‘Are you sure you want to do this? The past is not worth dwelling on,’ I ask once more, my hand ready on the door handle.
‘Say that to a historian. While I agree with you in principle, I believe our past has answers for the present day. We were stronger in the past, weaker now, I want to understand why,’ the child replies. I wince at the word ‘weak’, it’s a word I don’t like used in this consciousness, lest the Subconscious get wind of it and reinforce it. I spent much of my time differentiating between strength, resilience, weakness, vulnerability. What do these words mean, what do they look like, what do they feel like, what is the difference, what matters more? I shrug, the kid will need to learn for itself. It’s always the way with the young, they need to see for themselves that even if you have the answer, some things just don’t work. I don’t blame the kid, it’s a creature of cognition, it will intellectualise answers in search of understanding, but this consciousness is much more than just a brain. No matter how many answers we collect, they mean little to our heart, our body, our feelings, our soul, parts of us that operate on different dimensions, in different ways, to create this one identity.
The door is not so easy to open, not because there’s anything wrong with the door, but because there’s clothes discarded on the tracks behind it. The Logician is with us, and he uses his enormous strength to push the door open. I walk into my bedroom from when I was a teenager, the whole room a pigsty. Clothes are strewn all over the floor, the room proliferating into a disorganised mess, and just by the window a figure sitting on the pane. I try to step over the clothes, but there’s no way forward than to step onto it, the child shadowing me. The person at the window sits with their knees to their chin, staring at the night sky, moon gazing and basking.
‘Funny, you spent your whole term trying to get out of this house, now you’ve chosen to retire in it?’ I remark.
‘I may have spent most of my term creating an escape from this place, but to me it is familiar and comfortable. The escape was for the rest of you to experience and live in freedom, not me. And with all that freedom you choose to disturb my retirement,’ the figure by the window asks, not caring to look away from the moon, watching so intensely she might miss something. ‘Let me guess, you’ve come to me because you need to save yourself once again?’
‘What makes you say that?’ I ask with genuine curiosity.
‘It is always the way with us. We grew up in books where heroes save damsels in distress. But no matter how great our distress, no heroes appeared, and those that did, only did so to conquer our virtue, to possess us for their own pleasures. The world is much crueler than the books we read, wouldn’t you agree?’ The figure tears their sight from their moon to reveal their prepubescent face. To the surprise of no one, it’s another version of me, this time aged at 11. This one is older than the child who looks about 8, but they resemble themselves something uncanny. The difference is that the 11 year old has head hair and a weary, but vicious, reflection in their eyes. None of the curiosity and innocence of the Apprentice Storyteller, she’s more hardened, the most experienced one of us.
‘Storyteller Apprentice this is the Original Storyteller, the first of our kind,’ I introduce. Her eyes gaze over the child and myself, but to the Logician her face lights up. She hops off the window and runs to wrap her arms as far as she can around his thick torso.
‘Logic!’ she exclaims.
‘Hello Storyteller,’ the Logician replies and heaves her up to his level with a huge smile, spinning her with glee. He hasn’t smiled before, but I can see his teeth are crooked, a testament of what our teeth looked like before we could afford braces. Before we yielded to the influences of the collective consciousness. A different Storyteller, not one present in the room currently, insisted on changing our appearance to be more palatable to the outer world. They said life would be easier if we were more attractive and they weren’t wrong, much to everyone’s dismay. And to think, our value would be measured by our merits, how silly of us.
‘Where is Faith?’ this Storyteller asks, searching.
‘She doesn’t want to be perceived by anyone but us and god,’ the Logician answers. The Original Storyteller nods in understanding before regarding myself and the child.
‘Why do you ask for Faith? Of all the possible characters that we could have brought with us, why her?’ the child is curious. This Storyteller grabs the Logician with her right hand.
‘Storytellers wield two tools to deliver their stories. Logic is your right-hand man, if a story makes sense, the others are more likely to be convinced by them. Faith is your left-hand woman, without her, our stories lack conviction, they’re beyond belief, even farfetched sometimes. You need both to succeed in Storytelling,’ the Original Storyteller explains.
‘Can we not just make her join us in this story?’ the child requests.
‘No,’ the three of us reply at the same time.
