05-1-23

Kyler

The Unknown Essays

Yesterday I wrote two essays, neither of which I had planned, intended, or even considered writing. These essays seemed different than the rest, almost transcendent. With all of the other essays I have had at least a remedial understanding of the concepts and points involved, but in these I truthfully, consciously, do not. In these essays, I know the words, the sentences, the hand movements that made them, but the thoughts processes associated with them are entirely separate from me. It was almost like watching myself weaving a rug. I knew how, but not why. I understood each strand, but the big picture, the one formed by the weaving, the style, motion, and color of each strand interacting was foreign and felt like an intrusion into the sanctity of my mind. This struck a memory, in which I read a book by Stephen King on writing, in which he felt the same way.

Stephen King wrote that, in his mind, he saw a man that controls the flow of his ideas. This man, if pleased by his effort and exertion, his writing each day, would pass on ideas so fully formed and expertly worded that he would wonder how they came to him. He had trouble separating his ideas from ideas that were passed on. I believe that the ideas weren’t really his but another’s, mirrored through his eyes and funneled down his pen. In his mind, he had created this alternate ego, the side of his mind that was untainted by lesser thoughts. He felt that someone was writing through him, using him as a tool, and, since he could do nothing about it, he honed this skill, so he could more fully pass on the perfect answers that he was given.

As I write I wonder what I am, and what I am turning into. Maybe “I” doesn’t even exist anymore; maybe I should say “We”. It’s almost as if I am losing my identity to this… being, that he is taking control of my soul, and, ever so slowly, replacing it with his. During this process I receive the isolated ideas and thoughts, fully formed--not by me, but by…Him. My inner-self cringes at the loss of my soul; worse than death. This intrusion, I feel, is unwarranted and nearly unfathomable, even to me. I know not where to turn, to run, for there are no dark recesses in the corners of my mind to hide, for He knows me too well. He may know me better than I know myself, for, as he replaces my memories with his, he sifts through my thoughts, my memories, and chooses which ones to throw out, and which ones to keep.

And should I resist? The thought races through me, even now, the wanting to just…let go. To let go from the world around me, the hate and suffering that far outweighs peace and harmony in this world. Could not some other entity deal with it better than me, make choices more skillfully than me, and let me alone in a dark cave, an isolated corner of the mind that is no longer mine where I could find solace, and rest, finally?

What if I was to leave? Would the world shutter? Would I be noticed? Would some find peace in the monotony that they could continue their lives in, all of them fully compromised, fully taken over…by Him? The monotony of the world is where most find happiness in this uncompromising world, and would they be happy? Would the solidity of their happiness matter if they think that they are happy? Should I try to show them the truth? Maybe the truth lies best at the bottom of the sea, while illusion and suffering rule over the lands of men and animals, like Shepherds, minding their flock.