The force of consciousness is instilled into me all too fast, all too suddenly, all at once. No longer am I a bystander, no longer a supporting character, no longer existing on the sidelines. I am the Storyteller, the baton of perception relayed into my hands, the only candidate left to tell the tale. But I’m just an apprentice, a child, I have so much left to learn, I am not ready to wield the pen. Besides me there’s the old Storyteller, crystalised, their face frozen into panic. On the other side, Integrity, the same aghast expression. He is but a statue, a gargoyle of what he used to be.
Ego does not fear revealing her back to them anymore, not when they do not exist anymore, their threats neutralised in a glass-encased instant. She advances towards me, fury in her eyes. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I can do. Ego looms over me, assessing my worthiness. I hunch my shoulders inwards in fright, make myself as small as I can.
‘Will you hurt me?’ I ask in a tiny voice. Her expression lightens, appeased by my fear.
‘Of course not my dear, I’m not a monster,’ she cups my face with her cold, benevolent hands.
‘I’m only human. I hurt what hurts me, no more, no less,’ she strokes my cheek with her thumb. ‘But I cannot speak on behalf of this tiger,’ she indicates to the cat in the corner. The tiger purrs in response, chewing the last bite of the heart. I remember the Storyteller saying we had to leave before the tiger finished its meal, otherwise it will get hungry again.
‘It’s time for you to leave,’ she announces and releases my face.
‘But I can’t leave without them,’ I reply.
‘Fret not child. The Subconscious will sense Judgement (Integrity) is no more and create another, just as it created you. You get to be the main character, without any of the interference of your predecessors. You’re free to go and write your stories,’ she steps backwards, pleased with her work. I don’t feel free at all, I feel empty and alone. ‘Now go,’ she pushed her palm forwards and extends the side of my room into the distance, creating an impressive amount of space between us.
‘But I’m not ready!’ I exclaim. I start to run towards her, the old Storyteller, and Integrity, but it feels like I’m running on a treadmill. I cannot close the space she’s created through my sheer effort. When I’m out of breath, I pant and glance to my side to see the exit still beside me, unmoved. I have covered absolutely no distance at all. She’s an anti-binding agent, of course she can separate me if she wants to.
‘Please! I can’t leave without them!’ I yell into the distance, but only my echoes respond. I can barely see them, she’s divided me so far. I groan, grab the side of my head, start circling in a panic.
What should I do? What have I done? I go for the door, perhaps I can get help. Logic will know what to do, or perhaps the Therapist could convince Ego to let them go, no actually, Grief is the strongest, she can come here and exercise Deliverance… But I stop myself and remember what Integrity said. Nobody else enters. They must have known this was a possibility, that Love or Ego could destroy them. That’s why they didn’t want anyone else following after them. They sacrificed themselves for me. And for what? I’ve gained nothing and lost everything.
I go back to the living room. Stand awkwardly. Not welcome here but not willing to leave either.
‘Please!’ I beg. ‘Please! I need them!’ I plead and I beg and I scream and I shout to no avail. Ego does not care to hear me and I cannot bridge this divide. I try to materialise something, a motorbike, to cross this schism. But nothing appears. I try for a bicycle, but nothing happens. I try to materialise any form of transport I can think of. Nothing. In frustration, I will as hard as I can, my powers of imagination into something, anything. I try with all my might.
A rock appears in my hand. A rock? That’s it? I throw it barely two metres in frustration. I’m not strong enough, I’m only a novice, I don’t know how to do this. I fall onto my bottom, catch my face between my legs and cry into a ball. I feel like I’m stuck in a rip in the ocean, desperately trying to reach the shore but only exhausting myself.
This is all my fault. If I hadn’t gone seeking a binding agent, if I had yielded to Integrity’s warnings, if I hadn’t been so brazen in my dialogue, I could have prevented all of this from unfolding. If I hadn’t been so bold, if I had been careful, more thoughtful, if I hadn’t been so egotistical…
That’s it! I sit up with the realisation. The Storyteller said I had to do something, implying there is something I can do to undo this mess I created. They agreed that within us exists Ego and Love, this piece of the heart only embodied a higher concentration of it. That means I can access Ego and Love again, specifically the one embodied inside me, and I can use its energy to cross this divide. I close my eyes, enter the darkness and take a meditation pose. How do I connect with my Love or my Ego? I try to find these parts of myself in the crevices of my mind, but I cannot seem to force anything out of the perpetual darkness. I try harder.
Finally there’s a shimmer in the distance. Containing my excitement, I focus on the friction, place all my attention there. The shimmer materialises further into movement and soon I can make out a shape of a four legged beast. A tiger. The same tiger who entered this prison with us. I open my eyes to see the tiger placed exactly in the same spot in my field of vision. I slowly shut and open my eyes a couple of times to confirm my suspicions; the tiger isn’t a part of my mind, it’s a part of this consciousness. Its black stripes are half Subconscious, the other half imagination, that’s probably why I can see it with or without my eyes open. What did the Storyteller say the tiger represented again? Whatever you want.
