Old Shoes

Am I the only one who thinks that the sight of old shoes so often gives way to an indistinguishable sense of pity? There's nothing else quite like it in this world, at least for me, and it don't matter much what kind of shoes they just so happen to be, whether they be simple or strange, whether they were worn by an old person or young, someone rich or someone poor, or even by no one that I ever saw, they can just as well be abandoned on the side of the road or along the dusty train tracks. It's just that when I see a sad, lonely person I can't help to look at their shoes and feel so damn sorry, and I don't even know why... They're just these weird cloth and plastic things whereon a person stands and with which they then walk through this world. I have heard it said that it's the shoes that make the entire outfit, meaning that no matter how well-dressed a person is, if the shoes are old and ugly it instantly ruins their whole style, and I suppose it's true but I see it as a little bit more than that. It doesn't matter what the shoes say in terms of appearance because they only say one thing to me, they say, here stands someone in this world, or rather, when the shoes are old and lost, they say, here once stood someone, someone who no longer stands in this world... So what am I even saying? Am I saying that our shoes are our graves? Am I saying that as we walk and our shoes get old and rotten with the grime and filth of this world then likewise so do we? Am I saying that all the scratches and tears and tatters they gather along the way are proof of our long journey, not entirely unlike the marks and spots and wrinkles all over our bodies? And in this moment of doubt, in which I turn to you, my Lord, why do I wonder about all of this weird and vain and pretentious stuff? And am I really saying all of this to you no less, the latchet of whose shoes I'm not worthy to unloose? Well, I suppose I am, for the third and final time in this here book.

I'm sure you've noticed by now that when a man dies life leaves him with the very same spasm with which it found him. Give up the ghost, they call it. It's all so sudden it almost makes you question how there was any life at all there in the first place. And it's almost funny how one minute there's a living man walking around, guarding the same thoughts and desires we all have, with the same vain projections and childish dreams for the future, with every little thing that makes us human, but then after one false step he becomes a red stain over the pavement, and you just know the paramedics will soon arrive to remove a dead man's shoes. It more than makes me sad, it makes me dumb and mute, it makes me see death itself as an accident entirely as pointless as is all life, and even if all death has to be inevitable, couldn't it at least have been honorable, even a little? Couldn't we all die in our beds, after one last and loving goodbye, and with some sense of dignity, however delusional it might be? Fine, I know your death wasn't particularly dignified, not in the traditional sense, I suppose, but it was meaningful. My death likely won't be, especially because nothing else in my life ever was, and because the deaths of so many before me sure weren't pretty neither I have no call to ask for mine to be any different. There was no sense to any of them, they were just transitions from one state of matter to another, they were just like turning off a light switch in a damp hallway. And what about when the mind goes before the body, is there anything left?... Incidentally, have you ever seen what happens if you pour water on a computer? I'm kinda assuming you haven't. The machine doesn't necessarily die immediately. First it becomes very slow and strange, images change size and color, and I almost wanna say they even change texture too, and memories are no longer there, or then quite simply they can no longer be accessed. The outer shell of the machine is still there, seemingly forever, but the inner workings are soon beyond repair. And only then does it shut off forever. Is that very different from the brain death of a human being? Are we all that different from these machines? If we aren't then I'm not finding any meaningful differences, and the vain words I can now think of are just some more of the same old illusions and strange things we maybe ought not to have. If love separates a man from a machine then maybe we shouldn't have love, it's a bizarre construction, it's a myth nature invented to keep us hooked, thereby matching our wonderfully made biological works with our fearfully made sense of self-awareness. So maybe we shouldn't have any of that, we shouldn't even want to want it, and yet we all desperately do, we simply can't help wanting to exist, or at least most of us anyway. And the thought of a meaningless death, of suddenly becoming just a piece of meat, it's all so overwhelming I can't think of anything else. And it's not just in my head anymore, it's all around me... Death, where is thy sting? Yeah, right...

