Ever since I started writing my new novel, The Scrap Colossus, that my basement girl urged me to work on, I’ve been waking up regularly at one to three in the morning, often struggling to fall asleep later. My dreams are extremely vivid; although I forget them upon waking, I remember traveling through tremendously detailed environments, meeting people I had never met before, and having coherent dialogues with them. Of course, dreams are a mystery. I have a hard time believing that the human brain is capable of sustaining such internally coherent worlds for hours every night; I wouldn’t be surprised if we actually connect to something, some other plane of reality. In any case, the increased vividness of my dreams, how I wake up spontaneously with ideas ready to be noted down, and the rest of the time I feel immersed in a somewhat oniric state, they are a testament to the fact that my brain allows my subconscious to flow mostly unimpeded at the moment, which is the best possible state of being.

Basement girl regularly knocks on the ceiling to share meaningful moments for the new novel, which I hurry to write in my growing document of material (131,839 words as of now). Recently she had been struggling to connect both storylines (the one about Elena writing her novel, and the novel-within-the-novel involving the stand-in for a certain songwriter I was obsessed with); she proposed alternatives that never quite gelled. But earlier today, as I peed at work, minutes away from sitting with my serrano ham sandwich and reading a bit more of Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree, my basement girl had an eureka moment and hurriedly painted a vivid daydream of how the climaxes of both storylines should merge. Obviously I can’t be specific, but the point is that the major hurdles to develop this novel have been overcome thanks to my beloved girl’s tireless work, and now I can write each scene at my leisure while tinkering with the architecture from time to time.

Artificial intelligence has been, unsurprisingly, very useful. As I improve my structure, that includes the detailed summary and purpose of each scene, I ask either OpenAI’s Orion 1 or DeepSeek’s R1 to offer constructive criticism, trying to determine the weak points. AI is “objective” (of course, each company tries to inject their own ideological bias into their AI), but asking AI for criticism solves the issue of requiring a human being to criticize your stuff, which they would almost invariably half-ass to avoid getting into arguments or hurting your precious feelings. I regularly involve AI in my interactive erotica, so I know it’s quite comfortable with being rough.

Anyway, the worst part of having regained my creative stride is definitely having to work for a living. I should be at my writing desk. But at least my job computer includes an internet connection, so I can rearrange my notes and work on development further.

Hope you’re enjoying my new story, whoever the hell you are. Yes, you. I’m right behind you. In any case, my tale is a bit of a hard sell, but it’s not like I write for others. I’m sure at least one person will get something valuable out of it.

I have a few things to say regarding the first scene of my new novel, named The Scrap Colossus. In the first scene, that encompasses part 1 and part 2, the protagonist attends a writing class and presents her latest piece, with generally disastrous consequences. From now on there will be “spoilers” when it comes to the two released parts, so if you’re interested, you should probably read them first.

First, let’s start with the following three photos:

That weird-looking fellow, all six-foot-two and two-hundred thirty pounds of him, happens to be me from back in 2015, when I attended the writing course that the first scene of my novel is based on. I don’t own, or at least haven’t found, better quality photos, because I hate being photographed. I suppose I’ve always had some degree of body dysmorphic disorder, and I don’t appreciate how I look at all. It doesn’t help that in my fantasies I’m rarely myself.

Anyway, that version of me from ten years ago presented a piece to the class. In it, the instructor, who had requested to be the protagonist, traveled back in time. Instead of showing her having a good time, I sent her to a primeval epoch. There, after suffering a bit, she ended up accidentally preventing the evolution of mammals, which led to her vanishing from existence after a little jab at how she focuses on her social image. Well, the class didn’t like it one bit. When I finished reading it, the room was silent, and shortly after, the nervous instructor brought up the fact that I had never mentioned her daughter. She accused me of lacking empathy. All of this may be sounding quite familiar. Because fiction is generally much better than reality, my fictional version of events is far more eloquent. Anyway, the class continued, with me seated there while wondering why on earth had I decided to sign up for that course. By the way, if that instructor read the two parts I posted on here, she’d be livid.