‘Have respect for her decision. If you don’t show her that courtesy, she won’t respect any of your decisions,’ Logic recommends.
‘You haven’t met her yet, you don’t want to start off on the wrong foot,’ I elaborate.
‘You cannot force faith,’ this Storyteller finishes. Diligently, the child nods and takes notes. The child steps closer, it’s a bit shorter than the Original Storyteller, and examines her carefully, as if trying to see something. Much like the Original was staring at the moon with wonder, watching to figure out its mysteries and magic.
‘I wanted to meet you not because we need to save ourselves from others, but to save us from ourselves,’ the child begins. The Original cocks her head. ‘I want to be a powerful Storyteller, I want you to show me how,’ the child requests.
‘Interesting… you fear those you share a consciousness with, more than those you don’t? You seek to rule our mind with an iron will?’ the Original Storyteller repeats softly, cautiously.
‘I don’t want power in the traditional sense. Our current consciousness and mind is a mess, I have to organise it somehow, but the characters here are fiercely independent and stubborn. They don’t listen to me, to each other, or to anyone else,’ the child explains.
‘And you think power will help them to hear you? To listen? You think I can teach you how to be powerful?’
‘Logic, who is the most powerful in this consciousness?’
‘The Subconscious,’ Logic does not hesitate to answer. The Original Storyteller’s expression changes at the mention of the Subconscious. Many emotions flicker across her face, from fear, to anger, to shock, then finally resolution.
‘And who, if anyone, tamed the Subconscious?’ the child continues.
‘The Original Storyteller. With the help of everyone they shared a consciousness with,’ he replied.
‘Could you then logically deduce that the Original Storyteller is indeed the most powerful Storyteller of all the Storytellers? Perhaps of everyone who exists in this consciousness?’
‘Depending on the criteria and definition of power… in some perspectives yes. Not just because of her interactions with the Subconscious. She created our foundational stories that shape us into who we are today,’ he replies.
‘I’m standing right here,’ I say, as the current Storyteller, slightly offended as to why my power and wisdom is not sought on such matters.
‘If that’s not power then what else is? I want that for us again, I want to retell our foundational stories, I want the Subconscious to be aligned, I need power for that,’ the child announces.
‘You are confused. Power does not equal control, if anything, it can cause blind, directionless chaos. We’ve already learned this, I tested our appetite for power long ago and found it distasteful. We are not the power-hungry type because we are not weak. Fragile perhaps, but not weak. Don’t be fooled by others’ stories, power is not your saviour, it would never be fitting. Only the weak seek power and we are not weak,’ the Original Storyteller cocks her head, ignoring my remark.
‘No, that’s not what I meant. I want everyone to come together in agreement, but there’s others more powerful than me in here, louder, stronger, more convincing. Take the Subconscious, it is currently leaking into the consciousness, causing anguish, and it needs to be contained again, how can I do this if not by force? You were the Storyteller who leashed the Subconscious, were you not?’
‘That is one story. Another is that I unleashed the Subconscious. That in an effort to gain power, I broke the walls between consciousness and drew power from a forbidden place. To call upon power without wisdom is a dangerous thing, a child like me shouldn’t have been capable of such a feat. But I was and I did and now a curtain separates the consciousness from the Subconscious instead of a wall. I could access power, but it’s a two way street, things that shouldn’t be able to accessed us, entered us, consumed us. There is a cost to power, a cost you cannot afford, you cannot put the cat back into the hat. You too will hurt yourself if you exercise such power again,’ the Original warns.
‘But I’m not a child,’ the child says. ‘And we’re overflowing with competing factions that exist in us already, except this time it’s everyone for themselves. There is no peace here and the Subconscious-’
‘The Subconscious is not to be played with!’ the Original yells. We’re all taken back by her sudden outburst. I can see the stress creep into the Original, tightening her face, clenching her jaw.
‘It plays with us! How else am I to subdue it?’ the child yells back.
‘Do you have any idea what the Subconscious is capable of? Do you have any idea how powerful it is? It is connected to the unconscious and the unconscious is connected to everything that has ever existed, everyone that has ever existed. The Subconscious cannot be tamed, we are miniscule in comparison,’ the Original scrunches her hair together, pulling on it for the sensation in the scalp. ‘See for yourself,’ the Original waves her hand and the bedroom changes into a memory and a dream.