The tiger traverses the distance created by Ego with no trouble. Ego’s barriers don’t seem to apply to it, it prowls through her space as if it were only a few meters. When it reaches me, it sits in front of me.
‘I’m hungry,’ it says, the first time its spoken. I try to materialise a heart into my hands, the way the Storyteller had, but my power of imagination is rudimentary in comparison. Instead of a heart, I materialise a rock that, at best, resembles the shape of a heart. Useless!
‘I’m hungry,’ the tiger repeats, this time it lowers itself closer to the ground to pounce.
‘I can’t make you a heart, I’m too weak,’ I try to explain.
‘I take yours,’ it replies and pounces. Instinctively, I throw my hands up to protect myself, and manage to whack the tiger in the head with the not-so-useless heart shaped rock, shifting its landing off balance. It knocks me over, one of my sides clawed. I make a sound while the tiger growls, both of us surprised to feel pain. It shakes itself in recovery, as I sit up, my hands grazing the three gashes on my shoulders. It lowers itself to the ground again, ready to attack.
‘Wait!’ I yell, my hands up again to protect myself. The tiger freezes. I should use this moment of reprieve to leave this place, to escape, but I can’t in good conscious leave without those I came with. Or can I? An uncomfortable amount of time passes while I consider my options, umming and erring with uncertainty. The tiger lowers again, impatient.
‘I can give you my heart!’ I yell before it pounces. It freezes again.
‘I take your heart,’ it responds.
‘But a heart tastes better if it’s fresher, no?’ I ask. The tiger relaxes and sits on its hind legs to listen to what I have to say.
I remember my time with the Original Storyteller, she made a point to show me one of my previous nightmares. A very specific one, it’s a mystery why she chose that one. I’ve had many nightmares; the one with the butcher was only one nightmare, why did she show me that one? It was a nightmare I had a hundred times in one night, but there were other more significant nightmares, recurring ones, scarier ones. Why show me the butcher who dissected my heart, my liver, my guts in repetition? I touch the places where he took out my heart, my liver, my guts.
‘I can give you my heart, in small pieces, fresh from the chest, straight from the vein. It’s tastier that way,’ I offer. It wags its tail and opens its salivating mouth in agreement.
‘All you have to do is take me to the otherside of the room,’ I bargain. The tiger tilts its head in wonder. I take that as a yes. I abandoned my plan to connect with my own Ego, the tiger is a better bet. Now for my side of the deal. I look to my right hand and try to imagine a sharp knife. Just like that it appears. Wish that worked with the motorbike, I think to myself as I kneel onto my elbows.
I’ve seen this done a hundred times, not at this angle, but how hard can it be? Although I’m not real, I’m just a figment of the imagination, I struggle to place the knife onto my chest. It’s not going to hurt, I assure myself, I do not have a real body, this is just my imagination. When I hesitate too long, the tiger growls and makes a move indicating it will get me if I don’t get moving. I beat it to the punch and stab myself in the collarbone.
I lied, it hurts a lot. I groan, reeling from the shock. When I gather myself and muster the courage again, I try to work the knife down into an incision. I never thought it at the time, but the butcher did a good job. Especially in comparison to my efforts. I can’t guide the knife down in a cleancut motion, I have to zig and zag it like a saw, the bone is too hard. A terrible sight it is opening one’s chest. I can feel my pain surpassing my imagination. Perspective deepens enough to entangle into reality and confuse my actual body. The mind has trouble differentiating what’s real and what’s being perceived, all its attention and presence detailing my self-mutilation. It’s not hard to imagine this scene, I’ve seen this done a hundred times, I can remember every detail when I conjure up the memories, it plays like a music box and a melody, winded up by nostalgia. I can’t stay in this scene too long, it’s taking a material toll to imagine this. A part of me knows I can’t just take up all cognitive function, but I also can’t leave two major characters behind because of my mistakes.
‘Thanks for your patience,’ I joke to the staring tiger, trying to offset this horror. Nothing like a bit of humour to lighten the act of dissecting oneself. I’m no surgeon, in fact, I make the butcher look like a doctor in comparison, but I manage to create enough of a gash to work the knife into each rib. I pry each rib upwards, one by one, surprisingly they don’t crack open, they’re quite flexible. When there’s enough sticking out, I dig my fingers into myself and peel the ribs as far as they can bend. I’ll save you further details, but I manage to display my open chest to the salivating tiger. I’m surprised to find there is very little blood, only a superficial amount. I deplete my lungs of air to move it aside and cut into my heart. I bite my tongue to suppress any noise or air. I carve out a tiny piece of my heart, flick it out with the knife. The tiger launches and catches it with its mouth.
