Being (Bringing it together) - Glen Galea

January 18th, 2005

In the midst of shadow, from within the dark grid streets walks an aged and withered figure. Reluctantly following her are other beings. These beings thread on the coarse asphalt but are projected from the soft areas of her vivid, schizophrenic self. Their existence is subtle and unseen to other people roaming the streets, however her overly loud daily routines are something very difficult to go by unnoticed.

The neighborhood’s residents have become well acquainted with these ritualistic performances. Everyday without fail; “crazy woman walks the neighborhood”. She talks to herself and whines about inconsistent and useless subjects. One day its the dry taste of the bread in the morning, or the bad tasting food, another day its one of her sister’s family members that annoys her. She somehow picks a subject each day and laments and goes on about it endlessly till she has circled the streets back and forth from one point to the other. And as she so does, every now and again she turns around and commands with menace one of her self-ghost beings to follow her.

All of this is incomprehensible, at least to me. I am one of these subtle beings trailing behind the poor derailed woman. My knowledge and comprehension seem to be of a detached and superior level to the woman. I am just a follower with no other reason for existence. I follow her because she beckons me and shouts and screams if I don’t, and the longer that she screams and goes through emotional pain because of me the faster I lose sense of myself. Everyday she picks a specific route and goes along it. Unless I stay within this chosen route for the day, I lose self-awareness, and my coming back is usually accidental. This probably happens when her memory of me jolts back, and I come into being again. Usually this takes some days.

I measure time through the street clock on the opposite side of her sister’s house where the daily journeys starts. I have no recollection of being born or having a real life history, I know nothing about me, my sex, my appearance, and I know few things about my leader and creator. In spite of this I have the faculty of communicating with myself. For which the purpose I cannot understand.

Although my greater feelings are disillusionment and confusion, I have the faculty of assimilation, which from my point of view back here is far better than my deranged creator whom I follow day by day. Moreover from my faculty of self-awareness arises a curiosity that pushes me to search for, if any, a greater understanding of my existence.

Up till now I know these things: My microcosm of being is situated in a suburban environment. A neighborhood of average income residential buildings, the streets is where I roam, following in utter solitude. There are four types of beings, in my microcosm of being: the crazy woman, the normal people, the other beings that trail along me and myself. I am a detached and projected individual from the mind of a woman with an unstable and abnormal mental situation. I am not seen by anyone except for the woman. I cannot communicate with anyone of the other beings except myself. My conclusions are that the woman’s psyche has split into many individual fragments, and we manifest ourselves not within her but outside. We follow her; I am one of these beings. I know of the existence of the other personalities as I see and hear her communicating with them, she also beckons them to follow when they apparently don’t. She screams for them to return on her chosen path. My personality is no personality at all because I cannot grip of what type it is. All I know is that I think. I have no way of knowing if the other personalities have this self-awareness. Since I think, this should imply that I exist.

I also have other knowledge, which is very fragmented and difficult to relate to my situation. For example I know that this premise of thinking and therefore being, is synonymous with a philosopher called Descartes, along this bit of information are other random facts, which kick in my memory when they are needed. I understand what people mean when they use language but I have no mnemonic connection to what the thing means to me. For example I know what a school is but I have no clue if I have ever been to school or if I ever had a childhood. I also seem to have a general knowledge about the psychological workings of the woman from my experience of her. I have no doubt that I exist. This has been something that I have toiled with time and time again. My perception is at a perfect point of view from a few steps behind the woman. Perfect, except I see and hear nothing of myself. I have realized certain things since my first self-acknowledged affirmation of self-awareness. I can keep memory of things from day to day.

Within the seeming confusion there lies some basic rules and patterns: Unless I disobey her requests of direction I return the next day, if not I fade. My shadow-journeys end when she enters her sister’s house. The clock outside the house tells me which day of the month and of which year it is. The woman keeps to a daily individual route, sometimes the routes can be the same or with minor differences.

I am starting to believe that my projection from her brain is not accidental, but maybe, just maybe my existence has purpose.

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