Discourse to the Dead
Chapter III
Obsession and Fear
I am; else, there is only tranquil
nothingness. How serene it is. And so dark it is! Darkness comes, and all light
is distinguished. Yet darkness has genders of its own. At times, I found it
chaotic, filled with evil passions that are otherwise hidden by the great lumina.
At other times, it is as serene as it is now: all is silent, and all is
peaceful. What a great occasion for contemplation! And perhaps this shall be the
last time I would ever think again. This is the end of the beginning; this is
the beginning of the end.
All is black. With that blackness,
first comes panic, a disturbing discord from the fact that I am new to such
complete nothingness. Then, all is silent, all is calm. But why, what is that
noise ex nihilo? For some reasons, I know I am not alone. Even when all my
senses leave me, even when reality itself leaves me, I am not alone. Someone is
still speaking. Someone is desiring something from me. This desire disturbs the
tranquil silence, and intrude into the serene nothingness. It stirs the dead
like a ripple- a mere agitation, a mere annoyance. And nothing more.
Ripples in a dead stasis are like
violent storms. He, the ripple, the disturbance, obviously exists, for it
bothers me even as I am speaking of it. But why? What exactly is this uneasiness
that I am feeling? I need not fear anything: for I have undergone the worst, and
I have lost everything except this thinking mind. Yet where does the disturbance
come from? Something must have caused it. But what, in this plane of
nothingness, can possibly cause something that exists in my mind? There are two
answers: someone does cause it, or it is spontaneous.
Were disturbances spontaneous, all
these visions and voices are nothing more than my own conjuration. But is that
the case? No, obviously not; for the voice is intelligible. It speaks, it
convinces, it corrupts. And the disturbance is imminent; I sense it, I feel it,
and it sickens me. I cannot possibly create things ex nihilo, for I myself am
but a subject- or better, a slave- of these accursed conjurations and
abjurations. Hence, they must be real, and possess a substantial essence in this
metaphysical plane.
So something else exists out of my
existent self: something else exists out of this thinking mind! Is it an
intelligible entity? It must be, for it talks to me, tries to subdue me, and
brings me to the abyss of... of what? I don't know. In this illusive plane,
there are only two things that I am sure of: I, the mind, exist; He, the voice,
exists too.
But what is He? The unknown is always
frustrating.... if not, fearsome. I sense the root of insanity growing once
more: this time, it grows out of fear, rather than ignorance or anger. Now I
know I am and He is, and I know the limit of what I can know. That is perhaps
the origin of my frustration.
Frustration, did I say? It grows into
agitation as I think. No, not that simple either; agitation evolves into fear.