“I”
It’s a daunting task to reveal the true identity of “I”. As absurd,
confusing and ridiculous as it may seem, it’s an imperative
undertaking. Yet, how to keep a safe distance to expose its true self
is my dilemma. I owe my mere existence to writing and when I do, “I”
is in forefront and behind the scenes. It’s the author and the text. At
the pinnacle of my craft, I articulate “I” and inevitably incriminate
myself every time I do. This is the self-destructive nature of my
mission, and the meaning of my life.
I cannot confront the reality of “I” when I’m conscious, so at nights,
after hours of agonizing insomnia when I plunge into a trance, I
sense it in my dreams. Only under that delirious condition, “I”
appears. When fiction and reality morph, I might be able to reveal
the secrets of “I”. It controls my most secret desires and dictates
every act of mine. The only way to accomplish such a peculiar task is
to steal the crude pieces of reality and delicately hone them with the
mystic elixir of fantasy. In that misty haze, I might be able to portray
“I”. Even then, “I” might be the one shaping my thoughts, forming my
imagination, and writing my dreams.
“I” materializes in my fiction to shelter me from outside world. It
knows how vulnerable and defenseless I am, obviously I don’t! The
more uninhibitedly I write, the faster I converge with “I”. The deeper I
plummet in fantasy, the easier it is for “I” to become me. Oh! All lines
are blurred. I don’t know who is writing whom anymore.
Last night, I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat wishing
not to ever fall asleep again. When I opened my eyes to only peer
into the depth of darkness, embraced my pillow as if it was my only
savior and wiped the sweat, the beads of death off my forehead.
Wrapped myself in the soaked sheets and the moment I sighed relief
and thanked heaven for helping me wake, I sensed its presence by
my side. Feverishly, I escaped my haunted dream and took refuge
in the tightest corner of awakening and there too, was “I”. To
anywhere I escaped, the mirage followed me as swift as I could
imagine my demise.
Desperately I raced into the streets of night, lost in the maze of
bewilderment and ironically found myself following “I”. Finally, I came
to halt in a dead end alley. Gasped for air, gazed in its piercing eyes,
mustered my courage and pleaded: “How can I survive death
tonight?”
”By writing your nightmare tomorrow,” “I” replied.