The Final Words of T. Harley

By Rex Eloquens

Already born to die, an uneasy pressure has stalked and weighed heavily on a young Terrance Harley since childhood. Born into material abundance, an outsider peering in would gawk at its apparent ease, but the battle of a slow encroaching darkness takes its course in a much different arena. Tending to dramatically inflate his sentiments to myth, Harley, an intelligencia, sees and hears the dance and coos of mother nature. He relishes in the artistic ambiguity of the natural, as well philosophy and the Greek classics. Unfortunately, dwellers outside of that domain consistently push the limits of his psyche with their disrespect and failure to see what really matters. He begins to grow his distaste of the commonplace, and becomes more disenfranchised the more he sees. Slowly but surely, the spark that breathes in his motivations begins to dissipate. His only saviors to an otherwise dull and unattached living, include his friends, family, and his dearest love. All declared with an admiration beyond that of normalcy, their tragic fates swell Harley's darkness into doing the unimaginable with its remnants. With nothing remaining, he comes to write his manifesto riddled with confessions and the last vestiges attached to this mortal coil. Imprinting all his soul can afford on paper, his final act on earth will be to go to the last holdout of worthy beauty, and say good riddance to life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rex Eloquens
• Release date: Mar 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215797761

Rex Eloquens

As a burgeoning novelist and philosophy admirer, I can often be found exploring the world of classical literature in a library, a coffee shop, or my greatest sanctuary, my room. Although it took quite sometime to end up where I am, my studies and wisdom gained from reading the greats inspired me to forge my own path in the humanities. The reveling of human sentiment, the complexity of its condition, that is where the soul lies, and in my novels, I can see no greater ambition than to try and touch what may be the impossibility of human emotion. That elan vital is what it means to be human, and I promise that if you stick with me, I can show you something that charts and data can never reach.

Book preview

The Final Words of T. Harley

Rex Eloquens

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Contact

Preface

Conjured from darkness and nurtured by life, some poor souls never sprout to become the tree of legacy they so desperately desire. Their roots, or perhaps even the soil, dispelled their wishes by becoming tainted with individuality in a world of indifference or unfavourability. Such is the situation of the unique, and possibly tragic, circumstance of one against its respective many. In this case, it’s the story of an unordinary man named Terrence Harley, who seemed to have never completely formed into the cast already made for him. Harley’s tale is not unlike many others, but his disturbed properties slowly integrated into a carefully woven rhetoric, leaving an undeniable account of his madness. In the form of his manifesto, a skewed and unraveled gift nobody asked for, is a story of a life far gone from its own ambitions.

These are the final words of T. Harley, a once most idyllic man.

Chapter One

To whomever it may concern as denizens of the distant or nearby future,

My name is T. Harley, and I am an individual with the most impeccable taste. Imprimis, my soul is trapped in the body of a forgettable type of man, whose free time is spent in the dark corners of the library. Though I belong to no profession, my sole job from youth upwards has been in search of two things. The first is to carve out greatness. A creation of original design, whether that be in the form of directly interfering with other people’s lives for glory, or to silently type a masterpiece for it to become admired long after I had passed. The point is to be recognized, but not as everyone else. Individuals are important, but people are not. Living life through that motto, the second treasure I have yet to find is my true calling as an individual. Hence, the countless hours spent in the library. What could a unique person be recognized for if there is nothing special in him? The type of person that is not special, dies and is forgotten. The individual, however, leaves behind a legacy through the calling he found and created something out of. Here, amongst the dust, cobwebs, and books with yellowish-pale pages, my hunt led me. Like buzzards surrounding a fresh corpse, the nagging thoughts of those glistening treasures hidden somewhere in these pages had an indispensable growing impact on my life. Or it’s much easier to say, the anxiety of letting something rot without always putting in the time to care for it truly drove the cattle. Regardless, searching forces uncomfortable questions that always go unanswered. At least, that’s how it used to be, until the final solution presented itself in its most elegant bow and gesture. In the spirit of my final day in this world, do this soul one last favor and listen.

What is the most disappointing feeling in life? The answer leads astray. From a gloomy somebody, it would be happiness, because when one obtains it, they feel as if the earth exists for them. Only in the afterthought from which happiness has vacated, that its fleeting and disappointing nature reveals itself. Departing swiftly, it abandons the user and produces an addict. However, in the moment, its shadow casts over life, and may still be worth the price of admission before dissipation. The key cannot possibly be found in this exterior greatness, as it gives more than it damages in its absence. Another answer might come from an afflicted person with a red-stricken heart. For the fierce nature of its interior affection is so tremendous, that it leaves a gap when gone and ensnares others to poor decision making. Love then, gives the curse of a broken emptiness; but its burning passion, much like happiness, lights a flame that makes two larger than life instead of one. Notwithstanding the proud love one houses for itself, it too manufactures addicts, for its pharmaceutical nature frequently alleviates and aches the soul. Yet, despite the cycle of torment and nourishment, if love is captured in a jar, it will provide steadily instead of flaring spectacularly. With those considerations, even if temporary, many will still say that loving at all is forever more valuable than never feeling its warmth. If missing out is a loss, then surely the key is not to be found in the passion.

Instead, the solution is painfully encompassing. The most disappointing feeling in life is not a fleeting specter such as love or happiness, but living itself. When captured by those momentary abstractions, the mind has a chance at peace while entertained. But in perfect stillness accompanied by a relaxing quietness, life unravels under the silence. Banality makes its entrance but reveals itself to have always been a resident. The dawning realization that there are no exits out of this labyrinth of living, then overcomes the soul. Day-to-day, every emotion and thought are just distractions from trying to leave the labyrinth. Resignation wishes to buy only time, and its contrary to embrace banality is even more dreadful, as it is to embrace that this is all there is. These are the only two options, and neither of them is the dreamy song of life others preach.

