Status: Although in fact a true story, it is not the truest version.
Muses & Mind
Chapter 1: The Middle
At one point in my life it seemed like the only escape from reality was to escape fantasy. It had become apparent that not only was my mind influenced by reality, but by the mind itself. The reason I repeat with the mind and not my mind is because, in fact, there was more than just my mind, my mind simply being a host for the others. Regardless, I managed to escape fantasy. Now, there’s something very interesting about the real world: it can’t function without at least a touch of fantasy. Therefore, naturally, as I’d escaped from fantasy full on, reality did not do its part. Of course, all this without any deeper explanation may sound like utter foolishness, so as a way of connecting you to the story, I will tell it, the raw, backbone, and all.
It all started with the people around me, as did it end. Essentially, I had always been a lonely individual, and it only seemed fair to a then six-year-old me to reuse and recycle. By this I mean reusing people I’d known, as in names and personalities, once they were of no more use to me, and I to them. An example of this could be Dylan, who was inspired by my first friend, in kindergarten, after said friend left. Another being Nicholas, the toy bunny my mother had given me, which I had lost at day care. And yet another being Carolina, who was nothing more than a doll of my sister, who she’d soon abandoned after I had broken her leg (the doll’s, I wasn’t near strong enough to do anything to my sister). This continued throughout my life, as I met more and more characters, or, as I like to think of them, muses.
Getting older was not a very good sign for neither I nor the muses, because it meant responsibilities, and work. And everyone knows that with those two things a big imagination isn’t very acceptable. These people I mentioned before, they would tell me that it wasn’t good for me, that it would only end in me being prescribed pills. Although I agreed, slightly, I couldn’t bear to let the muses go. By this time I had twelve of them (at least of the good ones), each with their own identity. I’d like to think it could’ve been worse; I could still be without any of them. But most honestly what happened that fateful day was more than enough…
I woke up one morning staring at the dusty fan on the ceiling and, looking over at the clock, realized I still had some time before I had to officially wake up. With this, I decided to try and listen to all those things people had said about my muses. I relaxed again, closed my eyes, and was transported into a white room, although not very useful at the time I’m writing this, full of significant photographs I could somehow recall despite the fact I had no memory of them beforehand; this was the hall of memories and perceptions. At the end of the room there was a glass exhibit, which contained a sculpture of something resembling a brain. I walked towards it, hearing my steps echo throughout.
As I got closer I realized it had a map drawn on it. A big red “x” and a “you are here” marked the frontal lobe. There were three other lobes, the right lobe and the left lobe, and the posterior lobe, where the muses and I reside. Somehow knowing exactly what I had to do (or, better, what I shouldn’t do) I grabbed the right side and the left side, and pulled. After a loud cling from the snapping metal wires, the whole thing broke apart, falling onto the floor and shattering. Once it hit the ground an alarm set off and the once bright white light of the room turned into a flashing red. Startled by this sudden happening, I turned around quickly and looked out the window on the door marked “entrance”, where I saw the city (the left side) and the village (the right side) being split apart, the dirt road between them cracking open, revealing a bottomless pit below it. Realizing what it was I’d done, I quickly ran out through the emergency exit, waking up in my bed. I couldn’t move or speak or even yell for help. I couldn’t even hear the muses anymore, just my right and left side arguing. “Why are you so darn emotional?” “Because I need to be! Why are you so much of a jerk?!” “Because without me, this kind of garbage happens!” All I could do is stare blankly at the yellowish wall as I sat up, numb of any emotion or complex thoughts. Is this what pure reality was like?
I would tell more, but I honestly can’t remember the rest of what happened in real life except that I ended up in a hospital for 10 whole days, according to the lines I had carved into the thin brown wall above the rickety bed I slept in during that time, and that this is where I met Lu, a cross between a muse and a personality. Although I can say I’m much better now, the muses are back and more helpful than ever before; Lu is less angsty; and Little Julia has calmed down a little bit with the whole “shadowman/MITC” ideology, even the MITC himself has laid back on causing us the distress of all the bad things in the world, which he is made out of. I guess what I should have learned, what I’m trying to say, is that imagination, even if small or invaluable, is essential to reality, in the most possibly ironic way I could say so.
