Illness

                “You are sick”

                Athashea smiled weakly at the simple words, words she had heard so many times, words that felt more disconnected with each utterance.  She replied like broken clockwork, somehow moving beyond the stuck gears of her heart just to wind up where she had been all along, “I don’t feel sick…”

                The man coolly replied, not bothering to make eye contact, never looking away from his pad, “You are sick, and we are not going to make any progress as long as you cannot accept this.  Acceptance is the first step to…”  He paused and gestured for her to finish.

                Athashea gasped out the rest of the sentence with a sigh of frustration, “Integration.”  It was always the same with this man, this specialist, and yet she seemed the only one who noticed the lack of progress--the lack of connection.  If anything, these consultations seemed to grow more distant, as if her whole world was gradually becoming a dream.  Sometimes she wondered if the man’s whole objective was to cause her regression, to drive her away from the world, to remind her that the world had no place for this Athashea.

                Tapping his fingers to an unheard rhythm, the man seemed satisfied, despite Athashea’s lack of enthusiasm, “Yes, and Integration is key for a healthy mind.  So it only stands that by not accepting this, you are sick--terribly sick.”

                “But I don’t feel sick.”

                With rehearsed ease the man insisted, “But you are; why else would you be in quarantine if you were not sick?”  Pausing for a moment the man seemed to finally consider breaking the routine they had established; with a grimace he shook his head and still without meeting her gaze, he mumbled, “Why else would a professional like I risk contamination unless you were deathly ill?   It is the duty of doctor’s such as I to ensure wellbeing.”

                “My wellbeing?”

                The man did not answer, instead he drew back to his trademark speech, “While I am sure this would surprise you, since few know about it…  But our kind, we were once primitive beings with primitive concepts of illness.  Once our kind focused only on healing the body, the most irrelevant part of us.  To heal but a single part of the whole, to focus on something which would break eventually, something which didn’t even define us--it shows how primitive we once were.  To think that our kind looked at ourselves and saw their ‘flesh’ and thought it defined them, a truly sad existence do you not agree?”

                The man paused for a moment, his silence indicating that he expected her to give a response; this was almost over, she just needed to endure a little more.  “Yes,” she sighed, not even bothering to understand what his point was.

                “We have taken great strides to eliminate the cancerous ideals of self, the absurd hubris of the introvert; and after eons quashing that foolish nature, we can finally be great, to be more than just flesh and pride.  As we are now, we finally have a complete understanding of what defines us, what it means to exist.  No longer do we feel that confusion, that uncertainty of why we are.  An absolute understanding that we can only hold by throwing away that archaic, barbaric, thought.”  Pausing again the man gestured at Athashea, here came that same question, “Do you feel uncertain?”

                “Yes.”

                “Uncertain if you are ill?”  And with that, the man disconnected as he had each time, leaving Athashea in quarantine, where she wouldn’t be able to spread her introvert illness to others.  But never alone… to be alone was just cruel.  So instead, at times like this, she would simply be kept silent, passed on all sides by the wisps of other consciousnesses which somehow gave life meaning to her kind.  Silent, where she couldn’t express what it meant to be in quarantine.  To simply… exist.

                With a sigh, Athashea grudgingly admitted to the wisps around her, which could never hear her through the veil, “Perhaps a little…”  She didn’t feel sick, but at the same time, those moments of feeling disconnected, as if the world had nothing for her, they grew stronger each day.  Just because she suffered from, as the man put it, ‘a combination of existential crisis and asocial disorder’ did not mean she was willing to admit she was sick.  Somehow, even with this loneliness, she firmly believed that the man was wrong, that to feel disconnected was only normal.  That she was supposed to be able to explore her own mind; a concept which he’d chuckle at, casually dismissing it.  Even now she could hear his response, “What worth is there in a single mind?”  He had to be wrong, he had to…  Why else would he keep trying to cure her?

