Myself and I

Craig Morey
15 September 2017


* * * * 1 * * * *


I stared up at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep. I could never really sleep anymore. A few years ago I had stopped dreaming, and now I could barely even sleep. It's not too bad to stop dreaming, although you always wake up wondering in the back of your mind if you were missing something. Actual insomnia, however, was starting to get to me.

I climbed out of bed. I started to make my way toward the door, then stopped. My parents, in the room across the hall, were heavy sleepers, but suddenly I had the fear that if I left my room I would end up waking one of them up, and would end up having some sort of awful three-o'clock-in-the-morning conversation.

I leaned against the wall next to the bed and closed my eyes. I felt dizzy, but I knew if I got back in bed I would immediately feel like getting up again. My parents. How pathetic. I'm an adult, I thought to myself. I'm an adult, trapped in my bedroom out of fear of my parents. I tried to walk myself through what would happen if one of them were to wake up. It wouldn't be so bad, I tried to tell myself, I could just say I was thirsty and getting a glass of water. They'd probably just grunt and go back to bed.

It wasn't convincing. I still didn't feel like leaving the room.

There's no way this is healthy, I told myself. This has to end somewhere, I can't just live my life like this. Better to force myself into some sort of resolution now, rather than hide for the rest of eternity from whatever it is that's bothering me so much.

I still didn't move.

I probably am crazy, I thought to myself. There's no way an adult, a god-damned adult, sits in the bedroom at three in the morning, petrified of leaving and having even the shortest conversation, unless there's something wrong mentally. They probably all know, my parents, the neighbors, my friends, they probably all know I'm crazy, they just don't want to bring it up, they figure it's better to just let me live like this. I'm probably making it worse, sitting here agonizing over every little thing—no wonder I'm crazy, I sit in my room and give myself a mental breakdown almost every night. I need to get out of here, I need to leave the room, even just for a second, just to be able to say that I did it, at least that'll be progress, something to start getting me out of this funk.

I took a deep breath—

I couldn't do it. I felt like I was on the verge of tears. I felt exhausted, completely drained. Standing against the wall, my eyes still closed, I put my hand on my face and pressed my thumb and middle finger against my temples.

It didn't matter whether I left the room that night or not. I would have to leave in the morning, I would have to interact with my parents, I would have to greet the neighbors, I would have to see my friends. I dreaded all of it. I was so tired of dreading all of it. I wanted to die. No, maybe I wanted all of them to die. Not even die, just go away and leave me alone. It wouldn't be so bad if it were just me. Really, if I could keep going without needing to talk to anybody anymore, I would probably be just fine, I decided. 

It would be better for them, too, I thought. Not having to strain themselves interacting with me. Not having to pretend like I wasn't crazy, not having to pretend like they didn't see that I was obviously sick of talking to them all the time. Just think how much happier they'd all be if I wasn't like this, if I was more like them, if I liked leaving my bedroom, if I liked having parents and friends.

For a second I really wished I could be like that. That would solve everything, if I could just enjoy, or even just tolerate, other people.

But no, I decided, /I/ was happy enough staying in my bedroom. I really wasn't at all unhappy being here by myself—it was just the fear of leaving the room that was constantly making me so upset. Really, what would solve everything is if there were some way for other people to interact with me, without me having to interact with them: If there was another me, that wasn't afraid of people, who could leave the bedroom and talk to my parents for me, while I could stay here, by myself, with no pressure to leave or socialize or do anything at all. I pictured this other self, my doppelganger, standing across the room near the door. Able to leave the bedroom, able to talk to my parents, able to be /human/ for god's sake.

That's really what it was—I didn't even feel human. I couldn't interact with the world because I was some sort of insane, inhuman monster. But having a human version of myself would solve everything. That's really what I needed—not to leave the room, not to enjoy talking to my parents, but just another me that could be human for me. Again I pictured this other copy of me, standing near the door.

I opened my eyes.

There I was, standing on the other side of the room, looking at me.

I blinked. /I/ also blinked.

I watched myself smile, then turn and leave the room as if it were the easiest thing in the world. I made a move to follow me, but stopped short of the door. I could hear myself walking down the hallway and then down the staircase, not even tiptoeing, just casually walking.

