Published in Issue #27 of The Flying Dutchman.
I don’t often think about the Roman Empire. This may be because I am not a man.
There is always a space in my mind reserved for the Greeks, gods and heroes alike, but the only Roman-Empire-related thought that frequents my consciousness is the image of a set of beautifully designed history books on the Empire’s history: on the spine of each book in the set, a Roman column shows the state of the empire that the specific book covers—a whole and proudly upright column on the first, crumbling cracks for the last. Perhaps it says something about my deficit in masculinity that my attention is not on the gloriously bloody history of men and their empires, but instead on the frayed design that decorates it—alas, I am not in charge of where my attention goes. I am grateful that I have any at all.
I pay attention to many things. It is hard not to: there are so many things to think about, things about as important as the fate of the universe and about as trivial as a dandelion swaying in the rain, things as fleeting as the shadow of a hummingbird’s fluttering wings and as eternal as the faint flow of ancient lanternfish thousands of meters under the sea. I think about things because I have an insatiable urge to exist: Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am.
The things I think about, as such, would likely define the kind of person that I am. I am often told that one cannot be an honest judge of their own character; therefore, dear reader, I willingly bear my thoughts to you, and I dare you to judge the soul behind these words.
I find myself paying attention to animals. I think about the sheep that munches and mills on the hills near the moat, and I wonder if they ever question the meaning of their lives. I think about the geese that flies in formation across the depressingly dreary morning sky, and I wonder what kinds of sights could they see that I never will. I think about my cat, and wonder what claims I had over it that made it justly mine. I think about the earthworms that twist and squirm in freshly weeded beds, and I wonder how they felt when I ravaged their homes with my little spade. I think about why I wrote that I am often “thinking about animals”, as if animal is something that I am not.
I think a lot about the stories I’ve read and seen. I jam to random Hamilton musical numbers that play themselves inside my head. I wonder quite often if Percy Jackson would beat Harry Potter in a fight. I think about dragons. I think about the Death of Discworld when he asks Azrael, the Death of the universe, to grant him a little more time, to return what was given, to argue against oblivion, for the sake of prisoners and the flight of birds. My mind is occupied by places that aren’t really there, by things that didn’t really happen, by people that didn’t really exist; but who is to say that a corporation is anymore real than, say, Santa Claus, when the former’s existence is based on—and can be annulled with—pieces of papers with ink on it? What is reality, if not whatever we believe, whatever that makes us the people that we are? I think about all of these people, and I miss them in the way you miss someone you’ve never met.
I think about my friends and family. I think about how, by being here, I am carving holes in my soul, holes in the shapes of loved ones I left across the seas. I think about the words I’ve never spoken, letters I’ve never sent, and songs I’ve never sung. I think about writing like I’m running out of time, because I am, because we are, because we are dying and dying and dying, and the person who is me at this moment, as I type, is already dead. I think about how I can never love people as much as I miss them—I leave them, and I love them more. I think about how I carry your heart with me, how I carry it in mine.
I think about the meaning of life.
There is no point in thinking about the Roman Empire. There is no point in thinking about anything, really, as if there is some meaning, some universal truth, some point to our existence, as if the universe cares. Most people manage to find some sort of meaning: a business to run, a passion for the arts, a family to protect, or, quite commonly, God. We all believe, deep down, that we exist because of something. No one can prove that it’s the right something, but it can’t be nothing; we are forced by ourselves to believe that we care. I see this something change as we grow: we look for it, we find something that might be just right, and we follow it until it’s not right anymore; we keep looking, we find something else, and we keep going.
My something may change in the near or far future. I hope that it changes; I hope that my future self would be a wiser and kinder person than myself today. But, for now, this is the meaning of life for me: to make the universe work the way it should, instead of letting it be the way it is. To rage against injustice, against stupidity, against arrogance, and to let that rage help me to leave the world a better place than when I found it. This is my Roman Empire: my life, and the millions of decisions that make me who I am.
As I type these final sentences minutes before my roommate’s birthday shower, I remember that my life, like yours and everyone’s, will end someday, that the traces we’ve left on the world will eventually fade away. I hope that when my life flashes before my eyes before I die, I find that I’ve been more than a bubble on the tide of empire.
The universe doesn’t care about the Roman Empire. It doesn’t care one bit about me.
But I do. I care, and thus, I write.