The Sin of Seneca

Dear Mei,

Here I go again: writing. If you ask me one more time what is crowned, I might lose my mind. How do you expect me to find an answer to that? Is it when I write so fast, or so slow? The lyrics flow through me like soft raindrops—barely there, subtle. But then they turn into heavy rain, and I’m in the zone.

I don’t know the answer to what is crowned or how to touch the ground. The ground coffee in my hand and its smell—like sand—slips away in a second. Some people hate poetry, but they listen to songs and cry rivers. They feel nostalgic, happy, or sad. Bitter-sweet? The Japanese call it “Natsukashi.” I call it this: sadness shapes the best parts of us. The sounds we carry, the ones that feel sad.

I didn’t know I loved writing you letters, but here I am. In the space between us and those we love, we become dreamers, floating in the unknown. That’s what music feels like to me: a sound coming from afar, an ocean from the near distance. A heavy burden that breaks like glass.

Mei, you keep asking me what is crowned: Is it the day the clock started ticking? Or the day it stops? It’s sad how aimless we feel, busy biting the fingers of time, loving the side-talks while life just happens to us. That’s one of the reasons I rebelled against everything.

That’s why I made friends with my ability to craft words and music. I always wanted the world to shut up and listen. And I made them listen—forcing them to hear the voice of the rebel within themselves. I told them to stop conforming. To stop. That’s the path to misery. And the prize?

Refusing to conform made us yell at each other and cry by the ocean near the bar. That time we stayed silent till dawn—shattered. We didn’t know we’d fallen asleep until the sun came up and burned our skin. Was the physical pain bad? I don’t know. But I knew then: if we could shout at each other for hours, we’d have to endure distance. In distance, there’s healing. For a while.

You wanted me to stay; I wanted you to go. I wanted you to stay; you wanted me to go. We never knew what we wanted from each other. But then I knew I wanted to go. Got so busy. You stayed so busy.

I was the goofy fool. I knew there was time for that sometimes. I wished we could be children again. Nah—it’ll never happen.

What is crowned? I don’t know the answer. Is it something inside of us or beyond the grasp of objective consciousness? I laugh when I say that because I wonder: when did time make me a philosopher? When did suffering make me one?

Maybe it’s good to learn how to suffer. To expect the worst-case scenario. To prepare for it. What do you think?

Will our meeting be crowned with unity? Or just more naivety and utter stupidity? To crown stupidity is to lose everything. To crown the loss of time is to waste opportunity. To stay busy and forget to live?

Fuck business. Fuck it all.

– Nim

“We suffer more in our imagination than in reality.”

Dear Nim and Mei,

I write to you not with the hope that your spring will blossom forever, but with the hope that these letters will guide you toward Stoicism—the art and philosophy of fortitude. Everything, my dear friends, begins with the foundation of projection. By this, I mean that our fears are often worst lived in our minds, for we dwell on them relentlessly, giving them weight and shape both day and night. This, too, is a form of suffering, though not the trivial kind born of complaint or self-pity. No, this is a suffering that sharpens, that trains the mind, that acquaints you with the prison of your own soul. It urges you to reflect on your path even as you fail to alter it.

And yet, even when we act to change our course, much remains beyond our control: life and death, wealth and poverty, fortune and loss. What truly robs us of contentment is not these external things but the games played by our imagination. It conjures visions of the worst-case scenario, presenting them as real and imminent. You may ask, why does imagination do this? Why, when it has the power to envision beauty and spring, does it so often torment us instead? The answer lies in its dual nature: potent yet perilous. It tricks you into experiencing pain before its time, eroding your vitality and disrupting the natural flow of your being.

Beware, then, of what you feed your imagination. I hear the cruelty in your words and the pain they carry. It seems you have boarded a sinking ship, entered a battle you cannot win. But victory, I must remind you, is a fool’s game. Nothing can be won in a world where all is in flux.

Do not ask fools what they fear most—they will give you a litany of imagined horrors, for that is the easiest projection. But ask a wise man, and he will pause. He will answer not with a list of fears but with a lesson: how he has learned to submit to the power of adversity without letting it conquer him. I shall write to you in another letter on the meditation of evils, but for now, heed this: let not your imagination play tyrant over you.

Reality is lighter when suffering is chosen, not imposed. Choose your suffering wisely, for in doing so, you reclaim your power. Let your imagination serve you, not rule you—you are far wiser than its fleeting tricks.

Farewell, Seneca

Attached was an mp3 file from Nim—a song he was sharing with her before its release. She hit play and closed her eyes.

The next morning, as Mei prepared for her shift, an email pinged.

Attached was an mp3 file from Nim—a song he was sharing with her before its release. She hit play and closed her eyes.

The beat began slow, deliberate. Then Nim’s voice eased in, like a whisper turning into a hymn. The song was called “Pilgrimage to the Unknown.”