At the time I was enrolled in two writing courses. The other was imparted by a local writer of English origin who was in his eighties at the time. His classes were a sham. He basically put as assignments for us to continue excerpts from his stories, and then tried to guilt us into buying the books the excerpts belonged to. He let us present our own pieces, but whenever anyone said a word that he didn’t know (and many of them were relatively simple words), he accused us of being pretentious, of trying to look more intelligent than we were. He argued with me for a bit about the word “jade,” for example, which I used to refer to the color of a sea. Throughout the weeks, I presented scenes from the novellas I was revising at the time (you may already know Smile and Trash in a Ditch, although there were four others). Well, the guy was supposed to take the pieces home and correct them or whatever, but by the end, he refused to do so with mine. He was clearly bothered by them.

The way he pushed back my excerpt during the last class, which happened a day after being accused of lack of empathy by the instructor of the previous class, made me decide that I had no business involving myself in these people’s lives, so I just quit both classes and detached myself from the local writing scene. I never interacted with any of them again. Perhaps a week or so later, the instructor in his eighties suffered a stroke that ultimately led to his death, and I heard through the grapevine that he actually blamed me for it. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if that blame is real or if I hallucinated it.

The last time I saw him, he was weakened from his stroke, and some family member was holding his arm as he tottered down a corridor of the library. The moment he spotted me coming along the same corridor, he looked scared, and told the woman holding his arm to move into some adjacent room. Can’t say I feel too bad; not only I found him quite fraudulent as a writer, but also who fucking blames a stroke on one of his students presenting stories? And there’s something extremely disturbing for me that as a writer, he was so disturbed by someone else’s writing. However, it wasn’t surprising: he admitted that he hadn’t read fiction in decades, even though he kept writing it. But perhaps his demise never bothered me due to my lack of empathy.

Yeah, I can’t care about most people. I was wired that way. I’m not a good guy, nor do I pretend to be. I do care enormously about people in certain circumstances and from certain angles. My new novel is mostly autobiographical, although I mix in many elements from other people I came to know. So many other shameful aspects of my life will be brought kicking and screaming into the light. That’ll be intriguing to render.

I think that The Scrap Colossus will be a solid, entertaining tale about a reclusive autistic person who is trying to honor the songwriter she’s obsessed with by writing an elaborate novel about the songwriter’s life. That’s what has to happen because that’s what I did. Full-blown autistic obsession that lasted from about 2011 to 2013, an experience and perspective that most people aren’t familiar with, so maybe it will make for an interesting story. Regardless of what others will think about it, I need to do it because my subconscious has demanded it, so my hands are tied.

The hardest parts to handle will be the many, many scenes of the story within a story, the novel that the protagonist wrote inspired by this songwriter. The novel actually exists in different stages of production (the first two “books” of the novel are revised to a publishable state, the third would require at least a couple of revisions, and the last two books are in the draft stage), so it would be feasible to include actual excerpts from that other novel into the current narrative, but I think I’ll prefer for my narrator to act as myself reviewing and offering criticism to my actual past self’s production from ten years ago. That sounds like the funnest angle to me. Besides, I no longer feel like the same person I was in 2015, let alone during my obsession, so I can be somewhat objective.

Anyway, it’s a quarter to four in the afternoon of this Saturday. Although I’m quite groggy due to having woken up at five in the morning to finish the second part of my new novel, now I’ll head to the location where the third scene is going to take place, so I can take notes. Thankfully the story is set where I actually live; I hate having to fake my impressions of a place I’ve never been in, even though you can go quite far with photographs and videos.

That’s all for now, I think. See ya.

The holidays are over in my country (they end later than in others). I’ve bought myself a new pair of VR glasses, my fourth over the years. The feeling of being immersed in a VR experience can’t be properly described in words. You forget it over time if you haven’t been at it. The brain gets deceived into believing that you’re truly walking in wide open spaces, and that a zombie is heading toward you. You reach with one hand to hold it in place while with your other you push a knife through its brain, and in the meantime you feel like you’re going to get bitten. Too bad VR hasn’t progressed far enough yet so that it’s more mainstream and the hardware less cumbersome. Part of the issue is that people simply don’t have enough space to play VR with the necessary leeway. Still, you can just fire up a ping pong match and play against a computer while striking the ball as if you were handling a real paddle, so that’s cool. The porn is also fantastic, of course, although I have the sort of female mind that gets turned on more by written erotica. I say that somewhat facetiously, but given that I grew up with barely any testosterone due to my pituitary tumor, the lack of testosterone during development likely made permanent changes to my brain.