Meanwhile, /I/ just stood there, just staring at the wall where I had seen myself standing.


* * * * 2 * * * *


I woke up. There was light coming through the window.

I had slept! I had slept all the way until morning!

I sat up on the edge of the bed. I actually felt refreshed.

I thought about what had happened during the night. It occurred to me that it must have been a dream. A dream! I had actually had a dream! A dream about having a mental breakdown apparently, but at this point I'd take what I could get.

I laid back down on the bed. Could I do it again, could I fall back asleep and have another dream? Or would I have to wait until the next night to try? I didn't really feel tired anymore, but I also wanted to delay having to leave the bedroom for as long as possible, so I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

It wasn't working, but I figured I'd stay like that until later in the morning and let one of my parents knock on the door to get me out of bed.

I thought about the dream I had had. It occurred to me that having a dream about being anxious and upset should probably have left me feeling anxious and upset when I woke up, but on the contrary, this morning I felt less scared and stressed out about facing the day than I usually did.

I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was almost an hour later than when my parents would usually come and knock on the door.

I heard footsteps out in the hallway, and then the bedroom door opened suddenly. My parents normally would only knock, or sometimes talk to me through the door—they would never normally open it on me, and I was about to reprimand them for doing so, when I realized that it wasn't either of my parents standing in the doorway—it was me.

I watched myself quietly enter the room and close the door. I looked like I was trying to think of what to say. I broke eye contact with myself and laid back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I glanced toward the door and saw myself still standing there, thinking.

I really am crazy, I decided. I tried to think of whether I'd ever heard of stories of crazy people imagining meeting another version of themselves. Just then, my train of thought was interrupted by the sound of my own voice.

"They know I'm not you," I said quietly from in front of the door.

I looked back toward the doorway at myself. "What?" was all I could manage to say.

"They know something's different," I said to myself. "They thought I was sick at first, but now I guess they just think I'm in a weird mood today or something. They didn't say so, but I can tell they suspect something's wrong."

"Who?" I asked stupidly, still lying on the bed. I was having trouble processing what was happening. I kept hoping the other me would disappear so I could go back to pretending to sleep.

"Your parents," I replied from across the room. "It would probably be for the best if you were to go back out there, rather than me."

I sat up on the bed. "Who the hell are you?" I almost shouted.

"Not so loud!" I hissed at myself. I watched myself quickly walk over closer to the bed, looking anxiously back at the door. "You want them to hear you shouting at yourself in your bedroom?"

I laid back down on the bed again. I really wished I could snap out of whatever this was.

I saw myself put an arm on the head of the bedframe and lean over me. "I'm serious, you should be the one that goes back out there, not me. They're going to start getting worried about you."

At the moment, I couldn't muster any feeling of concern about the possibility of worrying my parents. I drew the covers over my face. "I'm not going out there," I said finally.

There was a pause. "Fine," I heard myself say, "suit yourself." I heard myself turn and leave the room.


* * * * 3 * * * *


I stayed like that with the covers pulled over my head. Again I could hear myself walking down the hallway and then down the stairs.

So apparently I'm hallucinating now, I thought quietly.

It's the room that's doing it. I spend so much time in here by myself, it's no wonder I started making up imaginary friends... or whatever that was. I need to get out of here. I need to talk to other people, before it's too late, before I actually go completely insane. Talking to someone else will snap me out of this, that's what I really need to do, as much as I might hate it. I need to go downstairs and talk to my parents.

I went to pull off the covers, then stopped.

My parents. It was quite late in the morning now. Where were they? Why hadn't they knocked on the bedroom door to wake me up? What was keeping them?

A chill came over me.

So... it wasn't a hallucination. At least, not completely, anyway. I, or someone, or some/thing/, had caused my parents to not come knock on my door. What did that even mean? What was that thing? A ghost? Why had it suddenly showed up in my bedroom? Why was it apparently pretending to be me in front of my parents? For all my parents knew, that really was me down there; apparently it was a convincing enough duplicate. They'd have no reason to suspect I'm still up here in bed.

A thought crossed my mind slowly, tentatively: ...Am I here in bed? ...Maybe—maybe /I'm/ the ghost, the hallucination, and the me that's downstairs is the real me. Could that be it? Maybe I spent so much time here in the room, that now, my mind can't leave it, even when my body does. My consciousness is hiding here under the covers, while the rest of me is downstairs.

