Into Oblivion (Manuscript)

For Those Few I So Dearly Love, All Those I Do Not Quite Know, and All Those Who I Regard Only With Disdain and Great Loathing,

First and foremost, I promise you this is not a suicide letter.

Rather, this is [perchance] a goodbye, a sincere and permanent farewell in preparation for the event that I achieve success in my quest, or else cease to exist in this human form altogether. Indeed, I find our fleshly confines are magnificent in so many ways; but, they are also overly tender, and terribly fragile — not quite fashioned for acts of true transcendence as

poetry, parchment,

and passion

tend to be.


For Those Few I So Dearly Love, I will miss you dearly, and most of all. I will so badly want to write to you from where I am headed, and as a result, even almost pray my attempts to wholly seal myself in a vault of my own suffering do not succeed. In these letters I have no doubt I will want to send you, at least in the beginning, I would reveal the nature of my quest: the very essence of that which I seek.  Still, I imagine I will be unable to due to the insurmountable barrier I intend to build between this world and that. If I could tell you now, I would, but there is a certain stillness and solitude I must first achieve. To share the details of this venture may yet defy my efforts and objectives, and worse yet, infect you with the same, cursed scourge which plagues me even now. Regardless, know that for me, this is a sacrifice I make lightly. I do not take my mortal form so seriously; I must leave it behind if I am ever to proceed.

I apologize that I have never lived and, least of all, written, in the presence of living others well — that I have always had to disappear to Places Elsewhere in my obsessive pursuits, and so often abandoned you in doing so. This is no testament to the love I have for you; rather, these things are separate. I know my task is one outside of loving you best when there are so many who can love you better than I, or at the very least, help you to suffer just a little bit less. I spent so long — so many mortal, Earth years — wishing I, too, was of this sort. Still, I am not; rather, I am, at best, a disciple of suffering: an, until now, earthly drudge. In fact, the Brooding Poet is so often of the exhaustive, absorbent, theoretically infatuated sort. This means that we are not always best suited for the human form, nor the corporeal, mortal living this invokes.

In the broader expanse of even greater things, the human life is so minute, yet that which we obtain and create while human is not so trivial. Thus, should you find my corpse severed open, and a pile of my organs on the ground, fret not. Chances are I was not slain by a mere murderer, nor some student of the blade. Instead, this would and will be a lethal carving of my own doing. Consider it not so much as an act of destruction as a movement towards exploration. In a sense, it will be both. Gather my




blood, and


as you so desire, but leave behind the rest. I have other plans for those less savory parts. For now, I wish you the best, and bid you farewell in the event I do not return. Thank you for all the ways in which you have suffered me — even now in the form of this final letter and the impending demise it signifies. Hopefully, it will all be worth it in the end, all of this: the searching, the suffering, and everything before, after, around, and in-between.


For All Those I Do Not Quite Know, I regret that we never had the opportunity to love, loathe, or even simply choose to disregard one another. Perhaps in the varied and willing combinations of our suffering, we could have at least discovered something new, something

better, more

beautiful, or

at the very least, more

joyous than


shroud of darkness we have grown so (too) accustomed to in this miserable, human world we all share.

Nevertheless, regret is exceptional and useful in its own way, and therefore I will carry all that which I have regarding you on to whatever comes next for me. Should you share in my sentiment, I advise you consider doing the same. Niche sufferings like “regret” can someday grow into some of the most glorious weapons we, as human beings, can ever wield — but only under the correct conditions. Please,

have my tongue, and

seize my teeth, but

only if you truly want them. Perhaps they will confide in you the type of confessions that will make me appear less of a stranger. I hope they will even go so far as to make you wonder what kind of stories you will leave behind for those after you.

We are all fated to depart from this world someday. What will we be leaving behind when we do?


Lastly, and For All Those I Regard Only With Disdain and Great Loathing, know that I do not necessarily wish you ill. To do so would not serve you, nor me — as tempting as it is to try.

Rather, I almost thank you for all the ways in which you forced me to grow, although in most of your cases, I really wish you had not. None of you ever had the right to me or my suffering — sweet, or otherwise. In honor of the variety of ways in which you have all severed and gutted my very being, I implore you take whatever is left of my corpse and organs after Those Few I So Dearly Love and All Those I Do Not Quite Know have taken their fair shares. You will be left with the





and other such


grotesque, and

bizarrely human

things. I wish for you to divide these among yourselves — the largest chunks to my greatest assailants of former days. This way, you can sit with them, and ask yourselves what it means to

hold, and

see, and

smell, and

taste, and

touch, and

feel, and

breathe, and

live with all these/

my rotting

parts. You can recall what it was like to see me in such a state, although this time it will be by my own [un]doing rather than that which you all inflicted upon me at some point or another when I was young. Ask yourselves if you are really the kind of “person” you want to be, or whether there are still changes you need to make towards betterment. Suffering, of any and all sorts, is not meant to be

forced, nor

inflicted on others, but

rather endured,


explored, and hopefully someday,

transcended by

the same individuals to which it was born. We all make mistakes, but not all bad decisions are blunders. Some are just cruel. You can tell which is which in that the latter becomes demonic, repulsive even to the highest powers of our great Universe.

Just think about it, even if only for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, it is still not too late for you to begin your path towards spiritual cleansing, and divine redemption. Whether this will be permitted is not up to me, but regardless, I believe it is worth an attempt.


Finally, and for everyone whom I have referenced in this letter, I hope you will find the remaining pieces of my once wholly-human form enough to remember me by once I am gone, thoroughly consumed by whatever comes next. There will be no solace in my





art, nor anything else of

that sort. I am taking these items with me in the hopes they will remain sustainable in my journeys and, therefore, serve to ground me even as I explore them for the sake of other things.

Life here is strange, sad, and so very full of disappointment and suffering — sweet or otherwise. As a result, I have tired of my mortality. Now, I must now proceed onwards to my next stage, one I pray will be more


joyous, and

euphoric than this

woeful human one

I am so depleted from enduring. I am looking forward to reuniting on the other side someday, and carrying on with you all from there. Hopefully, by then, we will all be beyond — past suffering. Until then, however, take care, and assume I am doing the same.

Always and In Finality Yours,

The Wandering

Into Oblivion Wraith Art Ami J. Sanghvi

Untitled [2021: Digital Art] || Book Manuscript, Into Oblivion