Anyway, I suppose that the reason why I needed to write these words is that I found myself at the hospital cafeteria (I work at a hospital), holding a serrano ham sandwich in one hand, an ebook reader in the other, and I had to hold back tears, because getting through Cormac McCarthy’s The Passenger a second time has turned out to be an emotionally taxing task. That novel is about grief regardless of anything else that happens on the surface. It starts with the protagonist, Alicia Western’s bereaved brother Bobby, coming across a mystery through his work as a salvage diver, but that’s just an excuse for the main goal, that seems to be about exploring the fringes of human experience and knowledge. Grief is the bedrock of it all: there’s hardly a scene in which you don’t feel that Bobby is preventing himself from reminiscing about his dead sister, and whenever anyone brings her up, he’s usually moments away from leaving. And I feel Alicia’s presence buried under it all as if it speaks to something or someone else from my life, buried in a similar way.

Only in my late thirties I began to understand my complicated relationship with grief. I don’t process it well at all. Three of my cats died, and as part as my OCD, I get intrusive thoughts about them regularly. Those memories cause me cold aches in my chest, the sudden need to be left alone, every single time. I don’t even retain untainted memories of them. But there’s something deeper there, a missing presence that should have been there from the beginning but wasn’t. I recall feeling that way even as a child. The catalyst for me becoming even aware of the fact that I was grieving came when my subconscious suddenly compelled me to write the story Motocross Legend, Love of My Life, which became one of my favorite things that I’ve ever done. I’ve never had anyone like Izar Lizarraga in my life (if there had been and she had died, I wouldn’t be here, and if she had lived, I would have had better things to do than write these words). Sadly, I’ve never been in love in anything resembling a healthy way. I’ve had obsessions that tasted like love to me, but as in two people who love each other and want to be in a romantic relationship, never. Obviously I won’t in the future, as I don’t expect to ever be in a relationship again.

As it relates to McCarthy and his The Passenger, mainly the figure of Alicia Western, McCarthy achieved what I suppose is the usually unspoken goal of every writer: to haunt someone else with whatever has haunted you. But isn’t it a necessity of that very haunting, a “mind virus” that uses the host (a story) to pass itself into new hosts? Is it a good thing that when now I think of Alicia Western and her tragedy, my chest gets cold and tight, and my eyes watery? It feels more compelling than not feeling anything, for sure, but I don’t know if it’s precisely contributive to my survival as a human being. I haven’t forgotten the other stories that have haunted me, and I’m sure they’ll inhabit my depths for the rest of my life. If anything at all remains of me when I cross over into the dark, I’m sure they’ll be floating around in the mix. The question that comes to mind is, “So what?”

So what regarding anything we do, I suppose, about any legacy we may want to leave. Good luck leaving anything for the future in this civilization, where the “modern Westerners” are deliberately trampling over what came before. If they get their way, they’ll erase your legacy from the register. At the very least, they’ll appropriate and contaminate it. It doesn’t feel these days that there’s such a thing as “leaving a thing that matters.” It’s perhaps an odd thing for me to say, when McCarthy’s last book affected me this way, but I’m just a dude in Spain, completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

The young woman pictured is McCarthy’s real Alicia Western, named Augusta Britt:

She was an abused foster girl, sixteen or possibly fourteen, that McCarthy fell in love with when he was forty-one or so, during a period of his life in which he wore atrocious pants. And what I meant to bring up with this is that I don’t doubt for a moment that if McCarthy had the option to return back in time and spend his life with her, he would have done it, even if it meant sacrificing every word he ever wrote. Perhaps I’m sure of that because I would have. The arts are a substitute to what you can’t live.

For the last few months, ever since I finished writing my story about a motocross legend, I haven’t been compelled to lose myself in the creation of a story again. I mean it literally: my subconscious isn’t about that shit at the moment. Getting through the aforementioned story took a lot out of me. I suspect it tore out some festering parts that were part of the fuel that made me anxious to tell other stories in the past. I don’t know when I’ll return to this game, hopefully to finish my ongoing novel first. At this point of my life, I’m just drifting through it all, trying to hold on to whatever sense of fulfillment, or at least comfort, floats by.

