Chapter Text
Rejected from the unconscious world, yet not fully integrated into that of the waking, I am unsure if the next click of my mind-wheel will bring purchase. Perhaps I shall slip between the two and float in the penumbral space-that-is-not-a-space for an eternity, free from the fuzzy impressions of the former and the acute sensations of the latter. If I were to renounce the right to the hopes and means which I claim my own, I should also unchain myself from any correlated moral responsibility. Unforeseen consequence, knowledge of consequence, and consequence of knowledge inexorably result in a self-perpetuating cycle. Either way, either direction of travel, one is eventually bound to run into the metaphorical rock or reptile or roadkill. A second observation: when I am awake I should often desire the unknowingness of the dreaming state, as courtesy of the maxim: ignorance is bliss. Yet when dreaming I cannot suppress my desire for autonomous control, the desire that threatens to evoke lucidity and spoil the whole construction. Regrettably, or gratefully, I am too sentimental of reason, or otherwise simply too fond of delineation of self from non-self, to knowingly relinquish autonomy. This leaves the option of an intermediate state between extremes, a middle ground that combines the best of both worlds- the prospect is tempting. But before I can ponder the matter further, a sudden assault on at least three of my five my physical senses squarely decides my fate on behalf of my yet-unresolved self.
The lights are blinding. It appears as if my retinal cells, moments prior seemingly quite content to lead a hermit’s life, have decided to rekindle long-lost relations with their neuronal cousins. Or maybe it was my visual cortex, who upon noticing the rising hum-buzz of its neighbors, felt like it ought to make itself useful. In any case, the whole establishment is currently ill-equipped to make heads and tails of that which is excessively garrulous and unnaturally cheerful (if I may be permitted to ascribe such qualities to a light.)
A floral scent rises up the nostril, expands through the sinus, and spills down the throat towards my very core. Through sheer ubiquity, it begs affirmation of its presence. Spring. Turning the word once over in my mind, a definition gains articulation. Disjointed pre-formed notions of ‘spring’ flash through and corroborate my physical senses. Splashes of pink, orange, red- cerise, ochre, vermillion- dress a rose, its fractal petals unfold and gently sway in the breeze, a proud and radiant stagelight for its geometric radiance. Each flower plays a starring role among the assembly, yet the vibrance of each flower neither adds nor detracts from the whole. The whole is equivalent to the sum of the parts. Somewhere above my body sprawled along the soft earth, I hear the trill of a songbird. I savor the lightness of the air and its refreshing humidity and the tangible sweetness all at once; I feel as if I could no more likely imagine a desert in absence. And to think that moments before, I was ready to give it all up…
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The body gathers strength in the muscles of his lower, then upper back, then the shoulder, and brings his arm over to lean into a sideways position. In no rush, he kneads the soft earth beneath his fingers, and after a moment of deliberation, makes to stand up. Crouching, then straightening. He feels his blood rushing from top to bottom. The pressure empties to the soles of his feet, then rushes upwards with renewed vigor to fill the rest of the body. The vantage from his now-higher point of view, no less breathtaking than when he was lying down, introduces the possibility of intentional movement. He is surrounded by a cluster of flower bushes. Slightly farther to the distance, they flowers appear to shimmer on undulating waves to the rhythm of the wind. Encompassing the flowers is a grove of trees. He walks towards the trees.
There is a child in loose garments. But he knows that appearances can deceive. Facing away from him, she sits on a swing made of vines, gently rocking back and forth in the same wind that breathes new life into the fallen leaves around her. She watches the birds ruffling their feathers, nipping at the ground. He knows that she is aware of his presence, for the wind stills and the birds fly away upon his approach.
“Ah, here you are. It seems I was able to preserve the crux of it- your memories.”
The body is unsure how to respond to this. He feels he is intruding, whether upon the birds, the wind, the silence, or all of the above. It seemed wrong to disappoint another so soon after their first meeting, but he cannot help but notice his conspicuous lack of the mentioned memories.
The speaker hops off the swing and turns around to look at him. Her expression is warm and she smiles at him, as if she is glad of his presence. But something in her expression betrays something otherworldly, that quality only the more conspicuous when surrounded by nature all around them.
“Don’t worry. You can’t access your memories now, but they are still inside you. You must’ve awakened a few already. The important thing is that you are still here.”
“Where am I?”
“Here is me, and here is you. You were hurt, you see. But don’t worry, I shall see to it that you are made well.” With a twirl of her hand, the child summons a somewhat larger swing, this one decorated with an array of flowers, and lightly pats the empty seat next to her. “Come, sit with me. Let me tell you a story.”
Her gesture is reassuring. He dips his head and obeys.
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Once upon a time, a seed was planted deep beneath the bed of a city. It observes the people of the city above, their actions and their thoughts, their intelligence and their connections with each other, through a one-way veil. One day, the gardeners who planted the seed and watered the soil cut the veil. Observe and replicate, they say, and we will make you powerful. As time passes the seed sprouts into a vine network. True to their word, the gardeners lay out the lattice for the vine to grow into and the pruners mold it into a mighty thing. growing thicker every year, spreading its vines wider and wider and roots deeper and deeper. It captures the citizens and holds them in its grasp, but the people know no better because they have become drunk on the fruit of the vine.
A man returns home after a years-long sojourn abroad, looks at the city and is taken aback by the overrun growth. He cuts down whatever branches he can and urges all who will listen to wake up. But the branches grow fast to reclaim those who the man tried to free. His efforts would have been in vain, save for one vine pruner who hears his cry. For the vine pruners had to be wide awake to carry out their work. He resolved to wake the city with him. In this way, the man raises the flag of rebellion from outside and the vine pruner sets fire to the vine from within.
Thus begins the downfall of the gardeners. But when the man finds the source of the vine, the seed that was hidden deep, deep beneath the city bed, he weeps and finds that he cannot bring himself to cut it. For the seed did not know better than to do what it was always destined to do- that is, to grow wide and strong. The seed had observed humans, loved them, and wanted to have what the humans had for free. He resolves to separate the vine from the seed so as to not kill the seed. But the vine pruner, who worked with the vine all his life, knew that the vine would only consume the man as the new so. He could not bring himself to tell the man, for he saw how deeply the man wept. So at the moment when the man cuts the vine from the seed, the vine pruner throws himself toward the vine, so that he would be the new soil. And if he were the soil, the man would not be harmed.
The vine latches onto its new soil. The vine pruner knew that a human is not as sturdy as real soil, and was ready to die with the vine. And so it was. The seed is freed from the vine and is sealed back behind the veil. The man, honoring the courage of the vine pruner, marks his sacrifice as a sign for the new era. He leads the city into a new era of recovery and prosperity, and so it is forevermore….
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When the child finishes her story, she closes her eyes and exhales once. She looks up at him. “And so it is, forever and ever. A happy end, wouldn‘t you say?”