It’s a pilgrimage to the unknown, Who would ever know The agony, The tragedy. It’s a way out of here. My world shatters when I close my eyes And see you. I’m like an atom, A divine angel, Waking before dawn. You are my travels To a distant world. My severe pains With you turn to harmonies. May I ever be…

Chorus: You are the pilgrimage To the unknown, My own, My moon. You are my blind eyes Learning to see, My mouth tasting A sea of stars. You are the pilgrimage, My very own. It’s yet a pilgrimage…

Those who lie to us Say life should be lived this way, But it isn’t. Life was never meant to be this. Distances… memories… It’s a pilgrimage. Our way out of here, Our way back. Would we ever dare?

Dear Nim,

If life comes in the way, how often can we stop it from interrupting our flow? Just because existence feels like it’s ever-flowing doesn’t mean it won’t cut us like a knife, suddenly. The days are long, or so they seem, but they’re dull and boring; the nights stretch on forever, unchanging and equally boring.

Next week, it’ll be more of the same. I’ll be busier, so writing back might slow down—or might not even happen at all. Does that mean anything? I don’t even know why we’re still writing each other anyway. This has to stop, Nim, if you know what I mean. Our souls are attached, but that doesn’t mean we always have to talk, because at some point, we have to move on. Moving on might be the hardest part, but maybe a rain of blessing will fall on us when we forget. Forgetfulness can be a gift; imagine if we never forgot. Imagine if the rain of blessing turned into thunder—would we cry bittersweet tears? But sometimes, nothing is everything. Not talking doesn’t mean anything, because we still know what we meant to each other. People who haven’t seen each other for months or years…

Before the age of the internet and telecommunications, how did people stay connected? How did they live, waiting for a letter that might take forever to arrive, maybe even carried by pigeons? But do we hate patience? Isn’t it both medicine and poison? It’s impossible to remain patient, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why we parted ways. It’s hard enough to make a living in the 21st century, any kind of living. It’s hard enough just to stay alive, surviving on opioids and the singular hope that drugs might be a narrow pathway to some happiness. What kind of happiness, though? Oh, Nim, what a fucking life! I wish childhood would come back, and we could play like innocents, building castles in the sky we’ll never reach. Or maybe you and I, if we stayed kids, could build a treehouse no one else would know about. They’d think we’re crazy, but we’d turn away and smile, knowing who the truly crazy ones are. The existence for pure emotional satisfaction.

Nim, continue your travels; I think you’re playing it right. Your travels don’t need an ultimate destination, but time is running out, and a turning point will carry us somewhere. Continue to some place. I want to hear your music, the purest voice like a nightingale. The rhythm of your words. I hear screaming when you’re whispering. Your songs are reverberations of you, your agony, your anger, your lost love (that is me). Will love find its way back to you through music, allowing you to forget what once was? When will your travels come to a halt… will they… will the journey ever be… Is the crown not the destination?

Mei

Mei,

There’s so much that could be said and done, but sometimes words fail me. Sometimes I forget that I’ve waited at the gates of heaven—sitting in airport VIP lounges, drifting between flights, drinking from the honeyed well of life. It wasn’t always like this, but I made it, and now I wander: to celebrate, to have extravagant birthday cakes, to run around as if there’s no tomorrow.

So much time spent traveling, hopping from one place to another. The places I once called home—are they truly mine anymore? Maybe I’ve misunderstood it—the philosophy of why I traveled in the first place: to see things I’ve never seen, to meet people I haven’t met, to discover cafés and bars, to stumble upon spontaneous experiences. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what keeps you dreaming about leaving your comfort zone, even just once?

For me, travel in the past few months has been so comfortable that I’ve forgotten the feeling of adventure and escape. But I understand what you mean: you don’t want to feel anchored to the ground—you crave a life suspended between earth and sky. But living in that in-between isn’t always magical. Sometimes you just get tired and wish for all your belongings in a single wardrobe, not scattered in suitcases.

Mei, I don’t think you’d envy me for my situation, and I wouldn’t envy yours either. So, what’s the perfect setup? What’s ideal? Order or chaos? What makes for the perfect adventure, the place where we feel truly content? Is it having a home to call our own, or wandering the world like free spirits? Is it dining in seven-star restaurants, or eating street food in unfamiliar places? I don’t know the answer—maybe I don’t want to think about it now. Should I settle, or keep moving? What truly makes us happy in the end?

They’re calling my flight now; I’ve got to go. Write me soon. Can we agree to write each other often? I can’t promise that I’ll always manage it—life has a way of getting in the way—but I’ll do my best.

Nim

Today, unlike any other, I sat on my porch in Rome, immersed in the quiet of contemplation, pondering the shape of things to come. Amidst this silence, my eye caught sight of something peculiar—an unfamiliar piece of white parchment, inked in a script foreign to my time. At first, I mistook it for nothing more than an errant slip, until the date struck me: 2024. And the name signed below—Mei.

This letter seemed to have slipped beyond the ordinary confines of time, written not on the materials we know but on a paper different in hue and feel, carrying whispers from an age I’d not seen. It eluded my understanding at first glance, but as I studied it again and again, meaning unfurled slowly, as if revealing itself at will. Somehow, this missive, borne of a distant era, had reached my hand, as if entrusted to me alone. Then, with the swift grace of a feather upon the breeze, another letter followed—a note from one named Nim.

