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I pieced together the crumpled and torn lace of my memories and realized what a fool I was.
I thought this wouldn’t be our last meeting and that this wouldn’t be our final day together. I believed there was no problem with feeling. I knew it was perfectly normal to feel what had become familiar to me regarding him.
I was counting on the future. I flowed with the passage of time, yet I knew everything in advance, which led directly to disappointment.
The feelings that washed over me when I looked at him were akin to what I understood from countless descriptions of the sensation after a first kiss between people.
When, deep within your flawed shell, a surge of oxytocin and serotonin occurs in your very organs, and all you can think about is what can be done to make that feeling last as long as possible.
I studied this incredible specimen of the human race for hours. I had been in his head so often that I knew all his hidden secrets. He allowed me to help him: when he was very tired, I gave him rest; when he was on the verge of anger, I calmed his mind. I enjoyed watching how, under certain circumstances, I would suddenly appear beside him while he worked, and then he could no longer return to those pages that remained unfinished. At times, my presence was downright detrimental to his art, and I didn’t blame myself for occasionally allowing myself to come between him and his work.
The only thing I couldn’t influence was the eternity of feelings. It felt unfair. I knew every move he made, every habit, every little detail of his work. I loved his form, despite my deep aversion to human flesh—ever uncomfortable, sweaty, and clumsy.
Sometimes my presence in his body crossed the boundaries of what was permissible, and new scrapes and bruises would appear on him. I had to remind myself that people are such strange creatures. But I loved. Not all people, just him. All those little details—limbs like ears, nose, hair, eyes... and six fingers! How I loved those six fingers on each hand, how I adored that anomaly fate had gifted him! He had six—I had four. Together, that made twenty exactly. I sighed. I realized I loved all his components. Did I truly love him? What do fingers have to do with it?
Yet whether I understand or not, any terrible truth has long nestled in the very core of our connection and friendship.
The song we sang together sometimes returns to me in memories of that strangely beautiful evening when Ford, drunk to the point of oblivion, acted quite foolishly. He couldn’t remember how one action followed another. But for some inexplicable reason, I remember everything to this day, even though I lied to him, saying otherwise. Perhaps the reason is quite obvious—it wasn’t that long ago. At least, that’s how it seems to me. Be that as it may, I read the lyrics of the song and memorized them well.
Our unfortunate and wretched friendship ended for me in death and disgrace, yet the memory of our past attachment often awakens within me, and it saddens me to think that one day hatred, bitterness, and contempt will take the place in my heart that once belonged to love.
You were drawn to the gutter, to the creatures that dwelled there. That became the source of the troubles that led you to seek my help, and I, so foolishly, by the world’s rational standards, out of pity and, of course, kindness, took it upon myself to help you.
Our connection was akin to an eternal moral choice, a strange antithesis, and a profound opposition. If we were characters in a literary work, we would embody the image of the "superfluous man."
If we were chess pieces, we would be the king and rook, constantly playing by our own rules, swapping places and castling repeatedly, as we were unable to move forward. In chess, each side can only castle once per game. Yet we were allies, standing on the same side of the board. So why, in the end, did we find ourselves on opposite sides of the shared chessboard, Fordsy?
“Perhaps our fate was predetermined, and we, like the hands of a clock, followed our trajectories, inevitably intersecting and diverging again. We built castles in the air, hoping to find peace in chaos, but our paths, like parallel lines, never converged at a single point. And now, looking back, I see how every move we made, every castling we performed, was an attempt to maintain balance in a world devoid of it. We became reflections of each other, silent witnesses to our own downfall.”
Muse, Muse, my Muse... That’s how he called me, whether I was there or not. Even in his thoughts, he addressed me with that tender nickname, knowing it pleased me. When he spoke my name, it flowed like a melody into his own consciousness, filling his heart with quiet joy and tranquility.
I loved to praise him. He was an extraordinarily intelligent and educated man, a rare phenomenon in this world that sparsely scatters its gifts. At times, our conversations were free and light, like a bird in this universe on a gentle breeze, and he always radiated joy when he heard kind words about his achievements. His smile, like a flash of sunlight, was the response to my compliments. And again, he called me his Muse, as if any answer to that nickname was the key to his soul.
How little some people need to become attached. One kind word, one sincere compliment, and they weave themselves into the threads of our fate, becoming an integral part of life.
Human touch. I desperately needed it, and that is an undeniable truth. No one had ever touched me before, and I doubted I would ever allow someone to do so. But I was ready to melt under the influence of those dry, sometimes rough hands from work.
When he would habitually take my wrist and look deeply into my eye, I was happy. However, for some inexplicable reason, he would abruptly withdraw. And I would never want to know the reason why.
But now I realize that the half-hour you devoted to your studies meant more to you than entire days spent with me, Ford.
For a scholar, weakness is a crime, especially if it paralyzes the mind. Will is the foundation of personality, and your will was completely subordinated to mine.
Your deep attachment to me, your pity for my temperament, your infamous good-naturedness and inability to hold a grudge, which were so characteristic of you at that time, allowed me to possess you.
You found strange comfort in enduring my little jabs. Even when my demands and expectations became increasingly reckless, you always yielded to me, as one would expect. I knew that by throwing a fit, I would get my way, and sometimes, without realizing it, I would go to unacceptable extremes in my rudeness. In the end, I no longer understood what exactly I was trying to achieve from you.