I guess that’s all I needed to say today.

The following is an excerpt from a letter that McCarthy wrote to his muse (the inspiration for Alicia Western as well as many others):

I have to confess that in a way, I was hoping that I wouldn’t hear from you anymore. I have to confess too that there are times when I feel enormous resentment toward you. Baby, there was nothing wrong with our love. You just threw it away. I never hear that song I don’t start crying. I never got over those blue eyes. I make lists of places in the world to go and things to do now that I have no responsibilities, but everything is just empty.

As I mentioned in previous entries, parts of my brain, or maybe just my subconscious, have become fixated on a woman who killed herself in 1972. Tragic, but made more complicated by the fact that this woman, named Alicia Western, presumably never existed. It’s probably a conglomerate of women that Cormac McCarthy knew and loved. It’s possibly a personification of his own subconscious. In the last twenty or so years, he was a board member and senior fellow of the Santa Fe Institute, where he talked at length with local thinkers regarding his interest in the puzzle of the subconscious. McCarthy wrote an essay named The Kekulé Problem, that he even references indirectly in Stella Maris. An excerpt from the essay:

I’ve pointed out to some of my mathematical friends that the unconscious appears to be better at math than they are. My friend George Zweig calls this the Night Shift. Bear in mind that the unconscious has no pencil or notepad and certainly no eraser. That it does solve problems in mathematics is indisputable. How does it go about it? When I’ve suggested to my friends that it may well do it without using numbers, most of them thought—after a while—that this was a possibility. How, we dont know. Just as we dont know how it is that we manage to talk. If I am talking to you then I can hardly be crafting at the same time the sentences that are to follow what I am now saying. I am totally occupied in talking to you. Nor can some part of my mind be assembling these sentences and then saying them to me so that I can repeat them. Aside from the fact that I am busy this would be to evoke an endless regress. The truth is that there is a process here to which we have no access. It is a mystery opaque to total blackness.

Anyway, I’ve been wholly occupied mentally with this one female product of McCarthy’s subconscious. My own subconscious has a character that it reuses whenever such problems arise: a jaded, weary guy who can travel in time but only when he manages to care enough, always to save someone. I’ve written two stories protagonized by him. I never gave him a true name, as he’s what he does. For these last few days, as I lay in bed preparing to fall asleep, or as I walked around or waited in vehicles, usually heading to or coming from work, my mind was busy replaying vividly variations of the following scenario:

