A Bookmarked Day

The day was March 15th. It had been the same day for the past three and a half years, and each one had started the same way: with Darcy Solomon walking past the Court of Neptune fountain and up forty-six steps. His purpose was singular, his task an unwanted one. Each day he woke up on March 15th, and each day, he went to the Library of Congress to find an answer to the only question that mattered, the only question that kept Darcy from finally being free and living his life.

“What is the meaning of life?”

He first read the question, or ever even thought of its answer really, when his still unknown-jailor had posed it three and a half years ago and a fiendish little piece of paper.

Darcy had been dying; he only had moments left to live, and in that time, he had made a decision. A decision he would come to regret more than any that had come before it. Drawing in his last few breaths, haggard and bleeding, he had spoken the words that would sentence him to a what felt like a lifetime of searching. Through dried and cracking lips and to no one in particular, he had prayed, “Please don’t let me die; I’ll do anything.”

Whether it was the fickle fates, the graceful gods, or the devilish demons, Darcy didn’t know. He only knew that each morning when he awoke in his cramped apartment in the heart of Georgetown, there was a letter that had been slipped under his door. It said the same thing every morning. No salutation, no name, no return-to address, not even a postage stamp, just a not-so-simple question, on a single sheet of off-white paper.

“What is the meaning of life?” He had read it aloud the first time the letter arrived, thinking the near-death experience had been nothing but a hyper-realistic nightmare and the letter just some strange prank. It was the second day when things began to go downhill for Darcy. The second day in a row, his cell phone showed March 15th at the top, and the second day, the exact same letter arrived. It was then that Darcy began to have his suspicions.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The five stages of acceptance, Darcy could tell you them because he had read a book about the matter during his eternal imprisonment. He had spent most of his time in the fourth step, depression, unable to get on with the business of actually living life.

Darcy was a litigator and had long since found the winning combination of evidence and cajoling needed to sway the judge for the court case set to take place on March 15th. He had also long since given up attending work today; after all, what was the point? He had asked himself too many times to count.

“Okay, acceptance then,” he had finally resolved that this was his life now, beginning and ending on March 15th. The only hint at how to escape the time loop: that one massive question.

“What is the meaning of life,” Darcy spoke the question aloud as he walked into the Library of Congress for the first time. Knowing that he, just one man, probably wouldn’t have much to contribute on the topic since it had been quite well covered over the past fifteen hundred years or so of philosophy and religion. Darcy had determined that his best course of action was to try to find the answer, and what better place to find an answer than the largest library in the United States?

One of those dead philosopher guys must have gotten it right… Right?

“There is a contingency of human existence… it is up to everyone to create their own existence, for which they are then responsible,” Darcy read the Jean-Paul Sartre quote right from a book the first time he tried to answer the question.

Staring up at the ceiling, or maybe at the gods above, he waited for a reply. Some sort of indication from the god he had pleaded to on his deathbed if he had gotten the answer right or wrong.

Nothing.

Okay, maybe I have to write it down on the letter.

He checked out the copy of Existentialism Is a Humanism, went home, and copied the quote verbatim onto the letter.

Nothing, again.

Then, with startling flair, the letter burst into flames.

“I guess that means I got it wrong,” Darcy sighed deeply, rocked back in his chair, fingers interlocked behind his head, and fell asleep.

“Life is inherently meaningless?” Burning paper.

“To maximize happiness and minimize suffering?” Burning paper.

“Life is inherently meaningless—” Darcy stopped writing the quote halfway through.

Isn’t this the same as the first one I tried?

Not knowing or really caring at this point, he finished writing the quote.

“... and that absurdity should be embraced.” The paper with Albert Camus’ words written on it went up in a flash of smoke.

“Fuck,” It had been three dozen weeks of guessing answers to the question and as many summaries of various philosophical schools answers to the question, and Darcy had nothing to show for it. Every answer he wrote went up in smoke. The annoying part about this wasn’t being stuck on a mouse wheel of philosophical dread, though, sure, that was annoying. The annoying part was that he could only “submit” one answer a day to the cursed letter. One attempt, then it would burn up, only to reappear on the next day.

After another few dozen weeks, he had run out of all the philosophy and religion-based answers he could find. So, he tried to come up with his own answers to the existential crisis-inducing question.

“To love.” Burning paper.

“To experience and become more.” Burning paper.

“To create something that stands the test of time.” Burning paper.

“To not be stuck in a loop, repeating the same day forever.” Burning paper, though this time Darcy thought the sudden burst of flame had a bit more indignation in it.

“Fuck you too,” he said to a cloud of dissipating smoke and whatever god or demon might be watching him suffer.

Frustration and anger welled up inside Darcy as the years wore on, and eventually, he gave up. He started to simply read the books the library had on offer.

The Iliad, The Holy Bible, The Tale of Genji, Les Misérables, he even read Eat, Pray, Love. He read until his eyes grew weary, he read until late in the night when he would fall asleep in a cozy reading nook, alone, save for the company of his precious pages.

“Three and a half years, huh?” He asked the question to himself as he walked up the same forty-six steps out front of the library’s main building. He had grown more accustomed to talking to himself since talking to other people got a bit boring when they didn’t remember him the next day.

Staring up at the gray, overcast sky, Darcy paused on the last step.

Talking to myself…

It was a eureka moment like the stars aligned and the clouds parted. Darcy ran back home, reading be damned. He knew the answer.

“Please, please,” he had a feeling about this one; it had to be right. Reaching his apartment, he put one shaking palm on the door handle.

“Please work,” A thought interrupted his prayer. A new thought, another realization that caused him to pause. “If this doesn’t work, well,” He looked back up to whatever god sat high in the sky, “well, that’s okay too. I can try again today.” He meant tomorrow, but figured the god that had cursed him to this existence probably knew what he meant.”

Darcy knelt down with one trembling hand and picked the letter up from the other side of the threshold. Then, with paper in hand, he walked over to his desk. Sitting down, he had to draw in a few deep breaths to ease the mix of anxiety and excitement that were welling up from inside him. Darcy steeled his nerves, picked up a pen for hopefully the last time, and wrote his answer.

“It is not our question to answer, but our’s to ask. ‘What is the meaning of life?’” and Darcy set the pen down.

Nothing happened.

Then, the world went dark.

Darcy Solomon woke up on March 16th, not remembering the time he had spent in limbo but having a good feeling about today.