12.11.582
I must get off the streets. I cannot be a nogoth forever. There are only so many cockroaches that I can tread on before disgust becomes unbearable. I have heard that there are some nogoths who, out of an existential repulsion for their position, throw themselves into the dark waters of the harbour, never to be seen again. It is known that underwater beasts consume them, though what those beasts are is a mystery. In other words, it is known that death is definite in the harbour. I will not face a demise so certain.
Yesterday I was twenty. It was as if I crossed a boundary. My childhood is behind me now, and the rest of my life... no, it does not stretch out before me like a bleak, black road, it stretches out before me like a bright path. But I am not sure where that path leads.
From where do I get this manner so nice, this philosophical quirk? Imagining bright paths when they do not exist. I suppose it must be from my mother. But my over-active mind makes life even more difficult for me. Were I a citidenizen, the Mavrosopolis would find a place for me. But I am a nogoth.
I must write this down, this fate that faces me: I live on the streets, I have no sure supply of food, I drink filthy water, and the constant fall of soot is like an eczema of the air that ruins my skin. I am a nogoth.
Is it so much to ask that I find a place where living is not a trial?
All I know is that I am in the wrong place within the Mavrosopolis. The Mavrosopolis must—it must!—draw me up into a place where I fit, and where, I hope, I will find peace. For there can be no peace on the streets. Cacophany distracts me, tumbles my finer thoughts into a storm-like brew that never calms. It is not good to live with a mind like a storm. Nobody has told me this, yet I know it is true, as if something inside me is guiding me. My conscience, perhaps. I have heard that everybody is born with the possibility of finding a conscience. (This implies that some never find such a thing. What happens to them? Are they nogoths? Or are there evil citidenizens of which yet I know nothing? I really must find out.)
Crossing the line between nineteen and twenty has given me a new direction. However I do not know why this should be. Perhaps it is because they say that most nogoths die in their twenties. For sure, it is a brutish life, the life of the street. It is not a humane life, certainly. It does seem wrong that the Mavrosopolis allows such lives to exist.
I think it is this thought, this central thought with which I have wrestled all day, that is leading me in the direction of the bright path. The bright path! What nonsense. But something is leading me, or pushing me. The only way is up. That is not true. There is one station lower that nogoth, and that is corpse. But that dread station is not for me. Up, then. I will become a citidenizen. I have heard that it is possible for nogoths, through the force, goodness, purity or otherwise of their character, to pass a test and so become a citidenizen of the Mavrosopolis. I must find out whether such a test exists.
If it does, I am determined to take it. If I pass, I am determined to discover why it is possible for nogoths to die on the street aged twenty.
I am determined. And I am no cripple—I have a chance of passing.
But I cannot believe however that I am the only man to have given this elementary problem some thought. Am I the only one who ponders? Is pondering a lost art? I believe it must be, for if others ponder as I do, and become citidenizens, what is there to stop the continuance of their path? I can think of no obstacle that would stop me pointing out the poor quality of street life, and therefore it stands to reason that no such obstacle exists that has stopped others. Yet where is progress?