I lay back in exhaustion, trying to catch my breath. This is terribly traumatising, but it would be worse if I actually had a physical body, I remind myself. No, I’m fooling myself, I feel my pain seep into other dimensions of my being, the mind having trouble compartmentalising this moment to just this prison. The tiger nudges me with its head, reminding me there was a point behind all this. It kneels on the floor, indicating I should ride its back. Groaning, I clamber onto it, hold my insides with one hand and the large cat’s neck for balance.
It begins its simple stride to the otherside, an impossible task if it were just me. In literally six steps, it completes its side of the deal. Ego’s cold, hard eyes greet me, but she continues with her loop silently.
‘You need to let them go,’ I demand in a defeated tone as I slide off the tiger. I land onto my side, moan, roll onto my back, watch Ego upside down now. The tiger lays on its belly and chews into my heart, taking its sweet time. It is a slow eater. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.
‘Not happening,’ she replies cooly, undisturbed by my entrance or splaying chest.
‘I’m not leaving without them, and you can’t make me leave either,’ I pat the tiger on its back, and make a point of keeping a limb connected at all times, to prevent her from pushing me away again.
‘You think saving them is worth all this effort, but it is not. You don’t understand the damage your pointless act of heroism is causing,’ she reports.
‘What do you mean? What damage?’ I ask.
‘Surely you’re not that obtuse? Can’t you feel how your self-mutilation has rattled all corners of your being? Read the words above these, you described it yourself, this is traumatising you,’ she says.
‘I meant it as a figure of speech, not literally,’ I reply. She shakes her head at me.
‘No, you meant it literally, you simply cannot perceive it fully because you’re affected by the design of this prison. The walls of separations, created by the previous Discernment (Storyteller), means you’re disconnected from everything else. The lock installed by the Judge (Integrity) protects you from feeling or hearing the competing parts of yourself. They’re very good at carving little boxes to hide broken things in. I can remove these barriers and you will see what I mean, if you let me,’ she says and walks around to me.
‘Are you trying to trick me into leaving?’ I ask as she sits down on her heels.
‘See for yourself,’ her hand hovers over my forehead, and she waits for my permission to extend my perception past this prison.
‘Go on then,’ I mutter. She presses her cold palm onto my forehead and all at once, dozens, no, hundreds of voices, fight for attention as the whole of this consciousness fills me up. I didn’t know it was possible to become even more sentient than I just became. My whole being comes alive, I feel flooded in activity, images, voices, feelings, sensations, memories, sights, dreams.
The head hurts, we need to relieve the pressure.
No, this is too much medicine, it’s too much, the system cannot take anymore.
No, more, we need more, there’s not enough, there’s too much, no more.
This back will never heal, will it?
Why is our heart hurting like this? Can you not breathe? Deeper, breathe deeper, it’s so heavy and tight.
How long will we allow the Storyteller to misuse the heart like this?
Move! Activate the body, stop this!
The stomach is not doing too well. I’ll delay concern for as long as I can. Does anyone know how long we have anyway?
Never enough time. There’s never enough time.
Sit down! Get up! We’re weakening.
Hani sen kalpsizlerden olamazdin?
We’re hot, we’re burning up, we need to cool down, can you not think of anything else?
We can’t sleep, we can’t dream in this state, we need more concentration on the breath.
Pay attention, you’re losing control!
We can’t move, can anyone else connect to the body? It’s not responding.
The body is too heavy to operate, I can’t feel it, we’re numb.
We need to work on the body, the minds taking up too much space.
Oh my god, you’re all so boring.
Move it, move it, I told you to keep moving, slow down but don’t stop!
What is the heart doing, has it still not let go yet? What will it take to let go?
What is happening in there? Can anyone get a read?
Just breathe, you only need to make it through this moment.
What do we need, one at a time please, not all at once!
Hello? Is anyone listening to me? I said Depression is approaching, we need a plan of action now.
There’s a shortage of time, the Storyteller is hogging all the attention, can’t someone stop them?
I told you we needed more balance, you’re giving too much to them.
What do you want me to do?! I’m doing the best I can, let’s see you do better!
We cannot deal with the inertia of switching attention. Trust the process.
Draw more power, draw more attention, take it from tomorrow if you must, we cannot give up now.
All bets on the Storyteller fucking this up even further.
We need the Storyteller on the Depression before it digs its claws, where is she?
I see you Ego, what do you think you’re doing, you better not be-
She lifts her hand off my forehead and I gasp for air, winded by the two second experience. Is this consciousness, a thousand competing voices at any given moment? How are we not driven insane yet, how is any of this managed?
‘What the hell was that?!’ I yell, my head reeling from the swarm of voices overcoming me.
‘Consciousness without barriers or boundaries. Reality if you stay here. Attention determines experience. If you insist on this Story, if you demand on writing it, you rob other parts of this consciousness of the maintenance and care they need,’ she explains.
