Selbstüberwindung

Thunder clashed outside my bedroom window, jolting me from my sleep. I sat straight up in my twin bed and noticed something… strange. There, at the end of the bed, sat a man—or, rather, the transparent shadow of a man. His shoulders were raised to his ears and his gaze landed directly onto the one decoration in my 10X10 studio apartment—a Christmas wreath small enough to wear as a bracelet hung on the wall just to the right of my kitchenette.

I thought briefly that I might ask the shadow who he was. There was something familiar about him—something telling about his slumped posture and his furrowed brow glued to the Christmas wreath. I thought that I must know this man. Before I could open my mouth, he spoke, still fixed on the donut-sized wall ornament.

“Are you a Christian, boy?” His voice echoed throughout the room, as if bouncing from one corner to the next before penetrating my ears.

“It’s just a decoration.” I whispered in response.

“A decoration.” His gaze turned from the wall on the other end of the room to my frozen face, and I saw him for what he was.

“I understand you,” I said, and I watched as the large, salt and pepper mustache on his lip curled on the edges and small wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.

Friedrich Nietzsche stood from the end of my bed, straightened his coat and pointed to my feet, which were dangling over the edge of the mattress. “You really should buy a larger bed, dear boy,” he said in a grandfatherly manner, and he continued, “Well then, I wouldn’t suppose you have any snacks, would you? I haven’t eaten in decades.” With this, he turned toward my kitchenette and pulled open my refrigerator door, rummaging through it aimlessly.

I rubbed my eyes and sat up, flattening flyaways with the palm of my hand so as to look presentable. “Uh, Fred—Can I call you Fred?”

Nietzsche made a distinct “aha” sound as if he had just struck gold and pulled himself out of the refrigerator along with a carton of 2% milk. “I usually prefer whole, but 2% will do.” He took a seat on a bar stool at the end of my bed and gulped directly from the carton.

“Fred,” I began again, “You’re dead, no?”

“Oh, yes, my boy. Dead as a doornail.” He took another sip and expelled a milky belch.

“Right.” I tugged at my shirt a little before continuing. “What exactly are you doing in my apartment, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He tipped the bottom of the carton up, slurping down the last drop of milk. “Oh, I’ll let you decide the meaning of this visit,” he said, tossing the carton into a trash bin near the door. Then, he pointed at the wreath and added, “It’s Christmas.”

“Well, no,” I responded, “Christmas Eve.”

“My boy,” He said with a chuckle in his voice, “When you’ve lived as long as I, you find that the hours between two days tend to melt together.” He gave me the kind of stare your grandfather gives when he’s just told a story from his boyhood—straight on and unblinking with the slightest hint of a grin beneath his wrinkled face.

“But you haven’t lived,” I said, “Not really. I mean… you’re—”

“See-through. Yes,” he interjected, “but I am here, nonetheless, and if to be present is not living, then, I confess, I do not know what is.” He wiped a bit of milk from his mustache and checked his pocket watch. A bell outside rang once.

“You must be here to teach me something,” I said, “otherwise, what would be the point? I mean, you’re one of the greatest philosophers in history. Why would you come to my room in the middle of the night?” I sat as if I were a plastic mannequin glued to my mattress, awaiting his answer.

His response didn’t come until the outside bell rang twice. By that time, he had begun to fade incrementally until all that was left was his wide mustache, the mouth beneath it, and two eyes set behind a strong brow.

“In death,” he began,” I have found that I am more alive than you or any other breathing human could ever be. Meaning is irrelevant, dear boy, until death finds you.” He let another knowing grin spread across the empty space where his face had been previously. “You’ll want to answer that,” he said, and his face faded into nothingness. All that was left of Friedrich Nietzsche in my apartment was an empty milk carton and his last words bouncing around the four corners of the room. I sat for quite a while with a furrowed brow contemplating those words. What was the point of his visit? Just to wake me in the middle of the night? What could he possibly mean by this?

A ringing began again—this time inside my room. I snapped my head toward the floor to see my cellphone screen lit with an incoming call, and the caller ID read “S.” I grabbed the phone from the floor and pressed the little green icon at the bottom of the screen.

“Hello?” My heart began to throb as I awaited a response from the other end of the line. I hadn’t heard her voice in years, and my ears seemed to burn with anticipation.

The silence from the other side was cut sharply by her words, “I just had the strangest dream,” she said.

“Yeah,” I replied, “So did I.”

“W--will you come over?”

"Yes," I said, and the bell outside rang three times. The echoing of Niezsche's voice had stopped.