Alicia Western is lying in bed in her assigned room at the Stella Maris sanatorium. My time-traveling man shows up without having to open the door. Alicia, he says. Startled from her own reveries, Alicia sits up slowly, and gapes at the newcomer. No, I’m not one of your personages, your eidolons, my guy would say. I know that, she says. You aren’t the kind of real they are. How did you get in here? Not through the door, he would say. I appeared. Do you have any more initial questions? She says she doesn’t. Well then. I know your brother Bobby. You could say I’m one of his friends. No, you aren’t, Alicia would say. I met all of them. I’m sure that’s true, he would say. But when I met him, you were dead. That shuts her up. You see, he would continue, I met Bobby in the 2020s. By then, he had been living as a hermit in the Balearic Islands for a couple of decades. Rented or bought a small mill and made a hovel out of it. I met him on my travels, and we got to talking. I learned of you, of his regrets, of his constant guilt. He had imposed on himself a life-long sentence in solitary confinement for his part in your death. He told me that he felt the darkness approaching, and that he hoped the one thing he could bring into the dark was a mental picture of your face. I was around when he finally died of heartbreak. I got to rummage around his few possessions. Notebooks filled with memories and regrets. A few photos. By then I had managed to care enough to jump back in time and prevent this tragedy. I suppose you require some more proof. He pulls out a newspaper from his bag. This is a newspaper from January of next year, from the closest town, Hawthorn Falls. He hands the paper over to Alicia, who takes it with weak fingers. Check out page eighteen, he would say. She reads the news piece, about a patient at the sanatorium having walked into the woods deliberately on Christmas Eve, and her body having been found frozen. She was buried at the local cemetery. Alicia Western, probably 22 years of age. Alicia is stunned, but he continues. Maybe you could use some more concrete proof. He pulls out a yellowed, tear-stained letter from his bag. You’ve been busy writing your final letter to Bobby, haven’t you? But you’ve yet to finish it. Here you have the finished version, aged by the decades. Alicia silently takes out her unfinished letter, and compares them. As she reads her finished letter to the end, her hands tremble, and thick tears roll down her cheeks. Oh boy, he says. I hadn’t expected you to break down like this. Sorry, Alicia; I’m stranger that showed up in your room out of nowhere, but I’m going to hug you. She remains still as the man pats the back of her hair. You can let go. A bit later, he pulls back to look down at her face. Alicia, listen to me. Months from now, Bobby is going to wake up. A metal plate in his skull, screws in one leg, but he will make a full recovery. And he will find himself in a world where you chose to walk into the woods to die. Do you understand? Bobby bore that unbearable anguish and guilt for decades until it finally did him in. He understood, of course, that you, his sister, were the one. The only one he could ever love. But you were gone. There’s no point in living when the sole person who matters is dead, and yet he kept going. I came to the past to keep you alive, well-fed and healthy until your brother wakes up. I will to prevent you from killing yourself even if I have to zip-tie you. Do you understand? Alicia’s face would slowly regain its color. At some point, the man would retrieve from his bag a bunch of photos of Bobby. Alicia’s brother photographed a few years after his recovery. A decade later, when he worked as a salvage diver. A couple of photos during his exile. Don’t mind his haggard look, the man would say. Decades of anguish does that to someone. I’m sure he’ll look pretty proper once he ages along with you. Some time later, the man would retrieve a stack of notebooks from his bag, and hand them to Alicia. This is your brother’s production in exile. I’m afraid I read through all of it so I could retrace his steps. To understand this whole thing. I’m not you, but they make me cry and lose sleep. So you better take your time. Alicia opens one of the notebooks, and her expression twinges as she recognizes Bobby’s handwriting. She then looks pensive for a while. Suddenly her stomach growls. The man would say, You do look like you haven’t eaten properly since Bobby crashed. You’ve gotten almost anorexic. What would you prefer to eat? Alicia would sling her legs out of the bed, one palm against her tummy. The kitchen is closed for the night. Not food from here, Alicia, he would say. If you could eat anything in the world right now, what would it be? And please don’t say my grandmother’s cooking. That would be a real mess, having to interact with the old lady and convince her to cook for a stranger. I mean from like a restaurant. Alicia would say that she’d love some pasta from a restaurant she visited in Italy with Bobby. The man, after getting the details, would say, Just a moment. He would disappear from the room for a couple of seconds, only to reappear with a plate of steaming pasta in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. Alicia would be mesmerized. Some time later, as they both sat eating at the room’s desk, she would say, Tomorrow I’ll leave Stella Maris. Less eloquent now that a far dumber person than herself or McCarthy is dreaming her. I reckon that’s a good idea, the man would say. Where to? Alicia would smile softly. I’ll travel around for a few months until Bobby wakes up. See places. The man would produce a small button-like device from his jacket. Keep this: it’s an spatio-temporal locator. Whenever you need help, money, or even just company, at any hour of the day or night, press it for three seconds, and I’ll show up. Alicia takes it. The following morning, with her standing in the weak December morning sun in front of the Stella Maris sanatorium, Alicia would press the button. The guy would show up immediately. Alicia would say that she could use some company on the trip.

I imagine driving a rental car through an American expanse while explaining to Alicia the wonders of modern technology. The internet. Mobile phones. AI. He would say, I don’t know why I’m explaining it as if I have no proof. Here’s my phone. As Alicia fiddles with it, sliding her thumb over the screen, he’d teach her how to take photos with it, use the calculator, record audio. Does everything except make calls or connect to the internet. The infrastructure hasn’t been invented yet. Oh, by the way, how about listening to some music from the future? He would produce a couple of wireless earbuds. Alicia would sit huddled in the passenger seat, her face to the sunlight streaming through the window, Radiohead’s “Airbag” pouring into her ears.