No, that didn't make sense. I /am/ in the bedroom right now, I can't be hallucinating that. I really am here, in the bedroom, and something that looks and sounds exactly like me had talked to my parents.

I suppose I could go downstairs and find out for myself, I thought. If there really are two of me, then my parents will see both of us and I'll know that I'm not just hallucinating it. And if it /is/ a hallucination... well, at least then I'll know, and in any case I'll have at least left the room finally.

I tried to weigh the options in my head. If I really am crazy, and it was all just a figment of my imagination, wouldn't it perhaps be better to stay here and not know, rather than go downstairs and have to face my insanity head-on? At least here I'm safe—if I stay in the room I can make up any sort of story I want in order to explain what had happened; If I go down there and I'm hallucinating in front of my parents, and they and I both find out that I really am crazy, then that's /it/, there's no going back. At least here I can just say it was all a dream still.

No, that's enough. I can't keep doing that. I can't keep putting off the inevitable like that, I need to go down there. I need to find out. If I /am/ crazy, then so be it. Better than willful ignorance.

I threw off the covers and got out of bed.

But, maybe something else kept my parents from knocking this morning, I thought suddenly. Certainly, that was possible. What was the date today? Maybe it was a holiday or something, and so they were letting me sleep in more than usual. Or, maybe they forgot I was even up here—just plain forgot about me altogether—I mean, I spend so much time by myself in my room, who could even blame them.

I sat back down on the bed.

It occurred to me that for most people, the prospect of their parents forgetting that they existed would probably not be a happy, exciting thought. It was exciting for me, though. How long would they forget for? Could I just stay up here indefinitely? No, surely they'd remember eventually. But in the meantime, why not just stay here?

No, no, it's not true, that'd just be too convenient, I told myself sternly. It's not a holiday, and my parents didn't forget about me. There's actually something weird going on, maybe I'm imagining it and maybe I'm not, but regardless, I need to go downstairs and figure out what it is.

I got up off the bed, walked to the door, and reached for the handle. Just as I had grabbed it, the handle turned under my hand and the door opened toward me, and there I was standing in the hallway.


* * * * 4 * * * *


I backed into the middle of the room in shock, my eyes fixed on the doorway where I watched myself somewhat sheepishly step into the room and close the door behind me.

That is just too much of a coincidence, I thought anxiously. Here I had showed up again, just as I was about to leave the room.

"Sorry," my voice intruded into my thoughts, "but I probably need to stay in here for a little while. It's starting to weird out your parents that I'm spending so much time downstairs, rather than here in the room."

I was barely listening.

It's my subconscious, I decided. It's trying to keep me from leaving the bedroom. Even when I decide to leave, when I've made up my mind—my conscious mind—my subconscious mind sends in this hallucination to stop me. I didn't even hear it coming down the hall. Could I really have been that absorbed in my own thoughts that I wouldn't have heard it coming? No, it's a hallucination, it has to be. And it showed up at the exact moment when I was going to leave. My hand was on the god-damned door handle. No, it has to be my subconscious.

"Were you, uh, planning on leaving?" I asked myself from in front of the door. I still wasn't listening. I felt a chill go down my back.

I have to fight it, I decided. I have to convince it to let me leave the room, or trick it somehow, or physically fight it, or—or something. I can't let it keep me here. This is only going to keep getting worse if I don't leave the room. I have to get out, right now.

"Let me go," I said sharply, and moved aggressively toward the door.

"Uhh, sure thing," I heard myself say hesitantly, and stepped sideways out of the way.

I grabbed the door handle and threw the door open.

"Um, I already ate breakfast, I hope that's okay," I said from behind me, as I was walking into the hall.

I turned and opened my mouth to answer, but instead only blinked. I turned back and kept going down the hallway.

At the top of the stairs I turned around again and looked back at the bedroom door. I saw myself give me a sort of strange look from the doorway, and then I backed into the bedroom and closed the door.

I stood there, at the end of the hallway, looking first down the stairs, then back at the room.