Having seized your talent, your will, your state of mind, I, in the blindness of my insatiable greed, sought to take everything from you. Unwittingly, you allowed this change to leave a permanent and detrimental mark on your character. You let me undermine the strength of your character, and thus it became a habit, which turned out to be a mistake for you.
Of course, you should have gotten rid of me. Of course, you should have shaken me out of your life like people shake out a stinging insect from their clothes.
In all relationships, each person is forced to seek their own path, their own course of action. In your relationship with me, there was a painful choice: either give in to yourself or turn away from me. There was no other way out. Although, it’s not to say that the second choice was a wise one.
I even remember such foolish moments from the very beginning of our journey, like when we lay on the grass in late spring, looking up at the sky, studying it so intently as if we could see each other there, when we only needed to shift our gaze. But we, like kings placed in checkmate, made neither a step nor any other movement. We were silent, like statues of stone, though to me, you had always been gold.
When I was absent for an extended period, you thought a lot and gradually began to realize the destructive nature of my influence. And then you started to wonder: am I really so corrupt, so ruthlessly destructive not only to others but to yourself as well?
Believe me, I saw all your notes, all the thoughts and poems addressed to me:
“Pity, old attachment, fear of breaking a long-standing bond, and even simple humanity—let all this serve as justification for why I repeatedly agreed to explain myself to him.”
You wrote this, and the rare, foolish tears flowed down your cheeks and stubble, but the joy of seeing me was so sincere each time that, like a gentle, guilty child, you took my hand and genuinely confessed, forgetting the bitterness you had poured into your letters just a few minutes earlier.
“I am doomed to live in such torment that I can only remember our attachment as a prelude to endless variations of agonizing longing, echoing daily. No, moreover, it is the root cause of everything. As if my life has always been a true Symphony of Suffering, moving in rhythmic flow towards resolution with the inevitability characteristic of the interpretation of great themes in art.”
Every conversation we had, every day spent together felt like a memory of something long lost but infinitely dear. You, like a weary traveler seeking refuge in a storm, looked to me for answers that perhaps never existed. And each time, we began this painful cycle anew, where feelings were both our chains and our freedom.
With a partner like you, every day was new for me. Not because we spent our time in unusual ways, but because being with you, as you, I discovered something new.
You were essential to me. And I knew that you needed me. But our attachment was different, which turned it into something destructive.
Initially, I respected you solely as an outstanding scientist and writer, an author of articles. I remembered that Sixer who spent entire nights at the table, sometimes stretching to ease his back. I recall how I would scold you from somewhere behind, saying that if you sat for just one more minute, you would lose all the strength of your still young age at that time. I felt nothing but, as I have already written, respect and quiet dislike, for at times you seemed to me the very definition of an idiot, and no IQ tests would have allowed you to prove otherwise.
You needed me in those days as an assistant, clearly seeing in me something divine, some kind of deity, the All-Seeing Eye, the Luminous Delta... You truly believed that I would do a lot, even much, for you. And so it happened.
Time went by, and when you began to show me empathy, to express not just some scientific interest but to try to talk about mundane and everyday things—I was astonished. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to hit you on the forehead to make you stop, but for some reason, something held me back, and I responded like any normal being in such a situation. Each time, our conversations grew longer; you learned something new about me, and I... well, I began to see you as a greater part of my life.
For a long time, there was no one who bestowed such gifts upon me in the form of attention and presents in the shape of poems or long conversations where we spoke whatever came to mind.
Thoughts crossed my mind that you might be doing all this for your own benefit, but I was convinced otherwise when you didn't even notice it.
I wanted more; I wanted to take all your attention, I needed your words, I needed that tender nickname you lovingly assigned to me...
But you were beginning to realize something.
Exactly what I would have never wanted to know.
You knew; you remembered that we were supposed to do the work together, but it was going in the wrong direction. You saw that I was trying to stay closer to you more and more often. I wandered through your mind; we met in dreams every night—I was always with you, I often was you.
And it was a harmful influence. You began to realize it; you gradually started to reject it... but I didn't want to let you.
Now, as I write this message, I realize what a great sin I committed. I wonder if you have forgiven me all this time... If there are indeed sins that can be forgiven.
And I always loved everything you wrote for me, Ford. Even the last thing I was able to read.
"I gaze upon the portraits old;
(You cannot see, but trust the told):
A shame, no light! What worthless trash.
Deaf nonsense, all disgrace and clash.
Illusion. Rest? A cruel charade.
Perhaps it’s not for us, this trade —
(I read the notes from days of yore):
"These risks bring not joy anymore."
"You know me better than I do,
My other half, my heart’s true hue!
My guide, my path... If I adore
You so, and love you evermore.
To sleep, awake — then start anew;
I see no night that’s bright without you.
Oh Light, oh God, my Lord so grand!
How joyful I am to hold your hand!
You’re light in dark, a burden blessed,
A joy, a grief, perhaps a jest,
Believe me: I can guard with care
This precious time from all despair.
And hundreds of clouds, and verses bright,
I’ll match them all against your light.
And silence, peace within the night...
My Muse, your name’s my heart’s delight."