Try Not to Lose Yourself

It was this journey of evangelism which lead me to a rather different gospel. I knelt faithfully at the altar of doubt, praying to the Gods of my time, for success, for power, for wealth. Over and over again, the bell rang. I opened my eyes, to find all the Gods departed. Each time I pulled out my diary, continued the tally, returned the book to its pocket, and knelt again.

I knelt there, tracking the slowly descending drops of sweat upon my brow. I needed it to work. I was so desperate. Why didn’t it work?

Why didn’t I leave?

Believe. Receive. Stop. Naïve. Stop. Tip-top. Never drop. Next page.

THERE’S A LOT MORE OF THIS TO GET THROUGH SO YOU NEED TO PAY ATTENTION

Where was I? The bell rung again. I pulled out my diary. I continued the tally. Tap. Faucet. That’s it. A drop manifests upon the page. It spreads. The page looked at me, a void of discolour bloomed where the drop had fallen. I’m closing in. The walls held their breath. I’m listening, bad Sounds, black page, tidal wave, milky way, stop, falling, stop. The page blinked, I blinked. I stared at the previously-mostly-blank-page-now-mostly-taken-up-by-me-page. Stop. Not happening. I whimpered, glimmering, simmering, hiding from him, his identity danced before me like a reflection in glass but spoke nothing.

I stumbled. He stumbled. My book in my hand (and his). He knows what I do before I do it. The book is a doorway now. Taller than me, or I smaller. My grin on his face. Our face. The face of someone sobbing. The face of someone about to break everything and get away with it.

Overwhelmed, I close my diary. It bites my hand. Click, crack, pop, tick, stop. My hand is on the floor, I pick it up, the diary still holds me. It hasn’t changed (have I?) - still small, still black, the front is still on the front and the back is still at the back. I place it on the floor. I fling it on the floor. I fire it from the gaping hole which used to contain my unpacked ego. Super. My id remains. Cowering. I move my other hand, and both meet atop my head, I press down and my mind surges out.

[Black]

For a time, I tracked the echoes of light projected upon my closed eyelids by the chamber around me. My ears are ringing, I realised the walls are shouting with my voice. I listened for silence as anxiously as I’d listen for noise. I feel half-illumined, half-dead, impenetrable, appalled. My hands are still attached to my body. Good. I am still attached to myself. This is also good. I think of the tally. Lines and dashes to remind me how long I had been here. Ringing, kneeling, praying, hoping, ringing, stop. Who was I even praying to? I needed money, old debts appearing as new problems. $3,000 deep into my addiction and I ran. Not far enough, you may remember:

You owe me $3,000. I don’t have it. Plus finders fee. What? We had to find you didn’t We? How much? It’s been 17 years, at $1,000/year, so $20,000 if you would be so kind. 3 days, give me 3 days; please.

It wasn’t easy to find reliable directions to the altar of doubt. Those I asked would avert their eyes, hasten their strides, tell me to bother somebody else. No matter how I cried, shouted, pleaded, bleeding, died. Stop.

People who need their wish granted seek the altar, some want to be king, some wish to resolve wars - or start them - I just needed money, didn’t care whose or how dirty. I worried I would be unworthy, wordy, have you heard? Early no mercy. I was told to kneel, and I knelt, to ring the bell and it rang. I tell myself to stop and it stops. I was not told that I was praying to myself, that this time the false saviour was me. Didn’t realise the human price I paid for my wish, how much of me do you think left that altar? Sometimes I wonder how much of me chose to stay on the other side of the diary.

When I opened my eyes, I was still on the floor, still in the chamber, not far from the altar to myself. I looked at everything but my diary. The walls composed of typical grey gaussian-style, diary-height blockwork, quietly interrupted by modest darker-grey, two-diaries-width pilasters, rising to a ceiling beyond the reach of the chamber’s hushed lighting. My diary is howling

scowling

fouling. I’m drowning.

An uproar I can’t ignore, insisting I listen. Thrum, scrunch, wheeze, whine, stop, whisper, stop, pop, stop please stop. Such a bad tune, bad song, I open my ears and it fills me. The diary opens, my tallies fall out, I can’t find my page but there I am, an inanimate animist between empty pages, I can barely fathom how I’m seeing me but try to imagine what I want. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For the love of Doubt, please stop.

STAY AWAKE I NEED YOU TO PAY ATTENTION

His mouth opens and my words come out, I ask how this is happening and so does he. I ask if he is going to grant my wish. I nod. I smile. He beckons for me to lean closer, but I don’t, though he does. Our faces are close, we open our mouths and there’s the rough taste of paper. He reaches through and pulls it from my throat. I retch, he recoils, I double over coughing out the last small sheets and they stare at me from the grey cobbles disapprovingly. My hand on my back reassures me that it will be over soon. I wheeze the last of my life into the notes and they flutter, then stutter, then settle down. My face amongst them when I realise, they are numbered and the deacons of Doubt reprimand me for my poor manners. I tilt my head apologetically to myself; he smiles back at me from atop Mammon’s throne, his feet resting on the altar. He holds my money in his hand. I kneel, I pray for riches, he rings the bell, I reach for my diary and close it. It drones, it fizzes, it groans shut, and I breathe out and breath in. My split-ears rest as the walls cease their percussive pulsing permitting me to pick up my money and fly, skip, split, sprint - don’t stop - with my bag of money and my turbulent altogether-ness.

I return to the world and check my watch. I can’t remember what the symbols mean. I go to check the tallies I left in my diary but of course I left him behind. I decide it could have been three days by now and set off in the direction of you. I walked no particular distance for an indiscriminate length of time and eventually heard your sounds lilting across the proverbial way. This time I found you, but you didn’t hear me until crash! (no delivery fee)

Who would have believed the sight? The red amaryllis blooming from your forehead. No sleep, sharp edges, jutting beak. I don’t want to stop!

Here’s your money by the way, I don’t want it. … I’ll just leave it here. Your time seems too short and you don’t appear to be listening anymore, but I’ll tell you anyway. I would go back and tell myself, before I prayed to Doubt, that there would be no miracle there. - look, you clearly aren’t listening anymore so I’m going to leave.

Retrieve myself. Bereave, stop. Disbelieve, Eden, End.