One day I will die, and yet I'll never die. The world only began when I became self-aware, when I realized I existed and saw it for the very first time. And so on the day I die the world will cease to exist once more. It will be just like your three days except they'll never end. From that day on I won't be around anymore, I'll be as I am now, fairly empty and alone but without realizing that I'm empty and alone. And in all this mess, when life is suffering and when you aren't around to care, why shouldn't we just get it all over with? Why all the constant gambling? Why shouldn't I just end my life now because it will one day end anyway? People's initial reaction is disgust at the idea, they have an absolute repulsion for death and an unfailing love of life. They'll always say yes to life even if it comes with a plentiful harvest of suffering, because when it comes to suffering the harvest is indeed great but the harvesters are greater... But that's just not me, in all my nausea I want neither, it's all too vain and all too pointless, and before long I'll be dead. So again, why not just be done with it? Why later rather than sooner? Still, after the initial reaction other people might indeed ask the very opposite, they might ask, why not continue? Because between life and nothingness it's always better to have some life, no matter how brief. There's no point in taking steps to end what will inevitably end on its own. Just enjoy the ride, buddy! But that's wholly contingent on whether or not the ride is any good, isn't it? It's not so fun when you're dizzy and throwing up or you've shattered your front teeth on the carousel railings. And thus here I am, all alone, even philosophically too. On one side I see people so strong in their acceptance of suffering that saying yes to life is to them a big non-negotiable, it's something they'll always do, and proudly so, they'll boast in it for they've come to believe that they are dead to death. But they don't quite seem to contend themselves with some of the same demons as I do, not really. And in my worse moments I want to show them, oh boy, do I want to show them just how miserable this world can be, I wanna go into lots of detail, I wanna tell them stories, I wanna show them true evil contained within a single human being, only for it to then be unleashed unto the world with the casual violence of that same being, a monster who was once an innocent baby... But then on the other side I see people who do contend themselves with the same demons, at least in principle, but in their plastic castles they can't quite see just how meaningless life can truly be when you look at it from the dungeons. To them I wanna do more of the same as before, but I also want to prove to them, categorically, that if you aren't around, then everything is permissible. I want to prove to them that no fancy philosophical argument ever beats the bullet. So if I were to pick a side here, where would I go? I can't say my life has been absolutely marked by suffering, I'd be lying to you if I said so, and I'd be insulting people who suffered far greater pains than mine. But then again, I can't quite say it's all been green pastures and still waters for poor me... On the other hand, the nasty thoughts won't leave me, I just can't shake them, not with the same ease with which people around me seem to do so and then promptly move on. Because a world where one innocent life suffered unpunished evil is a world that makes no sense, that is unless you're around to make it right in the end. At this point it's either you or nothing, and you know how familiar I am with nothing to settle for it I have to.

But I don't know if you're around, and when I refer to you directly I might be doing so out of sheer madness, or at the very least out of a momentary lapse of reason. And to be honest, I don't know why I do anything anymore... As summer arrives I resume my walks, and just like last summer I've now gotten accustomed to visiting your old house. It's just funny to notice how a previously strange path soon becomes familiar, and more than that, it becomes cozy... And so I begin to miss those same sidewalks, those same fresh shades under the trees, that same stone bench, the most distant one, and of course, that house itself. It all begs me to recall this one sunny sunday afternoon when, for the first time since I resumed my brief travels, I saw people huddled around that house. So I sat on my favorite bench, there in the distance, just watching, waiting to find out what they were up to. In my ever-constant daydreams I even imagined one of them would approach me, sorta ask me what I'm up to and whatnot, and I like to think shyness would flee from me as I'd casually say that I was just sitting there, enjoying the sun, looking up at the cross and wondering what it's all about. It didn't happen of course, you know it didn't, to me nothing good ever did. Still, I wasn't entirely alone... There was a butterfly there, blissfully flying around me, but at times she would also rest on the bench, flicking her black wings with an orange dot as if waving at someone she was saving a seat for. I even looked at whoever passed me by and I wondered if they'd like to join me, I went so far as to look around and imagine someone might walk right up to me and ask why many a sunday do I sit on that bench and stare at that house. That would have meant someone else knows me, someone sees me sitting there on what I like to call my secret spot, someone knows I'm alone and that I'd much rather not be. But that person would never be you, would it? You're not around anymore, and yet those people waited for you, and I still wait for them. So is it all madness? It is, isn't it?... Eventually all I feel is the heat, the scorching sun on my neck, and the sharp edges of the bench on the palms of my hands, and the weight on my shoulders, and the coil of my spine, and the big nothing of my soul. It really is madness, as is all feeling, all knowledge, and all faith. In those moments I realize you're not really there, and I'm even stupider than those stupid people for waiting around... I despise a lack of punctuality, even yours. So come quickly, hurry up about it or I'll walk.

