Tell me a story. Bring your funhouse mirror to me, distorting, altering form. Show me to me in the guise of character, keep me safe. Let me look upon myself in the shape of another, and tell me what I should see. Shine a light under the bed, and please tell me you find no monster there.
Sing, O Muse, of the rage of Achilles… come clown, give us a laugh. Dance, monkey, dance! The sun sinks lower in the west with every passing breath, and the ghosts are surfing in on the shadows. Casper? No, some revenant seeking its pound of flesh. I need catharsis, Bill, and you’ve given it before. To sleep, to dream, evermore.
Wormtongue at my ear, whispering his poison. He says, “you are,” and I reply, “I am.” The lines come into focus, and I am born of the thinking mind, the great usurper. That which reduces all of the cosmos to fear and loneliness. He is always here and I am always there, watching the leaves fall and thinking, “why me?”
Nope… back to the story. Tell me how the protagonist propels our better angels forward, how the antagonist’s equal but opposite reaction is overcome. Give me food for thought, a bone for that wolf to gnaw on in the corner. A moment’s peace before it comes bearing its teeth again.
When I was still young, I killed a deer. The knife was put in my hand, the responsibility made clear. A cut from sex to sternum, opening wide. Don’t hit the stomach, it’ll stink like hell. Acid stalwart in its work, unmaking, releasing. A process made obsolete. Separate diaphragm from rib, reach up past empty lung and still heart. Grip the windpipe, careful not to cut your finger. When it’s done, separate organ from organism and leave the guts for the birds, for the wolf. A carcass for a meal, a trophy for the wall. Blood to the elbow. What had been no longer was.
Sing us a song, you are the piano man, after all. Let my drowning have a soundtrack, at least. Don’t make it too personal, unless you’ve got something nice to say. I get enough of that at home.
Well, too late. He’s back again, telling me secrets others don’t want me to hear. Calling me to battle, inspecting my uniform. Gun in hand, pushing me out of the trenches when his whistle isn’t motivation enough. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more! In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility. Wow… I wish you would’ve just stopped there, Hal.
Fair enough, then, have it your way. Show me fear in a pageful of Eliot, tell me War is God and dance your immortal dance, you fat, evil bastard. Put the water in my hands and tell me not to slip on the puddle forming at my feet. I’ll do the things, get the grades, get the money, send sperm wriggling after egg, and keep the party going. This one is going nowhere, folks. Get a job, loser.
Back, foul beast! Your words have no power here. The only battle worth the fighting is within us, and the only way to win is to see that it is no battle, only a conversation. I think we may have forgotten that one can be without the other.
So, bring a truer mirror to my face, show me my insanity and what it has wrought. It’s not so exotic, nothing more than a defense AI programmed in anticipation of a war that no one wins. Come, say what you have to say, Grima. I’ll do my best to smile and welcome you, give you the love for which you so clearly yearn. Maybe you’ll tire of this exhaustive conflict, this neverending story. If not, I’ll still be here long after you, because I am not you. I am not the illusion you have defined as I, I am the peace that resides within all things, within all time. You will end, and I think that’s the hurt that keeps you hurting. I imagine that’s a heavy burden to carry, and I will help you.
Billboards on the highway read, “Where are you going, heaven or HELL? Call 83-FOR-TRUTH.” I called 83, and got no answer. The next morning, I found truth sitting on a park bench, and after letting my mind take a seat next to it, walked into heaven alive.