Sands: February 3rd, 1895
I am old. My dedication to the Society has taken me far beyond the prime years of youth and deposited me squarely in a pile of spent souls. Everything I have done has been for others. From the generous contributions of my family fortunes to my academic studies and even my once vibrant health sacrificed to frailty in the field, my existence has teetered on the whims of others.
As the head librarian of the Deadly Nightshade Botanical Society, I find myself weary while writing in my journal. Exhaustion nibbles at my drive and it only worsens as I look at all which must be done still. The other scholars move with haste all about me in the same frantic hunt for knowledge that I was known for when I was their age. Now,I can’t be bothered by any but the most important of tasks. Perhaps this is what it means to grow old.
The sun has gone down again. The candles burn hot and the scent of wax tickles my weathered nose with familiarity and nostalgia. Gone are the days that I felt excitement over my studies. As the break-neck pace slackens, I find myself dwelling on who I could have been and who I would have liked to become. How can I answer these questions? The frame of reference is just as lacking as is my experience beyond the walls of the Society.
It has long been said that a Society member will never retire of their own accord. There are few of us who go into the field to become as old as I am. As an elder, people look to me with a sort of wonder and confidence. They honestly believe that I know more than they do; that I’m more qualified to make a set of decisions or bring them to some higher understanding of themselves.
The other day, one of the younger field men asked me what there was beyond this life; what a person in the Society does for ‘retirement’. I didn’t have an answer for him. I should have been living proof in fact that such a state does not exist; that we do not finish our tour of duty and return home. What sort of life is there for us anyway? When you know the unknowable, you cannot turn a blinded eye to the things you see.
I could go on and on about the hundreds of cases I’ve chronicled or expressed. The men and women who have died for the righteous cause are innumerable. I do not feel regret for these things. Without us, there would be nothing. The world itself might have upended and been destroyed. My time was well spent but it was not for me. A selfish hunger to fulfill myself beats down the doors of my soul.
This age of mine cuts to the bone. The cold is that much more miserable and exhaustion all that much heavier on my eyes. Each night I wonder if it will be my last. The dawn comes and calls me like a siren from slumber to face another daylight period. When will it all finish? I feel as though the only way I will live for me is if I am gone and in the sanctity of heaven.
These final words written down I firmly believe: we live one life for others and another for ourselves. Some are lucky enough to learn this in one existence and cut between labors and family. Others are forced to sacrifice more for a great cause. I am the latter and as I lie down to rest for the last time, I will know peace. Such as it was on earth, my time was not bad. But I am so tired. If nothing else about my life grants a lesson, let that be it: live it to the fullest, regret shall be a frigid mistress on the eve of oblivion.
* * *
I was handed the journal of Head Librarian Reginald Masters only two days before he passed away. Of all the entries and wonders that he experienced, I was most moved by this one in particular. Let it never be forgotten that what he has stated is a message for all men and women, Society or not. It might be easy to let life slip by but the rewards for holding on tight are priceless.
