I don't know where I am. I feel neither heat nor cold — not even my own body. Numb, like a stone by the roadside, where everything around flows, and yet, it remains unchanged.
Though I possess nothing — no belongings, no assets, not even a body — I still hold posthumous memories, much like a certain character from a renowned Brazilian author.
I believe I should leave my dedication:
"To the first idle soul who listens to my thoughts, I dedicate, as a nostalgic keepsake, these posthumous memories."
— That's a good dedication — remarked an unfamiliar voice.
It had a mysterious resonance, almost magnetic — the kind of voice that compels anyone who hears it; unmistakably masculine, like those voices you hear on the radio.
— Who are you? — I asked, with urgency. — And why am I hearing voices in my head now? Have I finally gone mad? — I added.
— Who isn't a little mad these days? My name isn't important, but if you insist... You may call me João, "The Nobody" — he replied, in a light-hearted tone.
I was speechless before the absurdity of the situation, but forced myself to speak:
— João isn't your name, is it? Couldn't you think of something more generic? — I asked.
— My identity is a complete axiom; there's no real need to know me or even to introduce myself. I'll be brief: you are dead. And this place where you now find yourself... is the void — my domain.
— I see. It's quite a shock to discover I'm dead — I replied sarcastically. — If your domain is the void, then mine must be nothingness — for I possess nothing. Everything that once mattered vanished the moment I died. What's left behind no longer matters, since there's nothing I can do about it.
— Bring the scrolls! We've got ourselves a philosopher! — João exclaimed, dripping with irony. — My dear Philosopher of Nothing, master of eloquence, your rhetoric is worthy of Cicero... Shame there are no prizes for your gilded tongue.
— I'm honored by your regard — I retorted.
— Careful now, excessive humility sounds a lot like arrogance.
— And dragging out an obvious matter sounds like stupidity to me — I cut him off.
— Enough with the pointless remarks. You — philosopher, poet, or whatever title you fancy — will be sent to a new life. Another chance to become a better person... or a worse one. That's your problem.
— And... where am I going? — I asked, utterly unenthusiastic.
— Despite your innate disinterest... you are an interesting man. Look.
Everything turned into light.
And, in the very next instant, I saw myself — from the outside.
Long black hair — perhaps out of neglect, or perhaps because it suited me. Bronze skin. A burdened expression, shaped by the fleeting thoughts that always haunted me.
The scene was grotesque, miserable, pathetic. My room — or what was left of it. Destroyed. Traces of rage were etched into shattered furniture, torn books, ripped papers. Chaos. Collapse.
At the center... me.
Drunk.
Disfigured — not in appearance, but in essence. A man — whatever that means — hunched over a stained sheet of paper, scribbling... something. Or everything.
— Here we have a rather common beast nowadays — João commented, in a tone oscillating between mockery and a strange melancholy.
— This is what happens when one loses a part of oneself — I replied, not knowing whether I was speaking of him, of me, or of anyone at all.
— What did you write? — asked the broadcaster, now less ironic — almost... curious.
— Longing — I answered.
On the paper, it read:
"I cling to the memory of your touch.
I feel the warmth of your body lingering in my fleeting thoughts, and in deep longing, your absence keeps me company."
Silence.
— Beautiful... — João finally broke the quiet. — Never imagined that a beast could write with such delicacy. Seems you've been through some rough times, poet.
— I am neither beast... nor poet. — My voice was but a whisper. — I've been nothing since I died. — I paused. — And my death did not occur the moment I left life... but the very moment I lost it.
— One dies twice: first in flesh, then in name. You were already dead in life... Now, in death, you have a chance at a new life.
— A new life? I've felt everything — I've dreamed, I've loved, and I've faded... What is there left to seek? A new pain? A new disappointment? Or perhaps death — in its essence, as infinite as it is finite? — I asked.
— Then why not fill the void with life? If your domain is nothingness... then fill it with everything. Your feelings haven't faded. Life goes beyond existence — beyond you — beyond death. You think... therefore, you are. Don't let pain be man's — or better yet, the poet's — own wolf.