What the hell, I thought to myself, what was that all about? I didn't even try to stop myself. Why didn't I try to stop myself from leaving the room? Was it some sort of trick? Is my subconscious back there expecting me to turn around and go back to the room now, some sort of reverse-psychology? Why did it let me leave in the first place?

Well, I'm not turning around, I said to myself, and took a couple steps down the stairs.

I did it, I thought suddenly. I actually left the room. If I was completely crazy I wouldn't have been able to leave the room, right? If I was totally insane I couldn't have done it. I would have stopped myself. If I was completely crazy my subconscious back there would have overpowered me, I wouldn't have been able to leave.

Really, I didn't even have to think about it even—I just left. I just left and walked right down the hallway. Why couldn't I have done that last night, though? If I had done that last night, maybe none of this would have even happened, maybe I wouldn't even be hallucinating like this.

No, whatever, better not to dwell on it, I'm out of the room now, that's what matters. I need to go downstairs, I need to talk to people, I need to sort this all out.

I took a few more steps down the stairs.

But why had I said that, though? 'I already ate breakfast.' What did that even mean? Was that supposed to keep me from leaving? Why would my subconscious have told me that I already ate breakfast in order to keep me from leaving? Why would I have hallucinated myself saying that at all? It didn't make any sense. And my parents! If that really was my subconscious back there, just a hallucination, trying to stop me from leaving the room, then why hadn't my parents come to knock on the door?

Maybe... had I really been down there already? Had I actually gone downstairs, eaten breakfast, and come back to the room? If so, if it was actually me that did that, why couldn't I remember any of it? If it was me that went down there, why was I having hallucinations of me telling myself that I ate breakfast, instead of me just remembering doing it?

Maybe I was sleepwalking? Is that what it feels like when someone's been sleepwalking, do they hallucinate and then can't remember? It's been so long since I've really slept much, that maybe—maybe when I woke up this morning I hadn't actually fully woken up at all. Maybe I had been so tired that I had still been half asleep, and had just sleepwalked downstairs and ate breakfast, and then came back, and that's why I can barely remember it, and that's why it's all coming to me through this hallucination, as if it were a dream or something.

Hell, maybe I'm not even fully awake right now. Maybe I'm half dreaming still. That would certainly explain all the hallucinations. Maybe what I really need right now is to go back to bed, to try to go back to sleep again—god knows I could really use the sleep, it had been so long since I'd really slept—and then that way, hopefully when I wake up again, I'll be fully awake finally, and then I'll be able to think straight and can finally sort out all this hallucinating or dreaming or whatever it is.

I turned around and took one step back up the stairs, and then froze.

No, this is exactly what my subconscious wants me to do! It's my subconscious that's telling me that I'm still half asleep right now, it's my subconscious trying to make up excuses so that I'll go back to the room, that's why I'm suddenly having all these doubts when I'm half way down the stairs—my subconscious doesn't want me to be going downstairs, it doesn't want me talking to anyone. But that's exactly what I need to do right now. I'm crazy, I'm completely crazy, and I need to go talk to my parents to start getting this all sorted out.

I turned back down the stairs and descended, two steps at a time now.

I stopped again once I was only a few steps from the bottom.

This whole experience, this hallucinating—rather than making me want to stay in the room, it's actually terrified me into wanting to leave even more than before. But what if... maybe... /that/ was the trick? What if that's what my subconscious was aiming for all along? What if the subconscious me, or the hallucination, or whatever it was—what if it actually /wanted/ me to leave the room? What if it was goading me into going, by making me think that I was crazy? It must have only wanted me to /think/ that the cause of the hallucinations was me staying cooped up in the room—that probably didn't even have anything to do with it. I mean, I've spent plenty of time by myself in my room before, and it's never caused me any problems before this. Why would staying in my room too much suddenly cause me to go insane for no reason? It wouldn't make sense. It has to be a trick. It's reverse-psychology, my subconscious trying to get me to leave by acting like it's trying to get me to stay.

I'm probably not even hallucinating, I realized suddenly—not really, anyway. My mind just wants me to think I am. It's probably just a trick of my subconscious or whatever it is, just a trick to make me think I'm really crazy and scare me into leaving the room by making me think I'm hallucinating. Hell, I'm probably not even crazy at all. The only thing that ever made me think I was crazy was that hallucination from my subconscious, and now I know why—my subconscious only wanted to make me think I was crazy in the first place in order to get me to leave! It's all been one big trick to get me out of the room!