I’m afraid you’ll get quite bored of our talks, the man would say. How so, Alicia would ask. I’m almost as mathematically illiterate as they come. Dyscalculia, they call it. Have trouble even with basic arithmetic. Alicia would burst out laughing. The man, amused, would say, I hope you’re laughing due to the irony. Alicia would wipe a tear, her lips stretched in a grin. I sought salvation in mathematics, only to be saved by someone who can barely operate numbers.

At some quaint town, in front of a boutique store, she would mention that she could use some clothes, but she’s short on cash. The man would produce a wad of fifty dollar bills and hand it over. Alicia would hold it as if ensuring he was alright with that. You’re just going to give me money, no questions asked? Yes, he would say. You can tell me what you need it for, if you want.

At some hotel room, on a laptop, the man would play movies that didn’t exist yet. Back to the Future. The Matrix. Fight Club. To keep her entertained. Curious about how she would react.

Months later, back in Italy, close to the time when the man knew that Bobby would wake up from his coma, he would be standing outside of the hospital room, looking in at Alicia as she held her brother’s hand. At the expected moment, Bobby’s hand would stir. Alicia, tears in her eyes, would glance back at the man, who would slip out sight with a smile on his lips.

The details vary during replays, but each brings comfort. While they last, I’m no longer myself, inhabiting a body in which I never felt right, living where and doing what I don’t want. If the course of my life has shown me anything is how little chance I have of altering fundamentally the things that I dislike the most about my existence, so all I can do is evade myself, lose my footing and sink into the mire of somewhere else, hopefully my subconscious, for however long I can.

This afternoon, I took a walk in the cold to the nearby woods, past the point of the one-lane road where, in my latest novella, the memorial stone for a motocross legend was installed. With my backpack slung around my shoulder, holding on to it because it tends to slide off, and my other hand holding the ebook reader, I progressed on my second read of Cormac McCarthy’s The Passenger. If you follow my blog (I doubt that there are more than two or three people in the world who do, but still), you may know that recently I had a dream about the character who haunts that novel, and who protagonizes the companion novel Stella Maris. Name’s Alicia Western, as unique a character as there rarely are. The Passenger starts with a passage describing how a hunter found her frozen body. Stella Maris is a series of transcripts of therapy sessions leading to Alicia’s suicide, which she had decided to carry on even before she participated in those sessions.

I don’t think I understand much about myself. I mostly follow what seems to resonate with my subconscious, which is the entity that I’m devoted to and mainly care about. I don’t know why, Alicia Western’s echo returned to haunt my brain again, and I went as far as creating a small series of four entries about it on this blog (link to the first). This walk got me thinking about why it matters to me.

Literally all the fiction that has gripped me the most in this stupid life are about females I wished to save. Manga: Oyasumi Punpun, by Inio Asano. Novels: Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, The Collector by John Fowles, and now The Passenger/Stella Maris by Cormac McCarthy. Then I realized that my latest lengthy work is also about the same thing (the aforementioned novella). What the fuck is going on with me?

You see, I don’t care much about people. More accurately, I’m not capable of caring much about people. I’m autistic, and clearly the parts of my brain that would allow a normal person to build ties with human beings don’t work properly. I’ve been accused of having very little empathy. I’ve had people getting injured in front of me, and the thought of helping them didn’t even cross my mind (and was berated for it). As a teenager, a girl that otherwise was attracted to me for whatever reason stopped talking to me after I failed to understand why a friend of hers would be inconsolable about her baby brother dying. Over time, I’ve developed a functional empathy, not thanks to my family. But when it comes to people, in the vast majority of circumstances, I truly do not care. Online, it’s somewhat different, because people I don’t deal with in person feel somewhat fictional.

You could think that such a thing would be paired with casually killing animals, but no: I have gotten out of my way to save ladybugs and spiders. When I was a hikikomori for a good while in my twenties (I don’t recall much about those periods), I cried when my father killed a spider that I was cool with. Whenever any of my cats died, it devastated me. I regularly have intrusive thoughts about that, and it ruins the moment. I am extremely sensitive, maybe even extraordinarily so, and to survive, I have had to develop a callus. But regarding people, it does nothing for me.