Then again it just might be that at this point I don't know what to expect. As I sat there and I watched those people, imagining a day in their lives, imagining the sequence of events that led them to gather there, under the shade of your house on a sunday afternoon, I ended up not seeing anything else, and in my loneliness I'd often glance at my wristwatch as if I was waiting for a friend. If that friend wasn't meant to be you then it just as well might have been someone else, someone who on a nice sunday afternoon had nothing better to do than to be there, with no one better than me. I'd almost want that someone to invite me inside... But I didn't bring my book, I'd say facetiously. Don't worry, son, we'll lend you one, they'd reply with a sly smile. But I have no faith, I don't seek after God, no, not at all... I'm sure we'll find some faith inside, they'd say, full of hope, and of lots of faith too... And to that I suppose I'd have no answer. Maybe I'd join them, I'd greet them and shake their hands. And I can already feel the cool air inside, like the stones themselves spring forth ancient water. And if there's no meaning there there's no meaning anywhere. But as soon as I speak of meaning my memory vanishes... I'm no longer inside that house, I'm now outside my own home, walking my old dog through the tall grass. Eventually he got tired and sat down, just for a little while. He had turned his back to me, almost as if I was in a dream, one of those dreams where we approach someone we know but we wake up just before that someone turns around... So he just sat there, in the tall grass, staring out into the distance at the end of a warm sunny day, though ever so slightly cloudy. I approached him, I petted him, and though he felt my presence he kinda ignored me, he seemingly preferred to be alone for a moment. My voice trembled as I called his name, and as I hunched over to him I wanted to love him and tell him to fight back, to never stand down, to rage against death with the same defiance with which he was born. I wanted him to stop looking at the nothing all around us, almost as if he was seeing something beyond, and I wanted him to look at me instead, and at the grass and the dirt, and the trees and the street, and the air and the wind, and all the good memories around us... But he didn't feel like listening to me, he was too tired to be raging, so he just felt like resting for a little while, alone and proud and dignified... And my dog didn't die on that day, though he has died since. At the end of that day he was still with me, he slept in my bed like he owned it. But I died on that day, or at least a little part of me did. I let him have his moment in the tall grass until I had to carry him back home, and when he perked up a bit I thought of how I absolutely could not leave him but that he had to leave me, and that's how it should be because I'm stronger. But am I really? Can I face death with more dignity than an old dog? Can I sit on the grass for a little while just to rest and to admire the world, without any ugly thoughts going through my weary head? No, no I can't, and thus my old dog was stronger than me, and much more loving too. But love is something I've never been worthy of... Of all love am I unworthy, of my father's love, my mother's love, my grandmother's love, my dog's love... and your love... If your love was with me you'd never have left me, even with the same ease with which my best friend left me.