I turned around and marched back up the stairs.

God, what a nightmare. As if having to live here with my parents nagging me to come downstairs all the time wasn't bad enough, now even my own subconscious is trying to convince me to leave my room. How messed up is that.


* * * * 5 * * * *


I came back into the bedroom, and immediately forgot the whole train of thought that had led me there. I saw myself, sitting on the bed, exactly where /I/ had been just a moment ago. I stayed standing by the door. I felt incredibly stupid.

"So? Did you talk to your parents?" I said somewhat disinterestedly, as I shifted on the bed. I gave myself a smirk that was presumably either meant to be endearing or mocking, I couldn't decide which.

I didn't answer right away. I was all of a sudden extremely annoyed with this smug, schizophrenia-induced copy of myself. What was even the point of being alone in my room, if I had to be alone with myself like this?

"No," I said finally. Then, "why do you keep saying that?"

"Saying what?" I asked from the bed.

"'Your parents.' They're /your/ parents too, right?"

"I thought you didn't think I was real," I answered playfully. "How could I have parents if I'm not real?"

"You're me, though—or at least, some part of me—my subconscious mind, or some kind of dream or hallucination I'm having, something like that. You're somehow also me, and so they would be your parents too."

"You don't think maybe you're the dream? No one's even seen you since yesterday, no one else can vouch for you being real, you have no proof that you even exist. Whereas for me, I've been talking with your parents—my parents, our parents, whatever—for most of the morning."

"I know I'm real." I paused. "'I think, therefore I am', right? How could I not exist if I know that I'm thinking right now?"

"Maybe I'm the one that's thinking—maybe I'm imagining you thinking, and that's why you think you're thinking. But you're actually not thinking at all."

I thought about it for a moment. It made a certain kind of sense, and it was true that having actually talked to someone would probably have been a better proof of existence than just thinking about myself thinking. Still, I wasn't ready to abandon the assumption of my own existence just yet. "Let's just agree," I answered back finally, "that one of us is the real me, and one of us is my imagination, and for now it doesn't really matter which of us is which."

"Alright, fine by me," I said with a laugh. I shifted on the bed again, and stretched my arms. "So, what now?"

"I think we need to figure out how to stop this," I said, still standing near the doorway. "It can't be healthy to be hallucinating like this."

"And how do you propose we stop hallucinating?" I asked. "Also, have you considered that if I'm the real me and you're the hallucination, then if I stop hallucinating you'll stop existing?"

"I won't stop existing. If I am the hallucination, then—like you said—I don't exist right now in the first place. It's not that one of us would stop existing, we'd just go back to being one person again."

"Alright, then back to my first question: How do we stop hallucinating? Pinch each other on the arms a bunch? Knock our foreheads together? Electric shock? If this were the kind of thing we could just wake up from, I'm pretty sure it would have happened already."

"Hold on, let me think," I said bitterly. I was getting tired of this fake version of me leading the conversation. It was the fake one, I decided. It had to be. I know what I'm like, I thought, and there's no way the real me would've been able to spend more time than necessary with my parents. And the real me wouldn't be acting so light-hearted in the face of possible insanity like this. I briefly considered bringing all this up to the other me sitting on the bed, but thought better of it. It'd be pointless to argue with this imaginary copy, I decided. "Okay, fine, what do you think we should do then?" I asked.

"I think," I answered with a dry smile, "that this has worked out more or less for the best. If we are simply two parts of the same mind, then I'm the part that can handle social interaction, and you're the part that only wants to stay in the bedroom. So why not just go with it?"

"I've /always/ just wanted to stay in the bedroom!" I snapped back angrily. How dare this hallucination, this figment of my imagination, try to tell me who I was. "Before today I've only ever wanted to stay in the bedroom. There wasn't /any/ part of me that wanted to talk to people. If you can handle talking to people, then that proves that you're not some other part of me—you're a just made up version of me! A thought experiment come to life! I'm not like you, I know I'm not. I know what I'm like." A thought hit me. "If you really /were/ me, you'd know that already. You'd know what I'm like. If you can't see that there was never a part of me that liked leaving the room, then you aren't even me at all! You're just an illusion!"