That’s not the case for fictional people. The unreal has always felt closer to home. I don’t think that there’s a reason in the sense that humans usually refer to reasons: it’s simply a by-product of how my brain was wired. Autism is caused by atypical pruning of neurological circuits, so naturally some things are going to end up fucked up. Sexually, I can’t get off to normal things: it’s all power imbalances. I’m more likely to cum to the notion of an older woman luring in a naive teenage boy and pegging him, than to sex between regular twenty-year-olds who love each other. That’s just how it is. Cormac McCarthy himself was revealed somewhat recently to have been in an intense relationship with a sixteen (possibly fourteen) year old abused runaway girl when he was forty-one or forty-two, and I thought, now that’s a man I can respect. Someone who doesn’t fall for the bullshit, who knows that the most valuable thing in the world is fertile youth, no matter how much older the male or female partner is. You can’t say such a thing in polite society, but that’s the case. Most if not all societies before our insane modern ones that spawned in the aftermath of World War II knew it. In any case, I’m a society of one myself. Society is just the symptom of a genetic population. People these days love bringing in other genetic populations and believing that the same society can be maintained. There’s no magic dirt: it’s all people. Norwegians in a small parcel of Africa would in a couple of generations produce the most successful society in the whole continent. That’s just how it is. This is common sense for me, but then again, I’m not a marxist.

Anyway, why does someone with an extremely limited ability to care about human beings end up haunted to this extent by stories about doomed females? When this morning I wrote the fourth and possibly final entry in my series Bringing Alicia Western back to life, which engages in a bit of AI-fueled fanfiction that sees Bobby Western and his doomed sister reuniting after his coma, thick tears rolled down my cheeks throughout writing it and throughout editing it. Hell, I’m tearing up just thinking about it. As I was rereading The Passenger, a cold void kept growing in my chest, to the extent that it felt that getting through this novel would be something akin to self-harm. Why, why does this happen to me?

I’ve never lost any person that I’ve remotely cared about to the extent of feeling bereaved afterwards. I’ve had “friends” kill themselves, OD, die in accidents. At the most, my best positive reaction was “well, that sucks.” I say positive, because at the news of one of them dying in an accident, I actually burst out laughing. When my grandfather, who believed himself to get along with me well, got bone cancer and lingered in bed for a year or so, I didn’t visit him. I didn’t even like the guy, but still. I see no point in funerals other than as opportunities for people that you usually never see to come bother you.

But if I’m honest with myself, ever since I was a child I’ve felt that something fundamental about this world wasn’t as it was supposed to be, that someone who was meant to be here didn’t make the cut. If I believed in reincarnation, that would get me thinking. I don’t believe in reincarnation, though. I think it’s just an accident in my neurological make-up, as every other weird aspect of my self. Regardless, I have felt throughout my life like one of those grown men who keep saying that they’re married even though their wives died decades ago. They can’t care properly about their surroundings and about other people, because the life they were meant to live has been ruined. I was supposed to be here with someone, but she’s missing. Just writing that made me tear up. I don’t know who that someone is supposed to be.

The one “person” I’ve truly cared the most about is my subconscious, which feels like a separate entity to me. The best moments of my life have been when I was so engaged in a dance with my subconscious that every day involved an outpouring of love, creating whatever it wished me to do. I’m always waiting for the next time she will knock on the rest of my brain and send me images that feel so important that she may as well have said, “This is what you need to do. Get to work.” When I don’t hear from her in a while, I start slipping into despair. Back when I bothered pretending I had any business dating people, I resented that the other person was taking time that I should have invested in my subconscious. It came with guilt, as if I were cheating. I don’t know if that’s the case for all or most other creatives. I say that, although I don’t consider myself a creative person, because I don’t do anything creative. I’m an analyst, an editor at best. What comes out of the depths of my brain, that’s not me.

There is a lack of agency. I’m writing this entry because something told me to write it, prodded me until I moved my fingers to its tune. Whether or not anyone else cares, or even reads these words, is of no concern to me. I don’t know if what I have written meant anything, or if the notion of meaning is simply a song we sing to ourselves.