. In a world where truth was optional, no one was interested in looking behind and facing the mistakes humanity once made. Professionally, she envied her peers with her job. They whispered in hushed tones, casting shadows of doubt upon her accomplishments, insinuating that Liz paved her ascent with compromise. But amidst the accolades and admiration, an emptiness gnawed at her soul, a void she could not name.

This unspoken discontent propelled her forward, a silent current beneath the surface of her thoughts. And so, when the museum beckoned for unpaid volunteers to embark on an excavation of a remote Arctic island, Liz’s hand rose without hesitation. Yet now, as she stood amidst the frozen expanse, the biting chill of isolation gnawing at her bones, she questioned the wisdom of her decision.

“What the fuck am I doing here?” The words escaped her lips, carried away by the wind’s icy breath, lost in the vastness of the Arctic wilderness. But beneath the veneer of uncertainty, a flicker of determination burned within her, a silent vow to unravel the mysteries that lay buried beneath the frozen self.

In the stillness of the Arctic night, Liz’s breath hung in the air like a ghostly spectre, mingling with the whispers of the wind as it danced across the frozen landscape. The professor’s words reverberated in her mind, a mantra echoing through the caverns of her consciousness to answer her question, “You’ll only find what you’re looking for if you start exploring. And ‘exploring’ doesn’t mean reading; it means going out to the world to search for whatever answer you’re looking for.”

With each swing of her pickaxe, Liz delved deeper into the frozen earth, her movements a symphony of determination and resolve. But beneath the surface, a silent quest unfolded—a journey not of discovery but of rediscovery. She sought not the truths hidden within the annals of history but the enigmatic mysteries of the self, the elusive fragments of identity scattered like forgotten relics in the sands of time.

As the Arctic midnight sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue upon the icy landscape, a glimmering light on the distant horizon caught Liz’s attention. At first, she dismissed it as a trick of the snow, a fleeting illusion born of the Arctic twilight. But as the light danced and shimmered, beckoning her forward with an otherworldly allure, Liz knew in her heart that it was no mere mirage.

Liz got up, looked at where most volunteers were, and thought about calling someone. But soon, she gave up the idea. The “responsible adult” was half-asleep in a chair while others like her worked their ass off the site. Still, Liz knew if the excavation paid off, the half-asleep would have his name in gold letters in the newspapers and articles, while all others would be forgotten.

At that moment, a quiet resolve blossomed within her—a silent vow to carve her own path, to seek out the answers that eluded her grasp. And so, with a steady hand and a heart filled with anticipation, Liz set forth into the unknown, guided by the ethereal light that danced before her.

The cave stretched out before her, its walls rising like ancient sentinels, their silent vigil a testament to the passage of time. And as Liz ventured deeper into its depths, she felt a stirring within her—a whisper of destiny, a promise of revelation.

In the quiet solitude of the cave, Liz found herself enveloped by a sense of purpose—a clarity of vision that transcended the bounds of reason. With each step, she felt the weight of uncertainty falls away, replaced by a newfound sense of direction—a beacon of light amidst the darkness.

And as she stood at the threshold of discovery, bathed in the warm embrace of the cave’s inner sanctum, Liz knew that her journey had only just begun. For in the depths of the Arctic wilderness, amidst the icy expanse of the unknown, she had found not just answers but the key to unlocking the mysteries of her own soul.

As Liz traversed the cavern’s expanse, a sense of purpose infused each stride, buoying her spirits like a gentle breeze on a sunlit meadow. Her footsteps echoed softly against the cavern walls, a rhythmic cadence that mirrored the beating of her heart. With each step, she felt a surge of happiness, a joy born of anticipation and the promise of discovery.

Above her, the ice ceiling glimmered with a faint luminescence, casting dappled shadows upon the cavern floor. The light, filtered through the translucent barrier, lent the space an ethereal glow, illuminating the hidden recesses of the cave with a soft, golden hue. And as Liz gazed upwards, she felt a sense of wonder wash over her—a reverence for the beauty of the natural world and the mysteries it held.

But it was not just the beauty of the cave that filled Liz with warmth—it was the thrill of the unknown, the exhilaration of the journey unfolding before her. Despite the biting cold that nipped at her skin, she felt a fire burning within her—a fervour that fuelled her every movement, propelling her ever closer to the source of the light.

With each passing moment, the intensity of the light grew, bathing the cavern in a radiant glow that seemed to penetrate to the very core of Liz’s being. As she drew nearer to its source, she felt a sense of longing well up inside her—a yearning for the warmth and comfort of the sun’s embrace.

At last, she emerged into the full brilliance of the sunlight, its rays flooding the cavern with a dazzling array of colours. The ice ceiling, weakened by the warmer summers and winters, had given way, allowing the sunlight to pour into the cave-like liquid gold. And as Liz basked in its warmth, she felt a sense of peace wash over her—a tranquillity born of acceptance and understanding.

In that moment, she was no longer a mere observer of the world around her—she was a part of it, connected to the infinite tapestry of existence in a way she had never before imagined. And as the memory of the professor’s words echoed in her mind, “You’ll only find what you’re looking for if you start exploring. And ‘exploring’ doesn’t mean reading; it means going out to the world to search for whatever answer you’re looking for,” she felt a sense of gratitude wash over her—a recognition of the profound wisdom they held.

But even as she revelled in the beauty of the moment, a shadow flickered at the edges of her consciousness—a whisper of warning, a reminder of the dangers that lurked in the depths of the unknown. As Liz’s vision blurred and darkness descended, she could hear the echo of the professor’s voice, a haunting refrain that lingered in the air like a ghostly whisper morphing from what she knew by heart to, “But be careful when exploring. You may find the answers don’t belong to the living.”

And then, with a final sigh, Liz collapsed, her body surrendering to the mysteries of the universe.

The end

3. Writing: Under Pressure

Photo by Lucian Alexe on Unsplash

Writing under pressure has become my modus operandi in today’s world. While it may not be the ideal approach, it’s what suits me best. I’ve come to realize that I’m somewhat unique in this regard, owing to my background in crafting content amidst tight timelines.

In my experience in journalism and marketing, there was no room for excuses like, “I’m not feeling creative today.” Due dates were sacred, and meeting them was non-negotiable. Often, especially in journalism, those timelines loomed just hours away. It was a constant source of stress, but it taught me a valuable lesson: inspiration is helpful but not the sole driver of writing. Once I forced myself to begin typing, ideas would start flowing. Whether I felt inspired or not, I always managed to produce something, and more often than not, I found myself proud of the result.

Years of creating under pressure have taught me a simple truth: all I need to do to write is sit down and start. Even if I’m not initially feeling it, those first paragraphs might be rough, but once I push myself into the writing zone, things start to click. I may not fall head over heels for the finished product, but I’ll at least find some satisfaction in it.

My background has made writing feel almost second nature to me. It’s both a blessing and a curse. Knowing that I can write under pressure is reassuring but also leads to procrastination. I often find myself putting off tasks until the last possible moment, hindering my potential for excellence. Writing under pressure is a double-edged sword; it can yield success, but it’s also a gamble. Despite knowing this, I still struggle to break free from my habit of leaving everything until the last minute.

In summary, writing under pressure has proven effective for me, boosting my productivity compared to times when I’m not under the gun. However, it also holds me back from reaching my full potential. Nevertheless, I subscribe to the notion that completing a task is better than endlessly chasing perfection. Or that’s what I tell myself.

4. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of Death is Eternal, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.