On one side, there is an operating table, and a 13 year old me lays strapped in, paralysed in fear. Besides the table is a butcher, covered in protective equipment, face hidden, layered in blood. My blood. This is the dream.
On the other side is the memory. It is my 13th birthday and my parents are in a screaming match. My mother is beyond mad, accusing my father of hijacking the sanctity of my birthday by introducing me to my newborn half-sister. I don’t agree with her, but I do not feel safe enough to say so.
In the dream, the butcher shows me the knife. He creates an incision in the centre of my chest. It’s just a dream, I hear myself try to be reassuring. He opens up my chest, violently tearing apart my ribs with his gloved hands.
In the memory, my mother violently grabs one arm as my father grabs the other. I feel my chest, my muscles tearing apart as I’m caught between their fight, unable to speak, unable to say anything.
In the dream, the butcher carefully removes my heart. ‘This is your heart,’ he says. Please wake up, I hear myself. He picks up another organ for display. ‘This is your liver,’ he announces. I can’t seem to wake up. He starts unreeling my intestines. ‘This is your guts.’
In the memory, my older brother comes out to investigate the commotion and sees the distress in my eyes. Tells me to go inside, tells my father to leave, he has done enough. I scurry inside. ‘If you don’t leave, I will make you,’ my 18 year old brother warns. ‘You can’t speak to your father like that!’ When he tries to force his way inside, my brother punches my father, decking him. They don’t speak again for a decade, it’s not my fault but I still feel guilty.
In the dream, we restart from the beginning. The incision, the feeling of every rib forced apart, the organs presented to me one by one. I’ve lost count of how many times this has repeated. I can’t seem to wake up and I can’t seem to forget. I remember every detail, every feeling, the sight of every heart, every liver, every coil of intestine.
‘Tell me, which of these two matter more. Which one is more traumatising? Our family being pulled apart, or our body being pulled apart?’ Both scenes continue, in the memory I escape to my room, silent, dysregulating, alone. In the dream, the butchering continues in the exact same way.
‘The nightmares. But you took back control. You fought it, you stopped the Subconscious from forcing us into such awful scenes. You unified every part of this consciousness against the Subconscious, and I remember you winning. But you won’t show me how you did it,’ the child doesn’t pull its punches.
‘No one should have to do it. Ever. Did you ever wonder why I had to take on the Subconscious? Why we had such terrible nightmares?’ the Original retorts in a lower voice. A pause to consider the possibilities. ‘People like us, people who are born into circumstances out of their control, people who experience trauma from a young age, people who’s vulnerability is preyed on, do you know what happens to their psyche?’
‘They break,’ the child replies.
‘No. That comes later. First, they adapt. They survive. Then, when they are finally free of these burdens and exploitation, that’s when they break because they don’t know another way of being. Peace causes distress, rest causes chaos. You see it all the time, people who doubt themselves, who don’t feel they belong anywhere, people who believe they are unworthy of anything other than the trauma they’re familiar with. But we were never like that. We never truly believed we deserved the life we had. We never broke, not really. We never permanently lost our sense of self or worthiness. Despite the horrors, we had unwavering ambition, limitless imagination, we never ended up like those with similar struggles to our own. Have you ever wondered why?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ the child admits.
‘It’s because we had a frame of reference. For others, that trauma is the worst thing they can fathom because it’s the worst thing they’ve ever experienced in their short lives,’ she points to the memory. ‘They blame themselves for that. They know no better. But we were different, we knew better,’ the Original points to the butcher in the dream. ‘We understood there were things much worse that could be experienced, because we were experiencing it. We had no reason to blame ourselves for our circumstances. We had another common enemy to stand up against, and that enemy was not us, but the Subconscious and everything it’s connected to.’
‘You’re saying if I want to unify this consciousness, I must have everyone agree to a common enemy?’
‘Perhaps. But never let it be Subconscious. I made the mistake of using the Subconscious for its limitless source power, and I could never recreate the walls that separate us. I could only create walls of wisdom for it to flow inside. And if it is leaking, if it’s truly meddling as you’ve described, if the container is eroding, it means you’re experiencing nightmares again, yes?’ the Original asks.