Through years of living, optimism had become a tiring annoyance. Did I, a human being, act as a piece of machinery for all my life? Must I take everything life throws at me, with a smile and gratitude? Must I let some idea live for me? The conclusion I’ve come to is the only natural one. Sulking to desperately live, and struggling to find, could never appeal to the sincerity of the persona imprinted on my fabric. Instead, something a bit more unconventional must be deployed to fit the rhythm of my own beating heart. I’ve decided to craft a gift for all those who care to read and educate themselves in my word. A gift of its own creation, and a parsing completely unshackled from the jailor that the outside world imposes. Like a warrior facing the ultimate battle, this will be my cry and declaration of war on life. For that reason, I will tell my story to you all. Briefly covering twenty-six years of forgetfulness and gaps, and possibly comedy to the keen eye, this is how optimism in my life withered away and transmuted itself into something else.

Supposedly, my birthday took my mother by surprise on May 8th, 1840. By all accounts, the warmest spring day at the height of flower season, brought about by blossoming tranquility and viridescent vegetation, just beyond the doorstep. In these boonies of a not so terribly important western country, a peaceful beginning brought about the kind of still quietude not rampaged by wars, violence, or any fowl degradation. Instead, the mechanism of absorbing life here hinged on the significance afforded by bloodline. Lifting a mountain of weight, blood dictated that my father belong in politics, much as it also dictated that his father did before him. Crushing his generational dreams under its weight, he settled, and let it overcome a true calling from the deep, suffocating it, to fashion the Harley household on a property unbounded. In due time, and with the precision of a doctor, he would carefully craft an environment of ignorance, born inside the manor, that otherwise became an echo chamber of ‘The ideal life’.

Nevertheless, outside the constructed walls, sat the natural barrier of pure air and greenery that preceded the human element. Soothing days repeated after another, and the paradise valley enriched all its dwellers into fulfillment due to its sheer mythical pureness. Reaching the bottom of the basket valley, the winds would howl as they escaped into the common long grasses that sprang into a jig whenever they felt the cold brush air. The dryness of these grasses, mingled with their respective glades and woodlands not too far off from where the water acted as their veins of life. Rivers and streams, not in short supply, extended their lovely purifying essence throughout the valley, thereby mending the drylands and encouraging the next process of its sacred cycle. Creating an unmatched scenery in the process, ripe with tiniest models of life that ranged to their absolute max. Eagles would ascend high in the blue skies, while the ferocious wolves that stalked the inner woodlands patrolled for their next meal, and in the calm green glades, the humble bees that pollinate nature's very own artistic palette, mastered their roles with perfect harmony. Here in this valley of varying flora, fauna, and even hunter-prey interactions, all the same worked in a greater system of cooperation and mutual support. That much, ascertained by a single overlooked view, confirmed that no other place on earth existed as it did in this countryside. Mending and mingling, its own resplendence kept itself regulated, spirited, and occupied during the day. Only at night, did the vibrant colors clarified by the sun, wither into a blue-centered darkness, sometimes supported by an austere paleness from the moon. Though encroaching the entire domain, night never ceased viability, nor loneliness by its loss of sunlight. Instead, an entire spectrum of stars and celestial objects, gathered at an evening soiree, and conversed as a million scenarios corresponded, yet never lost their touch of an easy naturalness.

Thankful to have lived in the basket, its experiences here just outside the manor, remained unchallenged for the entirety of life. As the early years did not yet have the bittersweet taste of living, the same could not be said for the manor itself. The estate, honed through generations of Harleys, paraded itself on false grandiosity and exquisite materials, which upstaged the previous, year after year, and family after family. Evidenced as viewed from a carriage, an enormous wall of hideous red brick would assault the view as it contrasted with its livelier counterparts in the surrounding area. Front and facing, it paired well with the doors of the large entrance gates, which gave away its typicalness. Upon closer inspection, the brick’s usage seemed to only be an exoskeleton at its front, and well-hidden from the sides and the back. As away from the road, curlicues and overgrown vegetation climbed the red ladders about a quarter of the enormous structure’s height. Interestingly, its entrance teemed with lies and gests that would slip past the untrained eye. The windows, as seen from a distance, falsely made it appear as if the particular rooms had been in use; as so the newly commissioned garden, which pathetically lacked flowers, as well as more than one type of shrub. Not yet satisfied with deceit, its inside similarly remained uninspired. Consisting of three massive floors, and two separate staircases in a spiral design, all of the furnishings' price tags exceeded their worth in artistic value. Rooms remained emptied, and others too crowded with unused furniture to make do on its precious space. The ‘centerpieces’, and eyecatchers, all displayed the same poshness found on its outside. Making up the kitchen, two salons, a study, and the bedrooms, the most valuable knacks hovered in these relative areas of use. In the salon, a fireplace situated at the room's head, burdened the guests with crackles and burnt scents that drew the attention away from the uncomfortable sofas, and modern paint. Which themselves, had been hand carved and imported. Luxurious in visuals, and perhaps even by the swipe of the hand, but unsatisfying beyond salvation, this deep problem extended to the fabrication of this entire manor. While certainly infested by entertaining hallmarks, its elan vital boiled into mere surface display, which I unimaginably detested. As they presented pleasantly, with no soul to match, this manor paled in comparison to the living outside. So, in what any rational agent would do when held back from his passions, I spent the majority of days unbothered by the