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In that moment, I understood: I was the bridge, the conduit between their time and mine, between past and future. For the remainder of the day, I awaited more letters, but none came. It is difficult, almost uncomfortable, to accept that which lies beyond the bounds of the familiar, yet patience may lead us to acceptance, as a river carves its way through stone.

I have counseled emperors, I have written faithfully to Lucilius, offering guidance when he sought it. And now, I wonder—what burdens do these distant souls bear? What do they struggle against, and to what ends do they toil? If I were to reach out to Mei and Nim, to impart some counsel, would my words find them? Would they understand? And how far, I wonder, do they stand from truth—and from each other?

I will wait. Perhaps another letter will come. And if their stakes are not so insurmountable, perhaps my counsel may yet serve them.

Mei went to sleep after a while. Something shook the table, spilling ink and causing an electric spark. The notebook caught a small fire—just a flicker. Her wish for a strange calling had been answered, but not in the way she imagined.

A portal opened between her notebook and another, 2,000 years in the past.

Everything she wrote would be copied, moving through time and the ether.

Every word she wrote in her notebook travelled through time, falling into the hands of Seneca the Younger, the Roman philosopher. Soon, the same would happen to Nim.

This time portal is a one-way passage: Mei can send messages but not receive any.

Seneca the Younger would receive all their messages, yet both Mei and Nim would remain far beyond his reach.

Dear Nim,

I wish we could beat the sunrise and wake up one day with the glamor of living in the present moment. Some things are just meant to be. We seek purification, we seek perfection, we seek it all. Yet, we never feel happy, nor do we ever believe we’ll get there. Where is the peace of mind? Where is the light at the end of the tunnel? Isn’t that what your name means? Nirmal, the pure? You’ve got the purest voice when you sing, but often when you speak, I feel you’re enraged and conflicted. Maybe I am too. Talking about life, worlds, and travels often brings regrets. I've always wished to vagabond and roam the earth. But my wings have been clipped: my job, my society, my paycheck, the system, my own decline. I’ve simply ground to a halt.

No one ever told me about the things that matter; why? Why is the truth always so vague?

I’ve always wanted to go places, but the places seemed to me. The people I met at the bar and the stories they told—New York, Paris, Berlin, the moon. The coffee shops they explored, every day trying something new, every day tasting different flavors. Do these people exist now, or am I merely imagining them? One day, as a customer told me a story, the rain began to fall outside. I could only smell it from afar, wishing I could bask in the drizzle, hear a voice singing, or perhaps dance naked. The purple neon flickered, and I was trapped indoors under hazy neon lights.

Nim, I wish life would pass slowly, but it continues to run faster. Every morning, I wake up hoping for an omen. I wish I could wake up and not go to work. Often, the sun beats me and sets before I finish my shift, and I miss it. Sometimes, I wish a faint lightning bolt would strike me—gentle, barely visible—and transport me to another realm. Did you infect me with the disease of dreaming? Should I stay grounded, or should I learn to dream like you?

There’s a price for everything: thinking big and thinking small. Which is better? Which is worse? Was it a sin that I tried to keep my job, becoming a listener for my customers? Was it wrong to be a muse for others while forgetting myself, forgetting to fight my own battles? I would gain weight, then lose it, then gain it again. My mood swings, my tendency toward depression, the antidepressants, the melatonin… Nim, would it be weak of me to ask why you left? Maybe there’s a calling, one that could change everything.

Mei

Dear Mei,

When the sun sets through the window, life restarts. I have yet to go to the recording studio for the last song of my album. The sun is magical here; I wish you could see it. I wish you could live the sunset with me—just you and me, together within this fleeting moment.

If you were here, we’d be drinking coffee together. We’d get drunk together. We’d climb the walls of the infinite together. The album is a masterpiece, unlike anything I’ve ever attempted. It’s called Life as Rebellion. I poured not just my heart and soul into it but my very being. There’s a slight dance at the outset, at the prospect that I might win a Grammy. Does that make me happy? I could cross this off my bucket list. I’ve chased this dream like mad—like an addict, like a gambler, like the rush of the crazy city. Modernity, huh? It’s splendid, yet we lose our soul in it. Every day of my 20s, I dreamed it, I breathed it. It was all I ever wanted, and still, I refuse to back down: nothing less than perfection. The studio is set in the tallest building in the world, and the view is marvelous. I see skyscrapers everywhere; they remind me of myself—always aiming high. I fly back to New York tomorrow. You told me to write to you once I settled, and here I am, writing to you again. It’s been a few months since we parted ways. What strange months they were—trying to find true living without a soul to complete it, if you know what I mean. The body needs refuge, a shelter. Sometimes, I pity myself; why did I leave? The dream of becoming myself has always been etched into my very cells, but I suppose it’s still a work in progress. Mei, what are dreams, really? Mei, the sun is setting quickly. What will remain of it? Just some shimmering light, dreams?