Schizophreniac

A Prologue

I have a friend who hates clichés, stereotypes, and anything else that seems common or average.

"It was a dark and stormy night--"

"Today was a day like any other day--"

"The sunshine pouring through his window caused him to wake up. Little did he know that this would be the darkest or weirdest, saddest, or any other adjective here day of his life."

Fortunately, I am not her, I am me. (At least, I was last time I looked in the mirror.) I find clichés and stereotypes quite useful; they seem to make the creative process easier when you do not attempt to find the least used clicheknown to man. What do I mean by that? Everything is a cliché or stereotype of some sort.

Yes, I can see it in your eyes-- I have just imparted a monumental revelation to you. Everything written has been written before, everything created was original to someone else first. Every invention was thought of by some other person who wished they had that very device. Every idea is a copy or variation of another idea another person already had.

Every event in history, art, or science was, at some point, originated by someone else, even if the originator did not realize they did so. Fantasy and fiction are based on reality. Not even evil was a new idea when it was first practiced, it was just a perversion of good, the original practice. Wrong is simply the warping of right to fit one's selfish desires. History repeats itself because people seem to remain the same. Maybe that is why so many people become addicts to chemicals and habits; they believe life is too old, too boring. Some use such excuses for depression, which is very selfish, considering that one's thoughts are perpetually on the self (This can easily be remedied by performing a kind or imaginative act to benefit another). True, this planet seems old. The key is how we present this old information in a new way or creative way. This is the theory of reflectionism. Subsequent imitation is very similar to reflectionism, but instead of just pretending to be something, one adds his own creative flair and personality to the imitation, like a mirror reflecting the same image from a different angle.

Life is a recurring series of sequels. Words are repeated, opinions are identical to someone else's. However, what the average person does not realize is that Life is original. Planets, Life, Words--these ARE originals. Patterns are original to planets, words are original to life, and we play a vital role in the uniqueness of life. Just as millions of cells and parts make up the body, a unique whole, so does the individual person make up part of creation, of life, a unique whole!

Why not live as yourself? Yes, it is your responsibility to be unique, special, to be individual in some way, but by trying to be different than someone else, you are only being the same as a different someone else (and depriving yourself of what you truly want at the same time). The body has thousands of ways of making someone different from another. The soul (mind, will, and emotions) has hundreds of thousands of differences from the next guy through choices and thoughts. The spirit has millions of facets that can only begin to be understood because each person has a different destiny and life force. Thus, you are unique! In some way you will never fit in with others, but in many more ways you will be accepted based on how you are comparable to so many people on this planet. This is exciting! It is a proven fact that people need other people. That is because we are individual and unique.

Be unique, be special. Be a reflectionist. If your life is an episode in the series, make it memorable by being yourself, not by being different! Enjoy WHO you are, not WHAT you are! You are who you are by creation, you are what you are by choice. Never attempt to change yourself into a What instead of a Who, especially if popular opinion is What is trying to control you. In reality, the most unique people are those who do not try so much to be different, but try to live a good life based on good patterns. The most unique people are Whos, not Whats. They know their identity is not based on how "individual I must be from as many people as possible." Their identity is based on connection to another Who, depending on Him, learning from Him, trying to be like Him. Why? Because He is unique, He is original. As a unique person, it is best to be like the Original. Reflect the perfect and unique patterns of the Original. No more masks, no more faking it--just be yourself. Be Who you are.

The boy placed the pen down next to his notebook. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was becoming dark outside. Soon, he would only be able to see what he was writing by straining his eyes. He stretched, took the pen to his hand again, and began to write the final sentence of today's entry into the book. It could be more accurately called his journal--the contents of which he planned to publish one day if he ever thought of something truly spectacular. So far, the entire book was fairly—unusual. He paused after writing one word, thinking about his previous statements. He smiled, realizing that he was "reflecting on reflectionism." Why did his mind work in puns?

Amused by his own ideas, he again thought carefully about what he had written. Did he believe it? Was he actually telling himself that all creation had originated from one source? His understanding of the cosmos was indeed very limited, but had he actually stumbled upon some profound truth accidentally? A strange feeling crept into the depths of his stomach, the kind of feeling that cannot be attributed to what one had eaten earlier that day. He was terribly confused. In one sitting, he had described the divisions of a person's being, explained how all people are different from each other, yet the same, and admitted to himself that the universe was far too vast but its patterns too simple to be created by accident. He was forced to believe that someone had previously struggled with the same thoughts he was having now. Perhaps it was not an accident that he now had these thoughts.

