Chapter Twenty-Five: Airbag

A hazy maze of dreams. Dreams stacked on dreams on dreams, countless people and characters, interactions, situations, dynamics. Dreams of new identity, dreams of metamorphosis, dreams of upside down and falling and flying. Dreams…

— Breathe… breathe… breathe… breathe… (...) (...) — — —

— —

— A decaying steeple in the woods.

Bowser wakes up. His heart feels heavy, solid. Different.

All this time he had been going in circles, endless thoughts. Writing strange fantasies, bored of life, detached from this life. Circling, circling. But all along, the thing had been there, hadn't it?

The steeple. That weird church.

If any place had answers… If anywhere in the world could help him… It had to be the place he had transformed. There, some strange figure had read his soul (maybe) and changed his body entirely. He had seen himself for a moment, hadn't he? And…

Bowser got out of bed, holding his head.

How strange this was. It was not like he had forgotten about his encounter. No, he had not forgotten. And yet this path had never seemed to occur to him: To return there, to where the answers had to be. Where that boo of Dark Land had gone to, surely… Everything pointed back there. Why was it only now coming to him? What difference had all of his actions made? Why was the obvious direction— that forest— coming now?

No one could really measure anything. Certainly, who could measure the currents of the mind? After four years away, now, Bowser was suddenly determined to return to that place in the woods.

"Thank you for an answer," He muttered, half-seriously, half-ironically.

He felt himself believing in a guiding power more now. Not a god, necessarily, but at least some intangible guiding force. The "proof" was that even as he felt helplessly lost, and had given up on planning his life entirely, things still seemed to progress. As he had concluded in a different form before, things turned out even better as he didn't try to plan— didn't think. If he wasn't planning then, and yet things continued to turn out better for him… then…? Then there had to be something else.

It was especially evident to him now because of his meditative practices. When he started he had only practised mindfulness meditation for 30 minutes a day— focusing on his breathing for the half-hour period, and keeping thoughts as close to a minimum as possible. Later on, he had begun to practise meditation everywhere: while walking through the city, while at parties, while teaching in the classroom… even while talking to people.

This meant he was not "thinking" at all as he did all of these activities, and yet everything continued on. His body did not stop moving because he was "not thinking". When he entered conversation with people, the conversation would move on its own naturally; he would speak and say "good things" without thinking. And if he was uncertain, and a gap in his mind opened, he remembered his breathing and returned to it, and then suddenly he would say the next thing, or the other person would, and the conversation would continue again, automatically. But in a natural way.

This had to be what religious people considered the will of God. That everything was truly moving on its own— including your very being. Your conscious mind was… seemingly… unnecessary.

Yes… every time Bowser didn't know what to do, he just focused on his breathing. And soon he would be doing something else, automatically.

What more was there to say… what more was there to say…?

So Bowser was becoming grateful… to something. If the treasuring of the ego could be put away, and the truer acknowledgement of the clockwork world (and body and mind) could be trusted, then the problem of thinking and fear was over.

This was maybe a certain definition of that thing called "faith".

And it, faith, had been accumulating, very slowly, in Bowser's heart. So slowly… so painfully slowly… But now it had crossed some threshold, the threshold where Bowser could be aware that it really existed.

Faith that things progressed as they should… If only the personal ego could be quieted.

Anyway, that was it. The steeple was in his mind's eye. If he wanted answers, it was the place to go.

It was time to leave Chai. It was time to leave Sarasaland.

"What about your job? And are you sure any of that stuff at that church actually happened?"

A small blue boo, about the size of a soccer ball, materialized near the bookcase. It had one long tooth on the left side of its mouth and a perpetual squint in its right eye.

Bowser smiled a little. "My job doesn't matter that much. I don't really enjoy it. And besides, my school can hire someone else— I'm mostly replaceable."

He stood up and looked towards the apartment's little kitchen.

"As for whether that stuff actually happened… I'm more certain about it than almost anything else in my life."

Bowser entered the kitchen to make breakfast. The boo, after taking a couple of books from the bookcase, floated after him.

