Grigori Efimovich Rasputin and the perils of immortality

“Welcome, esteemed guest, to this exclusive, albeit ethereal, interview,” I began, my voice echoing slightly in the dimly lit, opulent chamber. “It is a rare privilege to speak with someone of your… unique experience, Grigori Efimovich Rasputin.”

A low, resonant chuckle filled the space. “Unique experience, indeed,” Rasputin rumbled, his eyes, rumored to possess hypnotic power, glinting in the faint light from the flickering candles. “Some might call it a curse, others a gift. But you wish to speak of immortality, do you not, little journalist?”

“Precisely,” I affirmed, adjusting my notes. “Many dream of living forever. What, in your centuries of… existence, have you found to be the greatest peril of such a state?”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “The greatest peril, my friend, is not the boredom, as many assume, though that too is a gnawing worm. No, it is the unbearable weight of memory. Imagine carrying every joy, every sorrow, every betrayal, every love, every loss, for hundreds of years. The mind, it was not built for such burdens.”

He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “You see empires rise and fall, faces change, technologies blossom and wither. You outlive everyone you ever hold dear, again and again. Each farewell is a shard of glass in the heart, and after a while, your heart becomes a mosaic of pain. You learn to steel yourself, to love less deeply, to invest less in the fleeting lives of mortals. And that, my friend, is a true death.”

“So, the emotional toll outweighs all other concerns?” I pressed, trying to imagine such an existence.

“Absolutely,” he declared, taking a sip from a goblet I hadn’t noticed before. “The physical body, it can mend, it can adapt. But the soul… the soul is not so resilient. It yearns for an end, for rest, for the sweet oblivion that is the natural order of things. To deny that order is to invite a slow, agonizing decay of the spirit.”

“You mentioned boredom earlier. Does that not become a significant factor over such vast stretches of time?”

“It does, eventually,” Rasputin conceded with a sigh. “After you have seen every sunrise, heard every symphony, tasted every wine, conquered every challenge… novelty becomes a distant memory. You seek meaning, but find only repetition. You become a specter haunting your own existence, a shadow of what you once were.”

“Many philosophers have pondered the nature of time and eternity. How has your unique perspective shaped your understanding of these concepts?”

“Time,” he mused, “is a river to mortals, flowing ever onward. For me, it is a vast, stagnant ocean. Eternity is not a boundless adventure; it is an endless confinement. The greatest freedom, I have come to realize, is the freedom to cease.”

“Your words paint a stark picture, Grigori Efimovich,” I concluded, feeling a profound sense of melancholy. “Thank you for sharing such an intimate and sobering perspective on a concept so many romanticize.”

“Think not of immortality as a blessing, little journalist,” Rasputin warned, his voice softening, “but as the ultimate, inescapable prison. May you live a full life, and find peace in its natural conclusion.”