I stopped and waited for a counterargument. But to my surprise, I just slumped down on the bed and stared at the ground. "No, you're right," I said after a while. "I guess I'm really not you. Which means that I'm the one that's the hallucination. I guess I did sort of know that all along." I paused, then looked up questioningly. "Although, if I'm just your imagination, then that doesn't explain how I was able to talk to your parents. Maybe I'm not you, but I can't just be your imagination either."

I thought about it. "Last night, when you first appeared," I said slowly, mulling over each word, "I had wished for a version of myself that could talk to people for me. What if, then, you didn't show up because I was crazy, what if instead you showed up because my wish came true? And so now there really are two of me—as in, /actually/ two of me, not just something in my head."

"'Your wish came true?' Do you actually believe that?"

I thought about it some more. "No," I decided, "I don't really believe it. But, it's the only explanation we've come up with so far that's able to take everything that's happened into account."

From the bed, I gave myself a smirk. "And you don't think, then, that you're only going with this explanation because you're afraid to admit that you've gone crazy?"

There it was again. Every time I had convinced myself that this other me wasn't actually my subconscious, it went and made some comment that hit right at the most sensitive part of my thoughts.

Yes, of course I was afraid of admitting I was crazy. You'd have to be crazy not to be. It was the rational thing for me to do, to try to preserve the feeling that I was in fact rational.

So was I crazy? And if so, what was I supposed to do about it? Talk to a psychologist? The thought of seeing a therapist filled me with a dread more powerful than anything else the realm of human interactions could throw at me.

No, I wasn't going to see a therapist. I'm not crazy, I told myself. Something strange is happening to me, that's for sure, but I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. What I said to myself earlier was correct, even if it did serve the dual purpose of preserving my confidence in my sanity. Treating all of this as if it's actually happening and there's actually two of me is the only way to explain both my identity as the real me, and this morning's interaction with my parents. Whether I'm crazy or not has nothing to do with it.

"Whether or not I'm crazy is irrelevant," I told myself firmly, out loud this time. "I don't really believe in such a thing as granting wishes, but it's the best explanation we've got."

"Alright then," I said, still smirking. "So your wish has been granted, and you may never have to talk to anyone but yourself ever again."

I'm mocking me, I thought. But this time, it didn't annoy me the way it had before. I'm not ashamed of not wanting to talk to people, I decided. I know who I am, I know how I want to live my life, and I'm not ashamed of it. Go ahead and mock me.

This /is/ what I wanted, I reassured myself firmly. I don't regret my wish, even though it came true in such a bizarre fashion. I wanted this last night, and I still want it now. If this truly does allow me to never have to talk to another human ever again, then it's probably the best thing that's ever happened to me.

"Yes," I said, returning my smirk. "My wish has been granted."


* * * * 6 * * * *


I laid in bed and stared up at the ceiling. One week, I thought. One week since my duplicate first appeared, and one week since I last left the room or saw anyone other than myself.

It was the middle of the day, and the room was plenty bright even with the curtains covering the windows. I no longer had any reason to get out of bed, though, and would often stay lying down for the entire day.

In addition to no longer feeling stressed about talking to people, I had the added comfort of being able to sleep all through the night, every night for the past week. It occurred to me that the two were probably related—my anxiety and fear of other people had likely been the cause of my insomnia.

Living with myself wasn't nearly as bad as I had thought it might be. Despite my other self's concerns that my parents and friends would be suspicious, I had been spending less and less time in my bedroom, to the point where, these last couple days, I had only been in the room with myself from late evening until morning. My family and friends, I had been told, had eventually warmed up to my apparent change of disposition, and now seemed almost as happy about my having been replaced as I was myself.

I had worried about having to have conversations with myself every night when I returned to the room, but the only thing that could have been of interest for us to talk about was my duplicate's interactions from that day, and I made it obvious that I had absolutely no interest in the subject, and so we eventually kept mostly to ourselves.

From where I was lying in bed, I turned my head to look at the clock. It was a motion done out of habit, not curiosity, and when I looked away again I realized I couldn't actually recall what time I had seen. Time couldn't hold any consequence for me anymore. It would get dark, and I would sleep, and then it would get light, and I would wake up. That was the extent of my schedule.

