I feel like I’ve reached a state of self-consciousness – a mental state so aware that everything about my body is under my control. It’s always been like this, truth be told. I’ve always been aware – very aware of myself. There are moments where my mind wanders off from reality; something akin to an evanescent intrusion, but when the reality resurfaces I find that I have stopped breathing. And so I focus on breathing. I become aware of the way I walk and stumble, so I must focus on walking. And I become aware of the value of words that escape my mouth, so I focus on the value before speaking.  

“It was always I who existed; not anything else; it is I who breathes; not anything else; it is I who walks; not anything else; it is I who speaks; not anything else.”

I’ve come to a sort of theory about this self-awareness: within each person, from the moment they are born, are born not with an actual state of mind, no, they are born with a drone. And by drone I mean an insentient being…something that lacks emotion; sympathy, empathy, apathy; existing only with a state of indifference. But it was this drone, born through the mind, that takes control of the person’s body. And the person whom the body belongs to, having been born from the heart, doesn’t fight the drone. Instead, perhaps because having been born from a heart; the same heart that provides genuine feelings, they choose to watch through the eyes. The drone did not subjugate the body; the person, whom the body belongs to, welcomed the drone with open arms, gifting the drone its body. But now the heart that had birthed the person is empty, for the person has traveled to the eyes, and only watch as things progress, paying no mind to the abyss that fills the heart.

And as time passes within this body controlled by a drone, the heart – once full of a person; a breathing essence; though, now empty – begins to be refilled with smidgens of genuine emotion; the same essence as before.

Why is that?

The answer is experience.

The drone begins to experience more of the world. The sense of ease that exists as a child, and the wonders that seem to roam the world; the drone learns, they adapt; the drone develops a sense of self; but by no means are they self-aware. The drones existence now, having developed something of a personality, is better described to be a glib existence. So where might these emotions that refill the heart be put to use if not devoured by the insentient drone? The answer is that the drones are aware of this filling heart but know not what to do with it. They look, they watch, they study, but ultimately remain uncertain; for they cannot understand the genuity of emotions. For this drone was born insentient, they remain insentient regardless of how much they experience.

I, myself, am not a believer of fate, but I do, however, believe that a person’s innate nature determines the path that person takes, but also brings about new paths as time continues. Not an ineluctable happening; but an evitable string of choices.

More time progresses as the heart fills with its beautiful essence. The drone, having developed its glib nature, now feels – from having learned the ways of the world; a fit member of society – unease from the growing heart.

The drone, then, experiences an event; a majorly unprecedented event. Something like bereavement; for another or within, maybe the touching of another’s flesh; gentle caressing or barbarous grabbing, the hearing of words; grating or soft, even the seeing of actuality; to understand the truth of reality as it is; to accept it, or to neglect it. The drone experiences this and the heart is overflowing.

The drone is now insufferable, panicking like a flock of birds startled, and is ultimately drowned by these enigmatic emotions.

I know, I know, an anticlimactic ending.

But now this body lacks a means of control. The insentient being has perished and now nothing exists to control this body. But that’s not true. For a watcher, someone who has watched since the beginning of its birth, is now moved to a nexus. They are left with a heart that floods the body in emotion, and a mind filled with memories of what once was; of what once existed. And now this watcher, who has only watched, now controls the body with bare feeling for the first time; they are something like a toddler: lost and confused. The watcher has regressed, but the watcher themselves are unaware of it.

The mind, as a result of all the confusion, expands itself to understand, but the only thing they are given is more uncertainty. The contradictions that exist only become more imposing, that’s when the watcher realizes that such contradictions are the essence of life, and that what is thought to be known will forever be uncertain, and that the watchers purpose is not their purpose but the drones; but did the drone understand its purpose in the first place?

This conflicting state of mind that breeds contradictions, thus uncertainty, is the very essence of self-awareness.

Self-consciousness in the flesh.

It is thanks to this consciousness that I was born with, that helped me realize that there is something within my veins that has replaced the warm scarlet-hued blood. It was replaced with a feeling of piercing snow, that gives frost bite upon mere touch, cladding itself relentlessly within the inner layers of my body, as I desperately attempt to calm myself with short breathes.

With each small exhale from my mouth, the cold refilled itself within my lungs. I was breathing so quickly and felt so cold, I began to feel numb from lack of blood. Though, if I were to cut myself at this moment, blood would certainly drip from the wound.

But even so, I am not sure where I am. It is dark and I’m not sure if I’m touching anything. Like I said before, my body feels numb – if I even have a body at all.

I could very well be dead; suffering in the tundra of hell, but I couldn’t be sure.

Hmm?

‘Strange.’ I thought.

Strange because there was a subtle feeling from the heart – my… heart? Like I could very much feel that my heart is beating.