"Eggs again?" The boo opened a book. "You know, you should really add some vegetables. Tim Ferriss has beets with his breakfast. And he is very successful and healthy."

"That's nice," Bowser replied, "But I'm not Tim Ferriss."

"Uh huh. But you want to be successful like him, right?"

Bowser said nothing.

"Well, it was just a suggestion." The boo shut the book. "Actually… 'Breakfast'. That's funny. It reminds me of a funny meme I saw on Youtube. Would you like to hear me perform it?"

"No, thank you." Bowser cracked a fourth egg in the pan.

"Oh. Your loss. It's very funny. In my opinion. Oh. ...But. Eggs. Eggs! You got four eggs in there. You know what that reminds me of?"

The pan sizzled.

"Metal Gear Solid. The videogame Metal Gear Solid 4, specifically. You know? There are the live-action cutscenes with the little girl Sunny cooking eggs? That's what I think about when I see eggs cooking. Ha. Sunny— like a method of cooking eggs. Right?"

Bowser turned and looked out the window. The sky was gray. The street was empty. Instead of the sounds of the local fruit seller crying out his wares, there was a breezy silence… the breeziness of lonely wind, lack of people. Distantly there was the running of motors, but the sound was much fainter than it used to be.

The world was emptying out. The streets of the city were becoming wider and wider as the people vanished away into their homes. Barricading.

Something bleak had entered the land. The threatening Waluigi had been but a momentary thrill, a news headline. Something worse had come along, that had sent the people into hiding.

"Ah. Oh! You know what, there's a good reason to not worry about your job!" The boo spun. "The schools have been closed for months anyway…! It's not safe for the children to meet together... with the pandemic and all…"

"Yes." Bowser sighed.

"So they don't even need a teacher now anyway, huh? Well say 'adios' then, right? You gotta follow your heart. Forget society! You do you, man. Right? The only reason you run into trouble is because you keep forgetting that, right? You follow YOUR heart. Do what you want."

"You're twisting it up." Bowser shook his head. "Too many words… Everything gets twisted up in too many words."

"Too many words? Hmm. Maybe you're right. 'Silence is golden'. That's nice. I don't really get it, though."

"Hmm."

Bowser finished cooking the eggs— scrambled.

"Scrambled again? You should try more methods. Be more interesting. Hard boiled… um… sunny-side up (haha, reference)... ehhh... broiled? No, that was a joke. I don't think you broil eggs."

Bowser sat down at his little table, placing the plate down. The boo hovered across from him. With a flick of movement it opened the books it had, one on each limb.

"I wonder what we should read today."

Bowser shook his head. "I'm tired of reading."

The boo blinked its one good eye several times, its squinting eye flickering.

"Tired… of reading? What a funny idea. Reading is the only way we know we're getting anywhere, you know!"

"I don't know." Bowser looked at the egg on his fork. "I don't know if reading has really gotten me anywhere. Or if it's just weighed my head down."

"Of course it's gotten you somewhere!" The boo looked slightly offended. "You're really smart now! You were so dumb before. I mean… You were unaware. Yes. And now (very importantly) you can write better poems."

"I don't know if I care about that anymore." Bowser sighed. "All is vanity…"

"Oooh. Ecclesiastes, right? That's my favorite one. Or maybe Proverbs. The Bible! Truly, there is wisdom in the world's oldest texts. Old traditions have value!"

Bowser shook his head. "Please. Stop babbling."

The boo smiled. "I'm just trying to help you. We've learned so much. Now, it's time to put all that wisdom to use!"

"It's not wisdom. All of the learning is just facts. Facts...facts… knowledge. It's not wisdom."

"Oh, really." The boo put its books down on the table. "What's wisdom then? Are you following Aristotle's definition? Or Plato? Or the Bible? Or the Bhagavad Gita? Or is science wisdom? Is psychoanalysis wisdom? Where is wisdom? Do you have any definition at all? I don't think we can have a conversation about it if you don't have a definition."

Bowser focused on his breathing. Bowser focused on his breathing.

(...) (...) (...) — — —

...And he was alone again.

He closed his eyes and nodded. "It's time to go."