No matter, let all things stay as they are. I have been long-suffering because I have been the cause of a whole lot of suffering. If the world is to be without bad things then it is to be without me. I shouldn't be around for this, no, not anymore... But I suppose I'll hang on, I have to. And summer will continue, this new summer that my best friend will never see. But I will see it, and as I walk around in these old shoes, the same with which I walked my dog so many times before, I'll have to see things all too differently. I have to see this world as beautiful, for it really can be beautiful too, and in all things I have to remember the good times. Because while I wore these old shoes on the day my dog died, and because I stared at them as I paced back and forth like an absolute fool waiting for his final moment, I'll always remember that bad day, but likewise did I wear them on too many happy days as well. And now I can't shake this feeling that avoiding one bad day isn't worth losing a thousand good ones, I just don't wanna agree with this damned arithmetic anymore. Because none of this matters, and there won't be any bad days or bad places anymore, because wherever we stand in love it will always be holy ground. And I have to believe that love is everywhere, in someone who has walked the world in love, so freely giving it, such as yourself, or in someone who has wandered aimlessly, so fully needing it, such as myself. And Lord, I do need it... I know just past your house is the grave, and as I walk beside its pearly white wall I look up at the crosses and I see you there, with your back turned to me, just like my dog did... You face the dead though you said you weren't meant to be for the dead, but for the living. So why don't you face me instead? Why don't you turn around when I walk past you? Because if you did, if I walked past that wall one sunny afternoon and saw you turned around to face me I'd call it a miracle, I'd call it my road to Damascus and I'd love you. But that's just so petty, isn't it? A stone cross turning around on its own? Would that be the extent of your power? I guess that's what they mean by not tempting you, but no matter, because it's not the extent of your power I wanna see, it's the extent of your love. And yet I don't believe, not even enough to ask for help with my unbelief. In all things I am found lacking, the water I drink leaves me in perpetual thirst, and the well of my soul is so dark that there's nothing to draw with. I'm a lost cause, and even if your love is so vast it still doesn't quite reach me. So then would I have to be the one to take the first step? Would I have to, for once in my old life, move forward in love? If so then I don't know how... No, I don't think I ever did.

So of all the death, of all the suffering, of all the roads that lead to all manner of evil, of all the places in this world whereon someone has killed and someone has died, of all the cold stones and marble and cement, and of all the dirt and sand and tall grass, of all the places in this world where bad things happened, where people walked on by in their old shoes, in all those places where I find all bad things, I have to also find love. For wherever people abound, love abounds there too... It has to be there, otherwise it's not anywhere. And I suppose if I had seen you, you who have worn the oldest of old shoes, I think I would have wholly pitied you, and loved you... So who else can I love in a likewise similar moment? Well, if my little theory is correct I could love everyone, I could love everyone who aged their shoes by walking through this world of ours in loving-kindness, or even in aimless sin, making up this movement we call life. For in all things life is movement, in all things the world is what happens, and you happen in the world every time we move and live in love... So here's to anyone who's fallen along the way, here's to anyone whose shoes now bear the marks of all their days in this world, the marks of having existed on this day and that day and every single day of our lives, the marks of suffering which are the perpetual proofs of our existence. And because nobody moves except for somebody else, our existence is forever loving. But love is illusive, it is slow as it is swift, and for that reason it so consistently passed me by... But no more, because love is no longer passing from here to there and to here again, love is now everywhere. I have to surrender to the belief that of all the places in this world where a lot of suffering happened, much more love happened there too... And so wherever I walk now from this day forward, let me walk in love until the day my shoes are so old I can't walk no more. And on that day, on my dying day, I want to look somewhere, anywhere and nowhere, just like my best friend once did, so that I can see the world I will soon leave, with all the love I left behind me.

May 22, 2021

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“Shoes” by Vincent Van Gogh

This has been text number 396 from Nostos. The book is a collection of four hundred texts, most of which are written in portuguese, while only twenty-one of which are written in english. As of today, all twenty-one have been published here, in full.

You can find out more about the book here.