Most people would say it's beautiful. I think I have lost the sense for that with the years. I don't see the landscape around me any more, I don't see the lake the lone mansion overlooks, I don't hear the wind whistling around the strange shapes of the old house.
I just sit here, in front of my antique mechanical typewriter, drowning in memories. The steady rhythm of clicking keys fills the room that is almost bursting with books whose titles I can hardly read in the flickering light. The silver chandelier is struggling to provide a dim glow, losing the fight against the overwhelming darkness.

It wasn't always like this. Lonely. Dark.
I remember times the house was full of people. They drove out here on the weekend, to get some distance from the city. They were happy. At least they are in my memories.
But as the years passed, they grew fewer and fewer. They had a life now, a family, a house in the south.
The last visitor left ages ago. I remember the door falling shut behind her, remember our long conversation by the fireplace. She left a single book behind. One of hundreds in my room, yet one that feels special. A plain black book with small golden letters spelling 'A Journey'. Nothing more. No author, no summary, no dedication. Just 'A Journey'.
I never read it. It feels like this book is the only thing left of her. My only connection to the outside world.

So now I spend my days writing. Writing about the universe, about god, about death, hope, love and desperation. Stacks of paper pile up high on the oak wood desk, dangerously close to the small flames of the chandelier, waiting patiently to be picked up, sorted, and brought into the room next door, my library as I like to call it, where they will stay until the end of times. Every pile has a sheet of paper with the title on top — mostly just single words, sometimes short sentences, written in the beautiful curly handwriting I practiced for so long.

They say you die twice. Once when you stop breathing and the second, a bit later on, when somebody mentions your name for the last time.
I keep asking myself what happens when the second comes before the first. But as the days pass on, I have yet to find an answer.
The last candle on the chandelier burned down hours ago. I don't even notice. I know the position of every key by heart and that's all I need. So I keep writing. Writing about everything. Storing all my thoughts away in the cabinet I call a library. I know the chances that someone will stumble upon my legacy are small, but that's not why I write.
I write to get things out. I write about everything.

I grab the fountain pen. This is going to be the last one. Carefully, I write the title in big letters. I choose red ink for this one. It's a special title. One that I thought about writing ever since she left. 'Creating the Unseen'.
I pull the last page out of the typewriter, square up the sheets, and wrap a broad red ribbon around the pack of paper.
After I come back from my short trip to the library, a small book catches my eye. It's directly opposed to my desk, sitting quietly on its shelf. I have been looking at it for ages while writing, grown so used to it that I didn't really notice it was there.
Small golden letters decorate its black cover — 'A Journey'.
Before I really know what happens, the book is in my hands and I sit in my armchair, leaned back, inhaling the smell of old times surrounding the book.
I guess it's time to let her go. I guess it's time to read.


Creating the Unseen

Welcome, lost wanderer, to this obscure little book. Welcome to the unseen. Whatever might bring you to this desolate place, I hope you will find what you are looking for within these pages.
Perhaps it is joy, perhaps knowledge, or — maybe — a shard of hidden beauty.
May this collection of my deepest thoughts be whatever you want it to be.
For as long as this book is out there, as long as my words resonate in your thoughts, I will never be truly gone.

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