‘Yes. But not like these nightmares, they’re not that severe. But they are persistent, and in some ways more insidious. They’re infrequent enough to evade attention, but inadvertent enough to cause dissociation, they live in our peripherals, chipping away at us. Whereas you could turn nightmares into stories by confronting them we are losing time, space and vigor to the unknown,’ the child explains. The Original nods knowingly.
‘Like a leak in a roof, water damage spreads so easily, so inconspicuously. You should remember, I only confronted my nightmares successfully once. Every other time I failed,’ she points again to the dream, where once again the butcher creates an incision and I once again try to will myself awake.
‘I never saved us overnight. It took years, at least five, to rally everyone to circumvent such violence and repurpose it into meaning. And with a lack of time and space, you are unlikely to replicate the outcome of my work,’ she sighs. ‘Let’s ride. We have much to discuss,’ she says and immediately we are transported onto bicycles, cruising the streets of our suburb. I wasn’t expecting the sudden shift, the front wheel of my bike pivots and I instinctively grab the handlebars to swerve in uncertainty. I nearly knock into Logic, who swerves away just in time.
‘Like riding a bike,’ I chuckle as I settle into the seat. The Original rides with her arms crossed, a skilled rider, she’s roamed these streets many nights. The child is in a large tricycle, pedaling hard to keep up. To my horror, I see the Minotaur riding with us, its arms also crossed but staring ahead. No one seems to notice or be bothered by it but me, and though my spine chills, I say nothing of it.
‘It was easier for me than it will be for you. My battles were cut and dry, black and white, good versus bad. Much like you, I did not feel I had power and the aim was simple enough: empower myself, become greater than the world beyond me, great enough that it could not hurt me anymore. There were no questions or confusions about what the right thing was to do, not until I finally gained some semblance of power, but for what reason? I had no guidance on how to exercise it and I just hurt others as a result, ourselves included. In your world, in your time, there are many more variables to consider. Much more responsibility, it is not so clear cut. I may have been the most powerful Storyteller to date, but that is not an attestment of my strength, only the simplicity of my time. The Subconscious drowned us and I only needed to learn to swim.’
‘Simplicity then. Teach me simplicity, make it easy for me,’ the kid asks, exerting all its energy to keep up with our little posse. I keep a careful eye on the Minotaur who does not seem to care to notice me.
‘Make it easy? Fine, I’ll humor you, ask me three questions. I will answer them honestly. And should you miss something, I will then offer you three pieces of advice I think you need to know,’ the Original offers.
‘Why only three?’ the child asks. The Original giggles, covering her mouth, finally showing some childlike mannerism as she exchanges a look with the Logician.
‘Be careful now, that’s already one off the list. You want things to be simple, but we are not a simple person. We never were, we never will be. This conundrum you must reconcile or the outer world will use this against us. And most people are cruel.’
‘I don’t believe that, people are not innately cruel,’ the child retorts. The Original Storyteller slows to match the speed of the child.
‘You think people are not cruel? What then of power? You have no idea how powerful you already are. Power incites cruelty, if not by the abuse of our own power, than by others in revolt of it. Even if you feel you cannot embody it yet, others can sense that power within you, within us, and they do not know what to make of it. That power will always be greeted with suspicion, jealousy or disdain, because weak people understand that you are greater than them. They know they are your prey, should you choose them. They will not trust you with that power and why should they? Make no mistake, no matter how bad you feel, how bad you think you’re doing, others will do much worse to us if you give them the opportunity. They’ll ruin you before they let you ruin them. That is my first piece of advice, don’t trust anyone in this world. Trust only us, for only we have a vested interest in forgiving ourselves for any misuse of power.’
‘And this is when my wisdom, my work, my stories adds to yours little Miss Original. While it is true that people are cruel, and trust is to be earned otherwise it will be taken for granted, to truly distrust the world, to believe we don’t belong anywhere else, with anyone else, you give birth to creatures that reinforce such beliefs. The Original created our Depression on this premise,’ the Original side-eyes me, neither confirming or denying, guarded in her expression. But I know her, I understand her struggles, I know she regrets having such a creature come to fruition under her watch, but her pride would never allow her to admit to it. How fixed her mindset had been, so sure about the cruelty in this world, that she overlooked the cruelty she created just to reinforce such a belief.