As my mind drifted from place to place, I sometimes came back to dwell on the topic of whether I was crazy. It had occurred to me that even if I was completely sane, even if the appearance of the other me had nothing at all to do with my mental state, spending so much time alone with only a copy of myself would likely make me crazy eventually. The thought didn't worry me nearly as much as it probably should have. I was comfortable the way I was, and I decided that if the cost of maintaining my sanity was forcing myself to leave the room, I would much rather stay in bed and go crazy.

I began to look toward the clock again, then stopped myself. I smiled. It's my humanity, I thought to myself. It's not really my sanity I'm losing, it's my humanity. It's human of me to want to keep track of time, it's human to think about interactions with people and plan for the day ahead, and I've done away with all of it. I'm losing my humanity, and I couldn't be happier about it.


* * * * 7 * * * *


The weeks flew past. I hardly ever talked to myself anymore. In fact, I often wouldn't even notice when I entered the room. The rest of the world had lost all relevance for my life, and so I no longer needed to pay any attention to it.

My doppelganger, likewise, was unconcerned about me or my increasing withdrawal into myself. My other self had completely taken over my worldly life, and was fully absorbed in the act of living. The fact that /I/, this mute bedridden ghost of myself, was in the room with me at night, was seen as at most a small inconvenience, a reasonable price to pay in order to be able to face the world without all of my former anxieties.

Lying there in bed, I no longer worried if I was crazy anymore. I couldn't be crazy anymore. Sanity, I had realized, is something relative, something dependent on other people. If everyone had psychopathic compulsions, or heard voices in their head, or got so anxious that they pulled all their hair out, then those people would be the new normal, and it would be the normal people who would be considered crazy. Here, in my room all by myself, I had completely done away with other people. In my entire world, the only person for me to judge myself against was me, and so I was automatically normal by definition. I couldn't be crazy for the same reason that an object floating deep in interstellar space couldn't be upside-down. In space there is no up and there is no down, and in my bedroom there was no sane or insane, there was just me, untethered, floating through the vacuum, drifting every which way.

I was becoming increasingly unhinged. I began to have difficulty making the distinction between what was me and what wasn't me. At times, an idea would come to me while I laid in bed, and I would look around the room wildly to see who had said it. Other times, I would be shocked upon suddenly remembering that the bedroom around me was real, and not something I had built for myself in my imagination.

This must be how God would feel, it occurred to me. Never knowing whether the universe he created was real, or just something he imagined. Never being able to imagine something, without then worrying that he might have accidentally created it.

In some sense, I am a god now—I'm the god of my own mind. If the only thing left in my world is me, then my entire universe is simply my mind. Within my own mind, I am the supreme power, I am omnipotent, omniscient, omni-benevolent. And as God created humans to worship him and obey his laws, I have created my thoughts, to provide for me and do my bidding.

Eons slipped by, as my idle mind had completely severed itself from the passing of time. I eventually forgot that the rest of the world had ever existed, and I began to lose awareness of my own identity.

My thoughts, those treasured creations of mine, began to disassociate from the rationality that I had formerly held so dear. The logical causality that previously had led my train of thought from one idea to the next gave way to a soupy mixture of thoughts all jumbled together, a dissonant blend of my tangled up consciousness, an impressionist's rendition of the structure of the mind.

Not only was I no longer human, by this point I was hardly even a thinking being. My mind had become a prison, a pitch black void with no walls, no floor, nothing to provide any structure, any backdrop against which to think. I could no longer form my internal dialogue into words—words had lost their meaning for me some time ago—and so my thoughts had become foreign to me, a morbid chanting in a language I no longer spoke, assaulting me from all corners of my awareness.

I tried to withdraw deeper, to protect myself from the terror of what was left of my existence, but there was nowhere deeper to go. I had withdrawn myself into the very core of my mind, the last part of me that could still handle tasks like identifying pain and trying to escape it. All around me, the ravings of my lunatic intelligence pressed in like a tumor, no longer serving any purpose and yet refusing to die. Finally, it reached the point where it could go no further, the torture of my insanity overwhelmed me, and my last mote of consciousness faded out once and for all.


* * * *  END  * * * *