It all started with the people around me, as did it end. Essentially, I had always been a lonely individual, and it only seemed fair to a then six-year-old me to reuse and recycle. By this I mean reusing people I’d known, as in names and personalities, once they were of no more use to me, and I to them. An example of this could be Dylan, who was inspired by my first friend, in kindergarten, after said friend left. Another being Nicholas, the toy bunny my mother had given me, which I had lost at day care. And yet another being Carolina, who was nothing more than a doll of my sister, who she’d soon abandoned after I had broken her leg (the doll’s, I wasn’t near strong enough to do anything to my sister). This continued throughout my life, as I met more and more characters, or, as I like to think of them, muses.
Getting older was not a very good sign for neither I nor the muses, because it meant responsibilities, and work. And everyone knows that with those two things a big imagination isn’t very acceptable. These people I mentioned before, they would tell me that it wasn’t good for me, that it would only end in me being prescribed pills. Although I agreed, slightly, I couldn’t bear to let the muses go. By this time I had twelve of them (at least of the good ones), each with their own identity. I’d like to think it could’ve been worse; I could still be without any of them. But most honestly what happened that fateful day was more than enough…
I woke up one morning staring at the dusty fan on the ceiling and, looking over at the clock, realized I still had some time before I had to officially wake up. With this, I decided to try and listen to all those things people had said about my muses. I relaxed again, closed my eyes, and was transported into a white room, although not very useful at the time I’m writing this, full of significant photographs I could somehow recall despite the fact I had no memory of them beforehand; this was the hall of memories and perceptions. At the end of the room there was a glass exhibit, which contained a sculpture of something resembling a brain. I walked towards it, hearing my steps echo throughout.
As I got closer I realized it had a map drawn on it. A big red “x” and a “you are here” marked the frontal lobe. There were three other lobes, the right lobe and the left lobe, and the posterior lobe, where the muses and I reside. Somehow knowing exactly what I had to do (or, better, what I shouldn’t do) I grabbed the right side and the left side, and pulled. After a loud cling from the snapping metal wires, the whole thing broke apart, falling onto the floor and shattering. Once it hit the ground an alarm set off and the once bright white light of the room turned into a flashing red. Startled by this sudden happening, I turned around quickly and looked out the window on the door marked “entrance”, where I saw the city (the left side) and the village (the right side) being split apart, the dirt road between them cracking open, revealing a bottomless pit below it. Realizing what it was I’d done, I quickly ran out through the emergency exit, waking up in my bed. I couldn’t move or speak or even yell for help. I couldn’t even hear the muses anymore, just my right and left side arguing. “Why are you so darn emotional?” “Because I need to be! Why are you so much of a jerk?!” “Because without me, this kind of garbage happens!” All I could do is stare blankly at the yellowish wall as I sat up, numb of any emotion or complex thoughts. Is this what pure reality was like?
I would tell more, but I honestly can’t remember the rest of what happened in real life except that I ended up in a hospital for 10 whole days, according to the lines I had carved into the thin brown wall above the rickety bed I slept in during that time, and that this is where I met Lu, a cross between a muse and a personality. Although I can say I’m much better now, the muses are back and more helpful than ever before; Lu is less angsty; and Little Julia has calmed down a little bit with the whole “shadowman/MITC” ideology, even the MITC himself has laid back on causing us the distress of all the bad things in the world, which he is made out of. I guess what I should have learned, what I’m trying to say, is that imagination, even if small or invaluable, is essential to reality, in the most possibly ironic way I could say so.
♠ ♠ ♠
Twixt is where I start, just to be confusing.