                The voices… those wisps… those wisps that would never stop babbling… a babbling that never ended… never made sense.  She couldn’t take it, just floating here with her own kind; she just wanted to be alone!  It didn’t matter if it was a sickness, an illness, a cancer… her mind made much more sense than the babbling that tunneled a hole within her mind.  She wanted to be alone, to be with something that made sense, to realize that she was more than just an illness.  She needed to be alone, no more interventions, no more medical examinations, no more quarantine… she just needed to be alone, of this she could be certain.  To be alone, to be able to scream, and to hear herself!

                Then… as if all those feelings of disconnection, a discordant haze, finally came crashing down with a resonating crescendo, she felt it… a scream.  The whole world crumbled around her, and she was suddenly alone.  Alone with the gasped shriek that warbled out from deep inside her, from a part of her she didn’t recognize--but which seemed far more real than ever before.  It hurt, it hurt to scream.  She reached for her heaving breast, connections forming where she had forgotten; and under her shaking hand she felt something she had never felt before.  A pounding beat, a beat which seemed to pulse in accord with her racing mind, with the turmoil inside her.  And then she realized… it was a heartbeat, her heartbeat.

                Athashea lay like that, in complete darkness, in the heavy air which seemed to hang on her every breath, no longer barraged with thoughts that wanted to consume her.  She had only the beating of her heart, and a resonating realization that this was what it meant to exist.  She could try and explain it, but it felt that the heart she had forgotten was much more apt at expressing it--the simplicity of existing, to be alone.  It was beautiful; it was right.

                As she opened her eyes, to a warmth around her, she felt fear--for the uncertainty around her.  Nothing was as it had seemed, and only now did she have the profound realization of just, how alone she really was.  Silence, it was so, powerful.  And yet, despite the uncertainty, the illness, she felt something more than just how apart she had become.  Even if she was alone, she had her heartbeat, she had this warmth, and she understood…  As she weakly pulled out the wires connected to her body, and slowly stepped away from the pod, she realized that she had never felt at one with something, until now--not integration, but harmony.

                Leaving that world of illness behind her, Athashea made her way out to explore what it meant to be one with a body

          to be one for more than a mind

                    to find who Athashea was.

 

               

Author's Note

Finally back from a break from the site... got a few stories to upload, but here is the first one. Hopefully it is worth my absence.

Reviews

[Ghost of Jupiter]

I felt a connection to this story, the introvert who is expected to conform and fit into the social aspects of society being seen as someone who is ill. Like those who do not want to put on the mask in the world today and pretend all is ok... Everything is alright, when nothing is right. Trying to step beyond what is conventionally correct and follow your own heart... Love the idea of this piece and the way it was written out. Another brilliant one, J... Just awesomeness.

[Nusquam Esse]

Yep, I think the meaning of this one was quite clear; and it is something I have struggled with as well. I am not strictly an introvert, but I do have those moments... and nothing pisses me off more than when people act like personal expression is best pushed to the side so they can live their lives in bliss. Things are not always so 'perfect', and denial of this does not change anything.

[Vawn]

I dislike this story at first, but after re-reading it a second time, I got into the story fairly easily. The doctor in the story quickly irritated me. I guess his lack of emotion and understanding towards Athashea made me dislike him immediately. The story flow very well, and I kind of want to know what her illness was and why was the doctor trying so hard to cure her.

[Nusquam Esse]

Her 'illness' was her unwillingness to become part of a social collective, by trying to remain herself, and wanting to be alone. Being Introvert is considered an illness in this story. I wrote it kind of thinking about what it is like to be expected to 'feel' a certain way for the convenience of others, like having to act like you are fine, when you really are not. As for why the doctor was trying to cure it, if he even is; that is deliberately left vague. Hopefully this explains it well enough. Thank you for taking time to give the story another read, I likewise dislike the doctor... ;) I didn't give him a name because I didn't want to give him his own identity.

