The clouds trudge across the sky like workers walking home. Light from the window falls onto the floor, heating the gray cat on the floor. The radio once again says, the weather is warm and sunny, and the cicadas continue to sing. There is a breeze coming through the window, and the curtains are like jellyfish. A door closes rather hard from down the hallway—someone has returned home. The cat makes an odd cat noise and turns over. She would get up and go somewhere else, but the patch of light is warm.
Who says that the apartment is not the universe and the cat is not humanity? We could easily find something better to do than relax in a patch of warmth, but we do not. Does that matter? There are other people in the world who will do something better than we will. One person cannot fix the world—there are billions of people in the world, and one out of a billion is near zero. However, one does not equal zero—all of these smaller numbers will add up to a billion in some way.
My head hurts.
I suppose I should get something done—I should take a walk. Today is hot, and there will be a thousand mosquitoes, but I should walk near the river today. The fog has risen and there is a light breeze, it will be a nice way to spend my evening instead of staring at the ceiling. When I get home, I suppose I can do something of use.
The river itself is quite small and the path next to it feels bad to step on, even with thick shoes, but it is quieter here than in the rest of the town. Trees grow over the river, shading it with branches and leaves.
Someone in a white shirt and long black pants is standing across the river and looking at me. What an odd person, still wearing the old school uniform—nobody has bothered with them since after that war long ago. Perhaps his father gave it to him and he’s happy with it.
He waves from across the river.
“Hello, friend,” he calls. “The efforts have been fruitful, the war will soon be over! Thank you for your work!”
He seems to be one of those nerds who’s obsessed with war and what it was like to live during war. What an idiot, he’ll probably enter the military later and cry over how different it is from the light novels he reads.
“You too, comrade,” I say, acting along.
He looks at me in confusion.
“Pardon me?” he replies. “Only propaganda—I mean, educational pamphlets speak like that.”
He’s one of the people who actually studies before LARPing[1]? I am impressed—that uniform looks good, too. If only he used that talent to study, then we wouldn’t have another war.
“Your cosplay looks good,” I call to him. “You sewed it well.”
It’s too clean to be old, he’s certainly talented.
“I’ll come over to you,” he says. “My throat hurts from calling you across the river.”
He steps into the river, and I wince because the dirt will be difficult to clean from his shoes. The river goes through his legs as he walks over.
It was like walking next to a good friend when we walked together down the path next to the river. We talked about things that were new (even though they were in history books for me), we talked about things that were old (that were sometimes suspiciously similar to things that were new), and I think we talked about the meaning of life for a little while.
Before we parted ways, he gave me an old notebook. It’s somewhat charred, and a couple pages are missing, but he still begged me to read it. The name Ivan Alexeyvich Bezhin is written on the inside of the front cover—I suppose this is his name. I realize that I forgot to ask his name.
I do not know if this Ivan Alexeyvich Bezhin lived after the war. I do not know if this Ivan Alexeyvich Bezhin did anything with his life after the war. However, he was a person who lived once upon a time, and I believe that you, reader, should read a page. I do not know whether Ivan Alexeyvich Bezhin wanted to be remembered forever or forgotten among the lives of everyone else who has lived, yet I think that he spoke the truth in some cases.
Besides, if he wanted to be forgotten forever, he would not have given me the notebook or bothered to record his thoughts.
[1] Live-Action Role-Playing
An Entry in Ivan Alexeyvich Bezhin’s Notebook
1 August
This war is pointless. The newspaper said that we are winning, but there are not many people around here anymore. People keep leaving, there are more and more empty houses without light or warmth in them every day. Doctor Dimitri Alexanderevich’s chimney has fallen in—he’s been gone for a long time now. I don’t know if I miss him.
I’m waiting for my best friend to send me an answer—summer is ending.
The weather is warm, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I ignore it and hope that it goes away, which it will—the winter will come to visit soon, time will continue walking towards some destination, and we can look at the sunflowers across the river again someday.
This war has made me stand back and think for a little bit in the silence left behind by the people who are gone. We should not forget what the past was like. We will repeat the same mistakes. We will lose good people again. It does not matter what language these people speak, what flag they lived under—all people will mourn as one for those who have died unfairly. Life is short. We must not spend this life mourning or fighting, we should be celebrating the joy of living together. It will be easier like this, it will be better like this—why have people not realized this? Why have we forgotten the countless warnings we were given? Why haven’t we put down our weapons and thrown away unjustified hatred?
Notebook and photographs by Sarah