Journal entry - 31st January 1990

I know I shouldn't fall in love. If my millennia of a lifetime have taught me anything, it is that falling in love with mortals always ends badly. If you lived through even a fraction of what I have, you too will end up as cynical as me. It is difficult enough ghosting all of your friends and acquaintances and start living with a new identity every few decades or so to avoid people getting suspicious of your never-ending youth. You really don't need a lover in the midst who can not only easily find out that you never age, but also very difficult to leave. Even if I decide to stay with my identity, death comes for all mortals and my mortal partners were no exception. So, believe me, when I say, I have foregone the very idea of a romantic relationship a few centuries ago.

But, When I saw her, I couldn't resist the temptation. She was special, more special than all the women I have seen in my entire lifetime, which is a very difficult thing to achieve if said lifetime is thousands of years. I knew I should avoid getting closer, but she was so beautiful, intelligent, charming and cheerful. She had a response to every one of my cynical remarks, and they were thoughtful too, not just random rebuttals. Slowly, day by day, she wormed into my heart. It was with a heavy heart that I decided that I would give a relationship with her, a try even if she may leave my life someday, (everyone does), because I didn't want to regret missing this. Trust me, if a 40-year-old man has a few regrets, a 4000-year-old immortal has tonnes of them. Her smile, when I proposed to her, removed all my worries from my heart. I was in love.

[Journal entry....]

Journal entry - 31st January 1995

It has been 5 years since the day I proposed to her. It has been one of the very best times I have had. We are still as much in love with each other as the day I proposed, in fact maybe more. Her cheery outlook in life has brought me so much happiness in my life. I also like to think my more practical-mindedness has saved some trouble in her life too. She hasn't noticed anything suspicious about my life so far, but she is far smarter than I give credit for. So, there is no guarantee that she may not discover that my current identity is fake. I only pray that she isn't too harsh in judging me and it doesn't leave me too broken-hearted. I also fear that as we grow closer and closer every day, I may never be able to leave her and this identity of my own volition, my heart won't let me. But, I also know that staying will only reel me in more and the pain of her death would be unbearable. What must I do?

[Journal entry....]

Journal entry - 31st January 2000

Today, we celebrated her 35th birthday. How ironic is it that today is my 4035th birthday, But, the birthdate of my current identity is 04th November 1963. I do wish I have made up the birthdate of this identity to be my actual one. But, I have found out, the hard way that carrying the same birthdates across identities was a bad idea. So, I had chosen a random date and I can never share with her how happy I am that we share the same birthdates too....

As I feared, we grow closer and closer as time passes. If you had asked me some 20 years ago, I would have denied the possibility of me ever being this closer to anyone. To be clear, the closeness is not a bad thing, indeed it feels very good to have someone very close to you, to share your every worry and happiness. Well, not every worry anyway. No, the hard part is the lying. I cannot lie to her face. I have found that half-truths are better, at least for my conscience anyway. It still hurts, deceiving her, But, I cannot fathom revealing the truth to her going in a good way. The knowledge that the man you love and have lived with for the past 10 years was actually a millennium-old immortal who was pretending to be a normal man has never went well. (I found this too, the hard way). Hence, I feel that keeping the pretence going, is better for both of us. But, sooner or later, she is going to become suspicious about my aging, or the lack of to be specific.

She is as beautiful as the day I met her, or maybe it is just that I cannot see it. How can I, when I am too enamoured with her smile and cheerfulness whenever I am with her.

[Journal entry...]

{ I may continue this later, not sure currently. My idea was to portray him as being happy with her, but always being weighed down by the guilt that he is deceiving her by not revealing his true story. Do give me some feedback, may help me in continuing this in some direction. I am not very sure where to take it from here}

Edit: Part 2 in replies to this comment

I have a rule that has worked for me, more or less, over the years: when I see their first grey hair, it’s time for me to leave.

It sounds callous—trust me, I know how vain it seems—but it’s worked for the best, more or less. I think it’s kinder this way in the long run. I see one grey hair on their head; I know my time is limited.

For the second hair, or when the lines of wrinkles start to deepen, I make plans, plant seeds, start hinting about my exit.

The third grey hair, I pack a small bag. I hop on a cart, travelling far away down a long and winding road, or catch a boat and promise to the captain that I will be a good hand, that I will be strong and reliable. Sometimes, I’ve joined armies, searching for a cause and a way to disappear.

It’s happened again and again over my life and I’m sure that this story is not unique. There are men with far lesser excuses than I who leave one day, without a word, and never return. There are tragedies in life greater than this.

After time and distance, I’m sure I’ve been scorned again and again as lazy, as unfit, as selfish and arrogant. If I could, I would like to scream that I’m none of those things. When I was younger, I believed that I really wasn’t any of those.

Now, I’m not sure. I used to believe that my leaving was noble, was necessary, and of course I had no other choice but to leave. I still don’t believe I’m lazy and selfish and arrogant for leaving.

I think I might be lazy and selfish and arrogant for looking for love in the first place, though. I’ve had enough love after lifetimes yet I still go back for more, more and more and more, each time promising it’ll be my last and each time failing miserably.

One would think that I’ve lived enough: in Mesopotamia, born on the banks of the Euphrates, the fifth son of farmers; Egypt at the height of the days of Pharos; Rome in its heyday, a gladiator who could not die; a scholar, charting the starts in the early days of the first millennia; a painter; a rich lout; a poor lout; a merchant and trader, faring the seas to the new world; back again, rich again, on the outs of a society that I did not fit into; to the new world once more, now not so new, as a businessman; a painter once more. I think I like painting the best, even after all these years. It’s a universal language—a way to be understood that transcends time and words.

I tell myself, each time, that it will be my last. That, after I leave my love, I will sit alone with my paints and let the world slouch on.

Each time, I fail. This life has so much to give! Connections, too, are rare. I will pass fifty, eighty, a hundred years before I meet someone who understands me and I them and, if one has ever felt that way, then one will know how hard it is to give that up.

I tell myself this again, now. She understands me; I understand her. We met in a great city, while they were building high towers to prove they could touch clouds. She is a writer. I, like so many times before, am a painter.

I fear I don’t have long left. It’s been a while now, that much I know, but I haven’t been precisely keeping track. After I leave her, after I wrench out my own heart, I won't promise it to another. Never again.

Now, she comes into my studio to get me, to walk home with me. We’ll stop by a new restaurant near our apartment on our way. She claims this place has the best thai food I’ll ever taste, and I smiled and agreed with her, but I fear that food these days never quite tastes the same.

For now, she comes up behind me. She wraps her arms around me and places her chin on my shoulder, watching me paint. I brush a few more strokes against the canvas, weaving the colours together. Her hand rushes through my hair and pauses by my right ear.

A pluck. I wince.

“Look,” she says, holding her finger in front of my eyes.

I squint and look between them. A single strand of my short hair. It’s not dark, though, it’s not the way it should be: it’s sleek silver, shining in the sun.

/r/liswrites

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