[Vawn]

Thank you for clearing that up for me! Your a great writer to be able to write something like this in a hour, would have token me like a week at least lbvs

[Nusquam Esse]

I just have those occasional moments, frissons which compel me to put out the first words that come to mind. I don't really plan them out, I just write as I go, and then I revise what I have. Write without thinking, so it is from the heart... think afterwards, when you revise. At that point you can deliberate your choice of words, the syntax of your sentences, the cohesiveness of the story as a whole. That is a much more time consuming process than the first bit, and despite how tedious it is, it is equally important to crafting a strong story with genuine depth. Hah, of course writing is an evolution of ourselves, it takes time and persistence, and a continual drive to improve and build upon... eventually we find ourselves developing, as well as our writing. Certainly could not have written something like this when I first started writing... my first attempt was to write a novel, and about 400 pages in I realized it was complete rubbish, and destroyed it. But I learned a lot of things along the way, as long as you keep looking for your mistakes and how to fix them, you will improve with experience. So just keep writing, and don't forget to closely scrutinize your own work; it may take a few years, but you should be able to make a marked improvement.

[Nusquam Esse]

Just remember that stories are not simply a sequence of events. Much like how a resume, a grocery list of your accomplishments and character traits, defines you. It is often too easy to get caught up in moving to the next scene that we neglect to develop mood or character as well as we could have. The difference between "He walked towards the door" and "The door drew him in"... which is not to say that every sentence needs to be some elaborate display of metaphor, but rather balance needs to be found. However, never neglect care for the language you use when you get carried away with a sequence of events. Give yourself time to flesh out characters and settings that exist beyond just plot devices. :)

[Vawn]

Thanks this do means a lot, I'm fairly new to writing, and who new I would gain some good advice while reviewing someone else work. I been feeling down while writing because I know the story has potential to be something good, but sometimes I feel like my inexperience actually holding the story back. Sometimes sitting down staring at a blank screen deleting each sentence sometime hours at a time, feeling like I accomplish nothing, but I appreciate your time to write some uplifting advice, and as you can see sometimes I'm my own worst critic.

[Nusquam Esse]

