I had an unsettling, lucid dream two nights ago. I'm accustomed to strange dreams--I mean, hell, I once had to save a peach jam sandwich from a burning building and a rampant tyrannosaurus--but this one left me especially uneasy. For whatever reason, I was out in the woods along a river bank. I was with several friends, whose faces I can't remember, and we were learning to tune ourselves into the cosmic flow, to commune with the Ascended Masters. The idea was to encase ourselves in total meditation, focusing all energy on asking the Masters to guide us on our true paths.
To do this, we were required by the leader (whose identity escapes me) to lie on the ground and breathe deeply. The voices of the Masters would become apparent as distant whispers, and then we would ask them five questions. Everyone around me asked the five questions but not only could I not remember a single one, but I also felt terribly uncomfortable every time I heard them. The name "Moloch" appeared in the third question. For those unfamiliar with demonology, Moloch is a Semitic demon associated with child sacrifice. If anyone, at this point, does not understand why this would make me uncomfortable, please direct your forehead post-haste to the nearest wall and repeat until the meaning becomes clear.
Though I couldn't recite the five questions, I still felt like I was being lifted, and all around me, the eyes of my peers were opening, completely white, sans iris. Somehow I could see my own face, and my own eyes were milky throughout. A voice told me to ask for what I most desired, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything. A thousand, vague ideas flowed through my mind, but there was nothing to grasp, to keep it from flowing right through. Then, I settled back to Earth, and all those around me stood up, relieved. I, however, stayed on the ground because I did not understand what had happened and wanted to know. I stayed until my alarm went off.
I awoke feeling calm, enlightened even, but as the day progressed, I realized how false the feeling was. I had committed a grave writer's sin: not knowing what I want. It reminded me of my last date, almost a year ago, at which I was asked, "Who are you without your stories?" "What do you mean," I thought, "I'm a writer. Writing is my life."
"But who are you?"
The question hit me hard. Storytelling is my only social grace. Small talk is the bane of my existence; when I can tell a story, I can actually put forth energy. But beneath the charade and the showmanship, beyond the embellishments on memories of the past, who am I? What do I want? Why do I believe I am sacrificing my childhood to an ancient demon who promises me everything I desire, when I don't even know what it is that I desire? Because the demon is nothingness; it promises nothingness, because that is what my desire has come to embody.
As a child, my desire was pure and simple: become a zookeeper, get married, have a family, live happily ever after. Sure, these were loaded with fantasy, but at least they were clear and fit my character. Fifteen years later, I've graduated in screenwriting, forbidden myself from relationships, and distanced myself from my family. Why? I convinced myself that a more reputable life awaited me in Hollywood. I convinced myself that true love between two people is a socially marketed delusion. I convinced myself that my family and friends silently resent me. How many of these assumptions are true, I don't know, but after fifteen years, when the only niche I can scrape into human society is through stories of my childhood, which hasn't existed for years, I have grown tired of them.
At the end of a story's third act, the character usually hits a low point. Technically, my story has only hit the end of Act One, the point where the character reaches the first big decision: make the change or resist it? I've resisted it for years, not out of fear but sloth. It is easier to stay the same, to stagnate, to commit the gravest sin against the self. It takes time and hard work to become the paragon of oneself, but what good is a life that has squandered its potential? What good comes from a low point at the end of Act One? That's just poor structuring.
In order to break this enduring pattern, I must ask myself the five questions, no matter how much they terrify me:
The search for answers begins now.
To do this, we were required by the leader (whose identity escapes me) to lie on the ground and breathe deeply. The voices of the Masters would become apparent as distant whispers, and then we would ask them five questions. Everyone around me asked the five questions but not only could I not remember a single one, but I also felt terribly uncomfortable every time I heard them. The name "Moloch" appeared in the third question. For those unfamiliar with demonology, Moloch is a Semitic demon associated with child sacrifice. If anyone, at this point, does not understand why this would make me uncomfortable, please direct your forehead post-haste to the nearest wall and repeat until the meaning becomes clear.
Though I couldn't recite the five questions, I still felt like I was being lifted, and all around me, the eyes of my peers were opening, completely white, sans iris. Somehow I could see my own face, and my own eyes were milky throughout. A voice told me to ask for what I most desired, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything. A thousand, vague ideas flowed through my mind, but there was nothing to grasp, to keep it from flowing right through. Then, I settled back to Earth, and all those around me stood up, relieved. I, however, stayed on the ground because I did not understand what had happened and wanted to know. I stayed until my alarm went off.
I awoke feeling calm, enlightened even, but as the day progressed, I realized how false the feeling was. I had committed a grave writer's sin: not knowing what I want. It reminded me of my last date, almost a year ago, at which I was asked, "Who are you without your stories?" "What do you mean," I thought, "I'm a writer. Writing is my life."
"But who are you?"
The question hit me hard. Storytelling is my only social grace. Small talk is the bane of my existence; when I can tell a story, I can actually put forth energy. But beneath the charade and the showmanship, beyond the embellishments on memories of the past, who am I? What do I want? Why do I believe I am sacrificing my childhood to an ancient demon who promises me everything I desire, when I don't even know what it is that I desire? Because the demon is nothingness; it promises nothingness, because that is what my desire has come to embody.
As a child, my desire was pure and simple: become a zookeeper, get married, have a family, live happily ever after. Sure, these were loaded with fantasy, but at least they were clear and fit my character. Fifteen years later, I've graduated in screenwriting, forbidden myself from relationships, and distanced myself from my family. Why? I convinced myself that a more reputable life awaited me in Hollywood. I convinced myself that true love between two people is a socially marketed delusion. I convinced myself that my family and friends silently resent me. How many of these assumptions are true, I don't know, but after fifteen years, when the only niche I can scrape into human society is through stories of my childhood, which hasn't existed for years, I have grown tired of them.
At the end of a story's third act, the character usually hits a low point. Technically, my story has only hit the end of Act One, the point where the character reaches the first big decision: make the change or resist it? I've resisted it for years, not out of fear but sloth. It is easier to stay the same, to stagnate, to commit the gravest sin against the self. It takes time and hard work to become the paragon of oneself, but what good is a life that has squandered its potential? What good comes from a low point at the end of Act One? That's just poor structuring.
In order to break this enduring pattern, I must ask myself the five questions, no matter how much they terrify me:
- What, of my childhood, defines me as Kyle Jarrett?
- What desires from my childhood have I not fulfilled, yet must fulfill, to restore balance?
- What must I recreate from my childhood, to restore peace of mind?
- What must I destroy from my childhood in order to progress?
- How do I love like a child without the naïveté of a child?
The search for answers begins now.
