Methuselah's Daughter

Musings of an immortal being

Monday, December 8

There is no good way to bring anything to an end for any endeavor will always leave a gap, an emptiness, when it is concluded and put to rest. This journal is no exception. I noted before that I launched it in order to test the waters and that I had not found things entirely to my liking, but bringing this to an end is only somewhat related to that revelation. I did indeed desire to learn what reaction, if any, my existence might elicit and in that the results were almost universally encouraging; however, by its very nature this journal cannot provide me with a deeper understanding of what I could expect should I publicly proclaim my existence in a more direct fashion. The Internet is too fast-paced and far too ephemeral to provide me with the certainty I had sought. I believe I knew this going in, but as an incremental step it was most valuable.

What have I learned? Most cryptically I have learned that which I needed to learn. It has always been apparent to me that this little exercise had far more to do with me than with the outside world. The reflection upon my past, the episodes I chose to share, and perhaps more importantly those I have chosen not to share, all led me to a certain place within myself, an understanding that has likely always been there, but that I never once visited with any seriousness. Until now. I understand now that this chameleon’s life I have been living is a loser’s game. I always knew I was angry; that the need to pick up, let go and move on was the source of a bitterness that colored my relationships and robbed me of the happiness I felt I had a right to. This sometimes erupted in bouts of truly embarrassing self-pity, and sometimes in an almost pathological misanthropy.

To those readers who have found me an entertaining raconteur with perhaps a hidden softness inside I can only say that had I been less circumspect in the tales I chose to tell you may well have been disgusted, perhaps even horrified. Three and one half millennia afforded ample opportunity to fall in to monstrous depravity: my hands are stained with the blood of innocents.

That is not so easy to admit, here in this space. It has been my existence in this little digital arena that has led me to this. I have so many entertaining and informative tales to tell; glimpses in to lives past and cultures remembered only by graves and refuse. But I have found that the good tales are no longer so easy to tell. The weight of my sin grows heavier with each carefully crafted, carefully neutered tale I tell. The murder of Clayton was a glimpse of that darker portion of myself, but even that was chosen because it afforded me the cover of a somewhat moral act. I dealt out death because it felt good to do so, but perhaps he deserved it, so perhaps it was not so terrible a thing to do. I tried again, describing my eight-year murderous rampage through the streets of Ostia and Rome, but I seem incapable of finding the words to make the horror of what I was in those days clear. I lack the courage to face it squarely.

I am a moral coward.

All of this- this journal, my stories, and this confession: it all comes back to Jeremy. He understood me, both the good and the bad. In the end it was he who set me upon the path I walk today. After Clayton, after feeling the shame that act brought to my heart whenever I thought of Jeremy I came to believe I might be standing at the cusp, at the point of something momentous. The world had already plunged deep in to a whirlwind of change and I was caught up in it, blown upon the bitter storm. Just as Jeremy had predicted in those final days before he passed away. And in the end he betrayed me for my own good. I am still unsure as to whether to forgive him for that. Time will tell.

Now it all makes sense to me. I have now an understanding I had despaired of ever achieving. I know what I want to do. I know what I am going to do.

I am going home.

I am going to make my stand. Watch for me, those of you who are young enough. In thirty, or forty, or perhaps fifty years it will come out- the questions, the little tabloid stories, the speculations. Then some enterprising journalist will decide it is time to rip the top off the charade and will dig deep in to my past. I am looking forward to seeing the expression on his face when he comes to the inescapable conclusion.

Life should become terribly interesting at that point.

I remain faithfully yours,
Zsallia Marieko

Thursday, December 4

Money is an odd thing. It is such a measure of power or worth, yet it is intrinsically nothing, particularly in the present day western world. The possession of monetary wealth is nothing more than a representation upon a digital ledger in some bank computer, yet it confers so much upon those who control it.

I am wealthy by any reasonable standard one might care to apply; yet I am powerless. I own my fate, but nothing more. Do not misunderstand- I believe that to own one’s fate is a precious thing, and I remember when (oh-so-very recently) this was not so, and it was the accumulation of money that initially made this possible. Yet when I calculate the sum total of the wealth I either own or control, that value is meaningless to me. I do not feel powerful regardless of what the numbers imply. I cannot relate to that sort of thing- it is an innate failing on my part.

I understand that money affords me freedom to ignore certain restraints. My apartment, for instance- I pay about six thousand dollars a month to call it home. I do not love it, it has no true hold on my affections- it is simply convenient to the places I like to visit, and I enjoy the view. Due to my account balance I may avail myself of this convenience. Six thousand dollars might seem a great sum, but it is meaningless to me- all it represents is a short walk to the rail station and an ocean view. I know that these things are desirable and hence command a high price, but how can that price be paid in something that has no intrinsic value?

I remember the first time I was sold for a handful of coins rather than bartered for real things that could be touched and measured- it was the first time I felt shame at my place in the world. I did not understand money then, and I still fail to fully comprehend it now. I understand that I need it. I comprehend how to earn it through labor or create it through investment. I understand its nature as fuel to the engines of capitalism, but when I attempt to put that knowledge in to some concrete form, to make it real, make it visceral so that I can feel the truth of it as I do other things, I fail.

I am sufficiently knowledgeable to manoeuvre within the framework defined by money, but I cannot believe in the basic precepts that make this possible.

This frustrates me. I cannot escape the notion that this is something I must overcome, and soon.