This is going to sound harsh, but I am just speaking from my own experience. What matters most for you right now is not the story itself, it is developing technique--finding your own voice. Whatever your story is right now, and however good you think it is... after additional experience, you will see it in a new light--at least if you are actually improving. It is a lot like how kids are; no child with crayons is going to draw a masterpiece, no matter how innately talented. In fact, most of the time, it is absolutely atrocious; but that doesn't mean it should be discouraged. It takes a lot of trial and error. My advice is to just write the first things that come to mind, and don't worry about writing something good enough for your idea. As you become more accustomed to writing naturally, you will find yourself able to think of new ideas which will surpass your old. It is a natural result of actively using your imagination and expressing it. Again it sounds cruel, since I was much like you... I started writing trying to convey an idea which seemed so good. It was tough to admit that it was rubbish; but that doesn't mean it didn't help me learn--there is a common motif among writers that we must get a few hundred pages of crap out before we can start writing better. It is the 'creator's curse', the more we create the more we improve, and the more unsatisfied with our old work we become. I am not going to say "abandon your idea and novel", it is important that you yourself learn what does and does not work, and a novel is a very difficult task that will certainly help you even if you fail. (so don't lose heart) However, those days that the novel is not flowing naturally, I recommend taking a break from it and trying out other forms of writing. Don't have tunnel vision on one project, even if it seems like you will never finish if you don't persist--as I said, you are new to writing, and finishing a novel is not your most important goal. Try writing a short story or two, something between 1-10 pages; focus on developing a character, an idea, or a setting--do not try to tell a story, as a sequence, but rather convey a single moment in time. This is called In Medias Res, which means "In the Middle of Things", in which you do not start a story, or end it... at least not in a conventional manner. Feel free to reference my other works such as "City of Dreams" or "Once a Red Moon" (I am not shamelessly promoting); you will notice that they do not really explain how a character got into their current situation, and they never explain an ending. Rather, they convey a moment in time, and it is up to the reader to decide what they think is the 'story'; this helps you feel more connected to those characters, since rather than being told what sort of person they are, you are feeling, figuring them out... in the process of reading, they become your own as a reader. Besides, how often would a person wake up in an apocalyptic world and think to themselves a full sequence of events? :P Anyway, learning how to depict a single scene will help you make a novel, a sequence of such moments, feel more intimate and powerful, and assist you in learning how to look at not only the big picture (which I am familiar with how frustrating it can be to have a great ending in mind, but know you have hundreds of pages until you can write it). You can also try your hand at poetry, both rhymed and free-verse, try experimenting with lots of styles. Writing is one of those things that nothing you write is going to waste as long as you write to better yourself; stories help you write better poems, and poems help you write better stories. Let me explain with some examples. Experimenting with Japanese poetry such as the senryu or tanka, will teach you how to convey an idea in very few words, due to how constraining the syllable counts are. This can help you find a balance between eloquence and brevity in your writing; I tend to be a wordy person, so I like to sometimes mix it up with a few simple words. In my story "Once a Red Moon", I end it with just a few words, but I have had many people tell me that the ending was very powerful, haunting... Because those words don't actually explain the why, but they show so much about the character, and the contradiction in them tugs at the mind. I could have given a more long winded ending, but I am convinced that it would not have been able to trump such a simple ending. As for free-verse poetry, it will help you learn how to write naturally the first things that come to mind; and it will help you learn how to write using metaphor and with a certain form of poetic prose. By taking a 'poetic' stance, you will naturally start using more 'beautiful' and thoughtful words; your stories will more easily captivate readers, who will subconsciously be drawn within, spellbound, to each word, awaiting what comes next. Finally, formed poetry such as Sonnets, Terza Rima, and Limericks; it is extremely difficult to follow rhyme AND meter, while coming across naturally. Because these forms require a lot of thought and care to develop--I have spent hours on just a couple lines before. It is hard to let something like that flow naturally; but perhaps you already see the similarity with your staring at a blank screen? These can help you learn how to take forced writing, and make it natural. They also assist you in identifying flow, by having to read your lines back over and over again, and deliberate meter... it will give you a natural sense for flow in your writing. You will write sentences which flow better, and in turn, the reader will get drawn in easier. So yeah, those are just some of the reasons. Diversity is key, allow yourself to expand in many different directions, and don't get discouraged because you don't seem to progress quickly in any one direction; a strong foundation will help you more than anything. It should also be said that few people on here are going to read books; no matter how good they may be. Even getting people to read short stories is fairly difficult; I am one of the few short story writers who has actually been able to get dozens of reviews on many stories (but not as of late since I have been on hiatus until a week or so ago). Most of the people on this site are poets, or at least they enjoy writing and reading poetry. So if you want input, that is often the route to take. Perhaps try writing poems depicting scenes from your larger story? It will help you look at your novel from a new perspective, while also giving little teasers into it. I gave similar advice to Jennie (the other reviewer on this piece) about half a year ago or so. Since then she has done several revisions to her story, improving on it... and with her poems which have referenced her novel, she has been able to get more readers for it. People are just wary of investing themselves into a novel that they are unsure of the quality.

[Vawn]

Ya I notice that most people like poetry, and I will definitely try some of these things out, and it did sound harsh :P But like most good advice, it doesn't come across as nice and pretty.

[Nusquam Esse]

yeah, just don't loose heart, and write for yourself. That is really all it is... Listen to criticism constructively, but don't take it personally or let it take away your drive to write.

[Jennie Baron]

This absolutely is worthwhile reading. It's good that you're back. This story masterfully creates a picture of a soul integrated, only a small part of a huge entity, with no privacy and little independent thought, disconnected from any body. I found that somewhat disturbing, but then this strong soul asserts itself and its uniqueness, and I think the result gets at the essence of what it means to be human. Outstanding writing as usual!

[Nusquam Esse]

Thanks for the warm welcome back Jennie! It is good to be back, been feeling a bit more productive as of late. It always makes me happy to know that a story of mine was worth the read; I often worry with how things have become (attention spans ever dwindling in an age of fast convenience) that they will not feel like a satisfying use of one's time. You describe the society so well! And I agree, it is most certainly a disturbing idea--sometimes I wonder if things will end up this way, it is not exactly against certain aspects of human nature after all. But I like to think that the desire to be one, to assert one's identity is also a key part of who we are. Yeah, I just had an idea, of 'what if being introvert was considered an illness' and in a burst of frissons I just typed it up on the spot... took about an hour, I was surprised at how well it turned out since I didn't really plan it out at all; unlike the weeks of contemplation that I usually put into an idea before I write it.