He started the story on the same day; they began another report on him. He couldn’t tell anyone about the story. He saw it as too fragile in its trembling tenuous beginning, only the spark of an idea. The idea was too delicate and somewhere inside he thought it was too perfect to exist, would crumble and crack upon exposure. That was the nature of perfection he thought and it was something he thought often about, spent restless nights wondering upon. All his ideas seemed perfect without execution. He thought if he was only an idea he could be perfect too. So that’s why he was terrified of exposing the idea, of seeing its flaws. He knew he should tell them everything but he could not bring himself to tell them this. He had an idea if only inkling and that was the best feeling he knew of. Inside his head there was scratching, scrabbling the idea moved relentlessly, yearning for its freedom. He tried to slow it down, keep it apace, let it out slowly but it wanted to surge, to flow, to surround and suffocate, to consume and become him. Obsession gave pure purpose. Obsession respected time, regarding it not just as space to be filled. Obsession believed in never stopping at mere amusement or distraction. Obsession was a type of pleasure. Obsession made identity disappear. Part of him wanted to give up, to collapse helpless by the idea but he knew he mustn’t, for then it would be obvious. He mustn’t let them know or they would take it from him. He fought with himself, he pulled himself together. He must act like them and they will never know of the idea.
He wanted to write about an author. It’s easier to put yourself into characters, become lost in one’s own territory where you could invent the landscape. It’s easier to write when you could relate. You could spend lifetimes exploring yourself, make a thousand characters and still not find you. You could wholly immerse yourself in the story that way. That was why the main character would serve two purposes. It was easier to write about yourself, thereby facilitating your own immersion in the story and second that was exactly what he wanted to write about happening to the character making it doubly easier for him to write about, for the creative process. The character, the man he was writing the story about would be writing a story. The idea was that his character should have the intention of writing a story that when read, the lines between fiction and reality would start to melt away. He would crave to make the distinction between reality and art slip seamlessly away, which was also his intention in writing the story itself. Indeed that was the best form of art, art that made you forget it was art, art that fed upon you, art that required so much of your attention you felt as if it was digesting you, that it was taking you, that you were becoming it. That it had taken your now, that it was your now. Yet most will be able to draw themselves back, re-establish the distinction, step back from what was and carry on with the daily but this was not what he wanted to write like. He wanted to write something that had life in it so that it was inseparable, something without ending because in art a good ending defies the meaning of an ending, it stays with you, a good ending never ends. So he was writing about a character who wanted to do the same thing. The character was mirroring his pursuit but the character was unaware he was being used for the exact thing he was trying to achieve. A problem emerged then if he was writing with the purpose of blurring others reality and doing so by writing about a character with the same intention, how could he keep his characters reality intact in the process of writing it? The problem frustrated him, how could he literally keep his character sane and have his character achieve his aims? The problem felt like a physical presence blocking his way. He incubated the problem and continued writing; it would come to him surely as one thing comes after another. They have no idea he thought happily to himself as he continued writing. It gave him pleasure knowing they had no idea what he was working on. No idea he had an idea.
The words became like dominoes, tipping one after the other, blending together into line into pattern, one brought about the next and so the solution came to him. Why did he need to keep his character’s reality intact in the process of the character writing his intended masterpiece. They would become their masterpiece. They would suffer for their art. They would have hallucinations and delusions. Their art would invade and infect their very life. The character in his story would start to see the characters in his story as if they were real, would be unable to tell the difference. The characters the character invented would harass and follow him, keep him awake force the character in the story to keep writing the story to stay true to his intention. Yes he thought, that was what was needed in the story, a dream and then pain. The pursuit of perfection and the pain that comes in the process was needed, not the resolution of happiness and completion of the intention. For happiness was difficult and tedious to express although beautiful to live. Pain was difficult to live but was beautiful when expressed. Fuelled by his idea, he stayed up into the night writing, writing about a character plagued a[i]nd tormented by his creation, a character sleepless and bent on a dream and he too became sleepless and bent on a dream. After writing for hours, deep in the night he collapsed asleep amongst his work.
He awoke startled. The man next door was screaming. He quickly came to his side. He tried to calm him, tried and tried but the man was raving hysterical. There was obviously no one there but the man kept screaming ordering invisible people to leave him, to let him sleep, to let him alone, saying he would finish the work in the morning. What work? He asked but the man only screamed more. He phoned an ambulance and the man was carried away. Concerned and curious over the man’s well being, he went to the hospital next day to enquire. Since the man had received no one thus far, a nurse drew him aside assuming he was a friend or relative. She seemed oddly familiar to him although he could not place her. The man played along using the situation to ask his own questions while secretly thinking this would be good material for the story. Has there been a diagnosis he said. He’s highly psychotic she replied, he was writing and now he believes the characters are real and are constantly harassing him. The man suddenly felt uncomfortable. Really? He asked gingerly. What was he writing about, do you know? He happened to keep his journal with him until today, until they found it. The doctors have examined the contents... she paused and seemed reluctant to go on. The man prompted her. Convinced himself he was not lying he was acting, for lying was only an act the audience is not aware of. She relented and continued, this is the peculiar thing she said, he seems to be writing about exactly what has happened to him, he was writing a story about a writer trying to write a story and whom eventually loses his sanity under the belief the characters in the story are real. Suddenly he was infuriated, that was his idea, and somehow the man had stolen it from him. He wracked his brains thinking of how this man he had not seen until today could possibly have gotten hold of the material, confused and annoyed he walked away from the nurse back to the man. How dare he? He thought. He confronted him at his bedside, your story is exactly my idea he said. The man started from his sleep, opened his eyes and grinned slowly but I am your idea he said.
The man drew back terrified. He paced the room. He closed his eyes and opened them again. What hospital was this? He could not answer the question. How long had he had this neighbour? He could not answer the question. How come he had never seen this neighbour until no[ii]w? He could not answer the question. The man in the bed kept talking to him, talking about endings, the best way to end the story. Suddenly he felt so weary so exhausted so tired. Shut up he screamed, let me be, leave me alone. His screaming triggered the other mans and mirrored his own. Another nurse came into the room; she walked straight past him as if he were a ghost. A doctor followed again ignoring his hysterics and tending to the hysterics of the man in the bed. We need to sedate and isolate him the doctor said. The last thing the man shouted was, now you have your ending.
He woke up almost in a fever, his brain felt almost on fire, I have an ending, I have an ending he thought and yet he could not remember what it was. He had dreamt the ending. He must keep writing he thought, if he kept writing it would come back to him, come out of him, he would have his ending. He must act normal. He mustn’t let them know, he mustn’t let them know for they would be calling him soon.
Across the table, the doctor spoke, you can’t remember what happened during the night? He nodded. You had to be sedated, you had another psychotic episode. We need to find out what triggered this episode the doctor said, what were you doing that that might have triggered the episode? He looked outside the window in the interview room. There was an oddly familiar man talking to a nurse, also familiar but whom he did not recall working here from any other day. Suddenly it came rushing back to him. He had his ending. I need to finish, I need to finish he repeated and repeated. Finish what? The doctor enquired but he only continued to repeat I need to finish, I need to finish each sentence reaching a higher pitch. The doctor despaired, put his head in his hands called two nurses. Sedate and isolate him he ordered.
After committing him to isolation, in his room they found pages and pages. Pages of a story. A story just like this one.
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