Abandoned Fiction.

The Diary of Babel
(Translated from the lost book of Quintus Pascal)

I wake each evening laughing wildly (for no apparent reason, it seems), until I've reached the point of recognition- that, yes, now I've woken up; and immediately freeze and begin to tremble with embarrassment and fright. But, since I sleep alone, no one knows of this peculiar act. You may be wondering, "waking in the evening?" Yes, I sleep through the days of my life due to an ill habit I was never able to break as a child. So, I'm constantly going back and forth- waking in the morning (if ever I'm that lucky!), the afternoon, and ultimately (as it's been the past six months, or so it is written in my journal- I note almost everything there) the evenings. None of that explains the mad laughter I wake to (nor why I'm always drenched in sweat - a fact I gladly omit). Trying to recall the dream that proceeded waking is useless. Memories do not stick with me, due to a disease I contracted as a child. The name I can't remember- surprising, no?

So, this is the case. Uncontrollable laughter without any root. Whether or not this is of any importance escapes me, or matters little to me. I've never cared about what others have found interesting or "important."

Deserted rooms seem to increase the situation, I think. I live alone. Well, almost. My room is filled with books and music- at the moment, I'm enjoying Opus 132 by Beethoven and have been reading, quite irregularly, the poems of an obscure French poet. Yes, I've been called pretentious! Yet, that's of little importance also. How is all of this adding up? I ask this question and return to where my first sentence began. Remember, my memory is faulty. Ah, yes, laughter. It happened this evening when I rose, though, what has been sounding like laughter for the past six or so months, now sounds close to weeping. The two sound almost always the same to my ears. Laughter and crying. Do I wake up crying? That could explain the sweat. But, why do I cry, if that's actually what I'm doing?

Strange, considering I'm the happiest I've been in years! I think. Am I happy? It's irrelevant. Happiness is fleeting. They tiny little yellow bird I could never catch. The woman I could never love. Love? Little yellow bird? What is all this? What was it I was trying to say? The waking. Of course, the waking: laughter and tears. Did I mention I'm now staying in a Parisian hotel? Hotel Utrillo, after the manic painter. At least that's what it says under the painting on the wall. The colours are strange here. Everything is a yellow tint within the room.

So, once more, the room is yellow, a disgusting yellow, and I wake up either laughing or crying. This is leading nowhere. Where should it lead? It should lead to a steady conclusion. Let me return to the beginning and take notes. Then, perhaps I'll be able to calculate, if I'm able to, why this is happening and for how long.

Notes:

10.16: "Today, Madeleine left me. She says we no longer have that common touch between us. She says I'm better off with out her. Better alone. Better among the things..." She never finished her sentence. Just cried and ran off.

11.20: Finding strange notes around the house from a woman I've never met. They mention "love" and "forgetfulness." I can't understand them or why they make me ache from head to foot.

11.22: Came out of a foggy dream and woke in a hospital. Doctors entered and immediately proceeded to question me on certain things that one could clearly deduce was a botched suicide attempt. I was less than helpful in procuring answers to their questions. "But, who has tried to commit suicide and why am I here?"

1.09: Found pills in the cabinet with my name scribbled on it. A tiny note taped on each reads with a sense of urgency, "Take daily! They'll help you." It looks to be my hand writing. Unsure.

1.30: Moments full of loneliness. Feeling erratic. Nervous. Going to leave the country to see her (the woman who keeps writing to me. The woman who begins each letter with "We met almost five years ago, on a rainy French morning. I was nervous and you seemed lost. I wore my long green coat for you." And end with a similar sort of mantra, "Try remembering."

2.9: Paris. Cold and hungry. Alone. A note on the desk reads, "Go to date: 1.27. There you will find mention of a woman by the name of Allerga. You've come here to see her. If you turn a few pages back, you will notice that on 1.23, you wrote: Oh, how badly I'm in need some sort of tenderness. A glance. A touch. Something to fill the hollowness that grows daily. Allegra has asked me to come, if I can, to that place we lost one another. She's written the address. 50 Rue De Roi du Sicile. Finally, tenderness waits for my hand!"But, though the note appears to written recently, there is no mention of it in my diary. Nor is there mention of a time when I should be there waiting. The natural question is: when do I go? Should I wait each day until a woman approaches me with familiarity?

2.27: White hospital room. Blood splattered about my clothing. They speak a language my mind has trouble translating. Tired.

There's a piano playing from the window opposite mine. The room is yellow and my eyes hurt. They are raw from exhaustion from all the moments of refusal. "No, I won't sleep!" It's snowing and the piano is drifting in through the cracks between the windows. I'm alone. What did I want to say? I'm tired. I should sleep.

My notes don't seem to add up. I have to continually go over them to keep fresh, which of the two incidents (the abandonment and the failed attempt at suicide) could lead to such an uncontrolled act. Perhaps they are both responsible or maybe neither. I don't know. It's useless. I've never been a brilliant detective, nor will I be in the future.

I wake up crying, not laughing. At least from the notes from the days gone by, that's what I've concluded (or what has been confirmed by the woman staying next door- who has politely asked me to keep my "sobbing" to a whisper). My eyes are black. My skin is pale. And, now I know, I no longer want to know. I'll rid myself of this book and exist as if not existing. Waking with tears and living with the cloud of forgetfulness. I'll feel for this book because it is the daily habit my skin's picked up. But, after a while, the cloud will consume the habit. Then, all will be nothing and the same as everything.

"I've seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker and in short, I was afraid."