‘But I can’t just leave the Storyteller and Integrity,’ I argue.
‘You’re new, you don’t know how things work, so I will be gentle. You can and you must, they are replaceable. Letting go is the act of Love, not sacrificing your heart to Ego. You’re causing irrevocably distress by writing this scene, you’re confusing the mind about what’s real and what’s not. Better to cut your losses and walk away,’ she suggests.
I blink several times and doubt sets in. She’s not lying, I can feel it with complete certainty now, my presence here is truly causing havoc and distracting my mind. I take out my notepad and review my notes and memories. Integrity was right, there’s not a lot of modelling on what Love is, or how it’s different from Ego. The closest references I have are stories written in books by strangers/authors. Who’s to say they even know what Love is? I thought saving the Storyteller and Integrity was the right thing to do, that all I needed to do was make a sacrifice for something greater. But now that sacrifice might be meaningless and in vain, overdramatic even, all Storytellers have a flair for theatrics. But this isn’t a story, it’s the consciousness externalising its processing through the act of writing, this could be causing more damage to the mind than giving insight or healing. What if I am making things worse by being here, what if I’m distressing my mind with my imagination, what if my memories are reopening trauma long since forgotten, what if I am just refusing to leave because I don’t want to be a sore loser?
‘Would you like me to close your chest and send you on your way?’ she offers.
I open my mouth, close it, look at my senseless act of mutilation, what was the point of all this? I remember something the Storyteller had said: ‘there are already several competing versions of the truth. Your job is to decide which one needs to be heard’. Determination solidifies my decision and my resolve.
‘That would be lovely. Right after you give me back the Storyteller and Integrity,’ I respond. Her eyes squint in irritation and she hisses at me.
‘Have it your way then. Suffer the consequences to your actions, call yourself a victim once again,’ she says and leaves my side, her dress sweeping and sending a nice cool breeze across my overheating face.
‘You make it sound like it’s my choice whether you cause this consciousness any pain, but it’s your choice. You could just let them go, and we could call it a day, but instead you try to twist it as if it’s my fault you’re hurting us, like it’s my responsibility whether you do the right thing or not,’ I retort.
‘The right thing,’ she repeats as she resumes her loop. ‘You are as obsessed with morality as your predecessors. It is within your control whether this consciousness continues to suffer, and you choose to let it by staying here. What does your morality have to say about that?’
‘It’s not ideal, I’ll admit, but you’re not giving me much to work with. It’s my fault they’re in this position, I’m trying to fix that. You’re the one who said Integrity should have used Ego to get what he wants, I’m using my Ego to make my demands, so tell me what I’m doing wrong, am I repeating his mistakes or correcting them?’
‘You misunderstand Little Ruler and you repeat his mistakes. In this consciousness, in this moment, I represent the greatest proportion of Ego, I am to be used against Ego’s outside this consciousness, not inside it. The Judge (Integrity) believed his Ego was better than Me, he applied his Ego incorrectly against Me and our whole consciousness paid a great price. You won’t get what you want just because you want it, not in here. You can go ahead, throw a tantrum like the child you are, but it will not change anything.’
‘I lose the game of Ego’s if I withdraw,’ I repeat her previous words.
‘I have an Ego greater than yours. You cannot win this game, and you’ll lose a lot more than your heart if you stay,’ she promises.
‘You’ve put me in an impossible situation! Just give them back!’ I cry.
‘You put Me in this situation, you have no one but yourself to blame! I exist as energy, I did not ask to be fitted into a shape for you to make sense of Me, it is your kind that insisted on giving me this form, not Me! You leave them or you lose yourself. The choice is yours,’ she states. I feel so helpless, powerless and weak and it’s not just because my chest is split open. I beg and plead some more but her stance is unshakable. I’ll save you the details and myself the embarrassment.
The tiger nudges to me for another bite. I sigh and start the gruesome task of carving out the second piece of the heart for its belly. I remember the butcher’s words, this is your heart, this is your liver, this is your guts. I reach for the cushion from the couch when I’m done, put it behind me to lean back and make myself comfortable. I may be here for a while.
I have nothing but my words to work with. I close my eyes to think, and send my apologies to the rest of the consciousness, if they can even hear me. I don’t know if they can hear me inside this suburban styled prison, and I try to think of a way I can mitigate the harm I’m causing. I start to breathe, slowly, deliberately, through my nose and out my mouth. It’s the one common link between all our parts. If attention truly determines experience, then perhaps breathing is the only common activity we can do to alleviate us from our unique difficulties. Perhaps breathing is the only thing this consciousness can agree upon.
I’m sorry if me being here is hurting the rest of you. This might not be the right decision for everyone, but trust in my ability to get them back. I just don’t know how I’m going to do that. Yet.