The sun had nearly finished its westerly course (or rather, the rotation of the planet made it appear so). He walked toward the west entrance of his house, what he called the "back" of his house. He stepped outside, and feeling the chilly early spring breeze, moved out of the shadow of the tree near the rear of his house. It became slightly more comfortable when he stood in the warmth of the sun. It was quiet, which was common for the period just after winter; many of the birds one could normally hear had not returned from their migrations.

Looking toward the last brief moments of the sunset, he recited a simple poem to himself.

When the curtain of night is drawn about--
When the darkness deepens and shadow surrounds,
My soul shall ne'er be downcast, nor discordant always
As long as I recall the wonder I have known.

I shall press inward and onward.
The dawn is approaching.
My firm persuasion is that I shall soon witness
Light over horizons rising again.

Surely, my hope will not fail me.
Truly, it cannot fail me.

The Light will be my hope and rescue.

Where had he heard that poem before? He knew it well. He had remembered it since he was a child; only then, it was recited by a much deeper voice.

That voice—every time he thought about it, he felt a pang of longing for someone he could not remember, except for the voice. The Voice had sung to him on several occasions too. Feeling tears forming in his eyes, he walked inside the house to his reading room. This time he would not let the melody escape him. He retrieved his violin from the case on the end-table, and returned outside, bow and instrument in hand.

Although he could not recall the words to the song, the melody had remained strikingly clear. He lifted the violin into position and drew the bow across the strings. With an ease that could only have come from professional training and natural ability, he ushered the melody into the physical world precisely as his memory reconstructed it. The song was set in a minor key, beginning in the lower tones. It began softly, quietly, somewhat mournfully, but climbed in dynamics as the notes rose higher.

Suddenly, a portion of the song he had not remembered flooded his soul. The notes waxed in volume and in emotional power, rising into the instrument's highest octave. Changing to a major key, the piece sweetened, lending to it a new hopeful and bright aspect. The young man wept silently as he played the climax. Then, the music shifted again into the minor key. A rapid succession of descending pizzicato notes, gradually slowing, and three greatly separated bowed rising notes signaled the song was nearly at its end. On that tonal apex he remained for some time, repeatedly drawing the bow over the string to prolong its existence long enough to be embraced fully. Finally, after a brief musical rest, he played three notes, and played two notes simultaneously to end in the major chord, completing the course of his memory.

Somehow, his body now felt lighter. Each breath seemed deeper than the last, but also easier, more relaxed. One final tear fell from his very young face. Music often had this influence over him, but never to such a great degree.

Suddenly, he became very tired. Having bid his emotional goodnight to the sun, he returned indoors, replaced the instrument inside its case, and went to his bed in another room. He nearly fell asleep before he realized that he had not finished the last sentence in his journal entry. With some effort, he slowly walked back to his desk in the reading room. He quickly finished the sentence and went to bed, rubbing his young eyes as he stumbled to his bedroom.

As he pulled the blankets over his shoulders, he looked to the empty nightstand. It always looked this way, blank but efficient, yet it seemed especially empty tonight—almost cold. With his eyes becoming heavier by the second, he reached out a gloved hand. For a single moment, he thought he had imagined seeing a blurry photograph in the center of the table. Every night he would wish to remember. He often wondered why there were no pictures in his house, but would easily settle for remembering his parents, or at least just their names. No definite clue of his past could be found in his house other than that single photograph. That was perhaps the single greatest reason he kept a journal; he did not want to forget anything else ever again.

Finally, tiredness took hold of him again and he slept. Nothing woke him that night, for it was a restful sleep, as if he had done some great physical feat that had exhausted him completely. Truly, it was a refreshing sleep, similar to those that one has when going to bed early just because he wants to--no concerns about the next day, no thoughts about the day completed--just rest.

If someone were to have crept into his house, he would not have noticed it.

However, that unwelcome visitor might have noticed the final sentence on the page of the journal in the reading room:

I shall discover who He is--that Voice; I want to be like Him.

--Miles

Improved and extended 6/7/07