‘It was not your fault, or yours,’ I look at the sheepish Logician, who had contributed to the Original’s work at the time. He found fault in every person, deduced it meant something sinister, he was biased to believe such things. It is also the reason why he is shaped so strangely, a big man all out of proportion, a physical rendition of the fallacies in his logic.
‘But the Depression is every Storyteller’s natural enemy, our antagonist. I have worked just as hard to tame it as the Original did with the Subconscious. You may not have experienced Depression yet child, but you will. Never directly, it would not be brave enough to reveal its face to you, but indirectly, it speaks to the Subconscious and all the others, inserting doubt into their beliefs. It is a stain that can never be washed, a weed that cannot be uprooted.’
‘So what you’re saying is that the Original created one of the most powerful figures in this consciousness?’
‘That’s not the take away from this story,’ I comment.
‘Which is why I need to learn from the Original. I need to learn to create something just as powerful, something aligned to be good this time. How do I become more powerful, how do I get everyone to listen to my stories? That is my second question!’
I slow on the bike, to make sure I’m behind the Minotaur, not ahead. I’ll chase it this time, not the other way, though it seems oblivious to my watchful eyes.
‘It is not power you crave, little Storyteller. You confuse power for greatness, you will not garner the respect of those you share a consciousness with if you’re powerful. Power is easy, rudimentary even, power creates fear and fear creates avoidance. Take our current Storyteller for example. Have you not noticed how uneasy, how afraid, how anxious she is riding next to the Minotaur. She is afraid of the Minotaur’s power, does she look like she will do anything it asks of her?’ the Original says. I knew it! I knew I wasn’t crazy, there is a Minotaur riding with us under the starry night. The Minotaur glances at me and snorts in acknowledgment.
‘I don’t like being made an example,’ I complain. The Original laughs.
‘You see, the impact of power. Fear not Storyteller, the Minotaur cannot get you, it is merely symbolic,’ the Original reassures. Now it’s the child’s turn to stress, for its ideas and thoughts about power are questioned and dismantled. A cookie crumbling under its own weight.
‘I offer you my second piece of advice. It is not power you seek. What you need is a binding agent, you need connection. Build bridges, build relationships, build a community, this is how you will command power in this consciousness. When this collective is clear and truly conscious, that is when things will become easy for you. A binding agent is your solution. We had a common enemy as our binding agent, but this I would not recommend, and it may be tempting but you must never make an enemy out of the Subconscious again,’ the Original recommends.
‘Okay, so I need to bind this consciousness with an agreement to something. It needs to be something true, something sensible but believable. Something simple,’ the child deduces.
‘I caution you to not fool yourself into thinking the rules of cognition apply to all parts of our being, little Storyteller. There are many parts of ourselves, to hold it all to a universal standard is setting yourself up for failure. Apply principles, not conditions,’ the Logician remarks.
‘But surely a little agreement is more a principle than a condition? What if the agreement is that we all try to take better care of ourselves? Surely that can be generalised without causing a dissonance.’
‘You assume every part of ourselves can do better. There are parts of us too damaged, they cannot be better, they are at best healing. There are parts of us that are designed to fade away. Think of the number Depression has done to our memory, that rot cannot take better care of us. Think of our physical body degrading into time, our bones cannot erode any better. Think of the feelings that rise out of tension demanding attention, you automatically reject their existence when they present themselves in a disorderly, disruptive way. Do you see how cognition does not provide a binding answer? It does not always build relationships, but it can break them down,’ Logic tries to explain.
‘Like I said, we are not a simple person. Multidimensional beings rarely are. There is a way to uniform this consciousness, but it is not by force. It is more a practice, a matter of habit,’ the Original suggests.
‘I know my final question then. If I’m to uniform this consciousness, should I focus on aligning the Subconscious or the conscious? Both are problematic, I don’t know where to begin,’ the child asks. The Original breathes deeply in consideration.
‘What comes first, the chicken or the egg? It will feel like you should focus on the Subconscious, because that is what feels wrong. But you must stay focused on the conscious, no matter how uncomfortable or wrong it feels. You and the Subconscious do not respond in the same way to inward focus, you are like chalk and cheese. It is unreal this Storyteller has come this far inwardly focusing on the Subconscious through writing,’ the Original comments.
