Level 7

If God exists—in heaven, or in the centre of the earth—He must feel the same way. In seclusion He watches the impending disaster which is about to overtake the ant-like human beings. Watches with interest, but also with detachment.

But perhaps He envies them sometimes. There they are, all the ants, running about, enjoying each other’s company, planning, analysing, discussing, believing, criticising. And there He is—alone. Wiser, more powerful, but alone.

I wonder if sometimes He would like to change places: to be miserably weak, but to have company and so many interests. They may be petty interests, stupid ones; but they keep the mind busy.

Maybe this is the reason why gods—the Greek ones, at least—used sometimes to descend to earth and mix with men. They must have become bored with their own company.

MAY 27

Today it got me again.

It had been an ordinary routine day, nothing unusual, until sometime between 17.00 and 18.00 hours, when I suddenly saw the green fields near my native town. I knew perfectly well that it was my imagination, but the whole scene was sharp and bright in front of my eyes.

I do not know why it happened. It may have had something to do with the good violet perfume used by the nurse sitting next to me at lunch—she must have brought it down with her. I remember thinking how nice it smelled. Then I must have forgotten it until several hours later, when the memory brought with it the image of the meadows.

Different shades of green grass: some dark, some light and fresh. Trees and hills and the cool breeze of a spring afternoon. Blue skies with bright clouds. And people scattered here and there, and twittering birds. And a deep peace of mind, a feeling that I was alive and that being alive was enough. No need to do anything, or achieve anything, or struggle for anything. And deep breathing to welcome all the sweet scents of soil and grass and spring flowers into my breast.

No, it’s no use trying. It takes a poet to convey sensations like those. I have never been one, and poets do not grow in caves. But today, I think, I felt the way poets must feel. The vision was so sharp, so powerful, that for a moment I forgot where I was.

Was it for just a moment? I have no way of telling, for I have lost all sense of time.

But then the image disappeared, and in its place came longing for those meadows and those days. It came like a sharp pain, throbbing with increasing vigour, until I wanted to cry out and bang my head against the clean, hygienic, sterile walls.

I did nothing. Gradually the pangs subsided. But despair filled my mind, despair as black as those fields were green, as bitter as that spring breeze was sweet. There is no need for poetry to convey that.

MAY 28

P said today that she knew this was going to happen to me and that she had warned me. It is too late now, anyway.

I am so depressed that I do not want to do anything—except one thing: to get back to the surface. If I could do that I would willingly give up Level 7 for Level 1. Indeed, I would not care if they allotted me no level at all! Even if it meant spending just a very short time up above, just a day. To live for a day, and then perish!

Butterflies live for only a day, but they do live. Not in caves, but in the full light of the sun. Among flowers. They fly around from one blossom to another, in whatever direction they like.

I suppose complaining will not do any good, but what else can I do? Eat, meet P, talk with X-107 and sleep. That is the sum of my ‘activities’.

I can push the buttons, of course—when somebody decides it is necessary. That is an activity, certainly. But is it enough?

No, much too simple. Why did they make it so easy? Just pushing a few buttons—where is the fun in that?

And what next? What do I do when I have pushed my buttons? What will there be left for me when I have fulfilled my life’s function? What other goal shall I look forward to?

Shall I be like God before He created the world, sitting lonely in an empty universe? How cruel men were to create a God who is self-sufficient living a solitary life throughout eternity. Why have they condemned God, why have they condemned me, to such a lonely prison?

MAY 30

P tries hard to help me. She really is anxious about my present mood. She has even encouraged me to resume the conversations about mythology which I used to enjoy with R-747. She says that would be better than brooding all the time.

But I do not feel like it. Why should I? Do gods invent mythology for people? Let the future generations invent what stories they like. I do not care what they think.

X-107’s attempts to make me talk about things do not succeed any more, either. Nothing interests me any more. Nothing down here, at least.

MAY 31

P is in despair about me. She must like me very much. Apparently she is quite sociable, after all. She is doing her best to drag me out of my apathy.

I see her point quite well, but I cannot be bothered to make the effort. Why should I?