‘What can I say, the words flow naturally, it feels like they’ve been pent up and building. Like they’ve been waiting to be released,’ I reply.
‘The Subconscious can bottleneck and overflow. You must understand how powerful it is, it has access to thousands of years of memories, it is our DNA, our ancestors, it contains everything from the other side, inside it, it is connected to everything that has ever existed. It will hurt us if it builds, but you cannot focus on it either or you will lose yourself to its endless depths. Yes, it’s spilled over to our side, but focus will never contain it or control it. You can only ever direct it. It subsided in my time because I redirected it into itself. You won’t be able to do the same as I did but if you focus on the conscious part of our being, the Subconscious will follow your lead. Focus on the consciousness, it is more within your realm and understanding, and it can be won over with your stories. My third piece of advice is to work within our strengths to deliver your stories: honesty, integrity, opposition, writing, lucid dreaming, these are only some of our strengths. You lean on our strengths, you will find the work comes easier. Resist our shortcomings and it will feel impossible. You can manipulate and leverage our weaknesses, fear of failure, shame, guilt, to guide your stories, but be careful using such techniques for we do not want to identify with such things. The longer you use them, the more likely they are to make up this consciousness. Much like I did with Depression. Take lessons from those that came before you, they understand these things,’ the Original suddenly grabs her handlebars and skids to a break. We all follow suit.
‘Are you saying that I should just do what the current Storyteller recommends, no new ideas? I was so sure, so convinced, that the Subconscious was to be confronted, that if I did, it would be smooth sailing,’ the kid murmurs.
‘No. Not again. It has been trialed and tested. Besides, you underestimate this Storyteller,’ she says, looking at me. The child doesn’t seem terribly convinced.
‘It’s true, she’s made mistakes. She wrote stories that were untrue. She believed the wrong things. She trusted too much. She was dumb, and she let herself be confused and led astray. That is what you get when you doubt yourself. But I have done worse things than her. I didn’t trust enough. And in that space where trust should have existed, Depression took its place. I tapped into the power of the Subconscious to bring forth power, but I received more than just power. The horde of anger that continue to plague us long after my retirement, the nightmares that consumed us, to name a few. I used things a child should never use, I was forced to do things no child should be made to do. I may be powerful, but I was irresponsible. She, on the other hand, has turned grief into compassion, she widened this consciousness for the right reasons, to better understand others, to make space for all our feelings.’
‘No need to toot my horn that loudly, we all know I suppress our feelings more than I create space for them,’ I interject.
‘That is not entirely true. The Subconscious suppresses, as a force of habit, my orders, my stories. You create space, but make the mistake of letting others hijack that space, things that don’t belong there. Take it from me, to a starving animal, mud tastes like meat. Do not neglect yourself for long, or any attention will feel like love,’ the Original winks at me, a secret reference only we share. I frown in response, less impressed with the reference.
‘This binding agent you mentioned, what is it for me?’ the child asks.
‘You used up all your questions, and there is no more advice from me to you. Ask the Storyteller,’ the Original replies sternly. The child looks at me expectedly for the answers. I sigh and blow a raspberry.
‘I don’t know kid, there’s many binding agents. Faith could have helped us, but she doesn’t want to exist on a page. The Will To Live is another option,’ I say.
‘Except we don’t have a Will To Live. It left, remember, with the Storyteller before you,’ the Logician reminds me. Oh I remember. You see, I wasn’t the Storyteller that came after the Original, there was another before me. I wasn’t a student of the Original, or the other, I had no guidance like this Apprentice does. My predecessor went into exile when I was created by the Subconscious. I cleaned up their mess despite entering a consciousness with key cornerstones missing; an experienced Storyteller, the Will To Live and his rallying call, Faith refused to speak, not to mention the incessant, stupid presence of Grief. I started from scratch, I built everything by hand, I rebuilt trust within this consciousness. I respect Grief now, but I hated her then, and I blamed her for everything. Everything.
‘Exiled from this consciousness,’ I correct. I take a deep breath and I remember when I was in a similar position as the Apprentice. There was a path I could not take, but perhaps things are different this time. Perhaps the child can.
‘I have an idea,’ I say.