Thump, thump, thump.

It hurt. It felt strained, as if my heart itself had been wreathed dry. But it continued to pump with an unknown will of its own. But it is pain; the very thing the thing that keeps me alive.

My ears that were once throbbing from the cold, became silent at the sound of wood creaking. “Kiiro!” A matured feminine voice spoke in trepidation. “Do you know where your father is?!”

‘Kiiro? Who’s that?’

Little by little I regained feeling in my numbed body. First my dry tongue, parched to the point where it’d shrivel up from lack of hydration. My throat that felt as though it had tensed to the point of closing entirely. And, although I couldn’t see, my eyes felt irritated, and if I were to look at my reflection, my eyes would likely be bloodshot. My mouth tensed with poignance began to open. But only shallow breaths escaped.

“Kiiro!”

I flinched.

The voice itself wasn’t scary. The tone wasn’t inimical nor was it an exasperated scream of words. The voice spoke from a perturbation so empathetic, a voice so desolate, like to hear the woes of a woman whose bottled emotions leak with an ever so sorrowful drip. The very voice that spoke was so sorrowful that I flinched from the disheartening tone and how my already wreathed heart, strained of all its blood, suddenly became more mangled from before.

Now my heart was no different than a shriveled thing; no longer a heart, but a thing.

But this sorrow that strained my entire person gave an opaque relief. My still cold body gathered what little warmth released from the voices speaking of the word “Kiiro”, and my heart began to refill, growing back into its plump shape.

Soon I felt the touch of fabric, cotton perhaps, abut on my forehead, but my vision remained obscured, as dark as an abyss. Even if I attempted to move my body, or to even lift my head, I was restricted. Like my will to move had been encased within a wall that is my bone and flesh and would not move regardless of how much effort I put into motion.

So there I stayed, forehead growing numb and lined by fabric.

Soon I felt the vibrations that had creaked the wooden floor come closer. Step after step, each step with a moan of lament. Then, stopping in front of me, the voice spoke: “Do you know where the man that stays with us went?”

My short breathes halted, as words morosely trickled from my mouth. “…I don’t know… I-I don’t know…”

‘It’s not my voice… is this-’

Light, dimmed by a sourceless obstruction, seeped through tiny slit-like openings from the abyss that obscured my vision. The dimmed light swam to my eyes and gave an insufferable throbbing sensation, as if this entire time seeing only through the abyss, my eyes had been open. But within that abyss was stagnant air, affection me with only irritation of tiredness, but now entering reality – to see reality, the raw air brushes itself onto my eyes like thin needles piercing my very pupils. But my eyes remain open, stoically conditioning itself to the light.

Blood. The first thing I saw was blood drip from somewhere – above me? Or from me?

I don’t know. I don’t know why blood is on the floor. I don’t know why my white shirt is stained with blood. I don’t know why I feel so confined within this skin that traps me. I don’t know why the voice that speaks with my mouth isn’t my own.

I don’t know.

“Fuck! Fuck!” The voice frantically yelled, consternation apparent in each step that coursed back and forth. The wood beneath me quaked as something fell to the ground. The blood, I heard, spattered around from the vibrations that were sent.

The freedom of vision I had randomly obtained, lasted only transiently, as the abyss I escaped from a few moments ago immediately resurfaced.

Where the source of the voice came from, likely the source of the sudden quaking of the floor, let out guttural sobs, futilely dampening their cries with their hands. “…where did he go…” The words bounced around the empty room, as the wood continued to creak. It creaked towards me, and the soft cries of the womanly voice approached closer to where I was.

“I’m sorry, Kiiro, I’m so sorry… I couldn’t – I couldn’t, please forgive me…”

The dejection that accompanied these words brought within my growing heart the greatest solace. The cold and numbness that had gradually extinguished, dissipated entirely. But this solace brought my soul disgust. To feel relief from the repentant tone, and to feel warm within this confusingly cold atmosphere, to give my shriveled heart new life, to fill it entirely as I bathe in it – as I flippantly bathe in this woman’s sorrow, I am disgusted with myself.

I know, I know that this is a dream, a continuation from before, and this – this body isn’t controlled by me, I’m aware of that; I’m aware that the thing that accompanies this body – subjugating it, isn’t me. And that the actions that are done, aren’t done by me. But I act as this subjugators heart. I feel pleasure – a gleam of happiness from this. And I wish for this pleasure to continue.

I want to rip myself out from this body and escape, to extinguish my presence completely, to continue living without the sight and pleasure, the very facades…but this entity that subjugates this body doesn’t let me; it holds onto me to witness – to witness everything, cruelly and stubbornly refusing to let go.

And I now know that this entity is me. It's me. It’s the innate desire I hold, it’s the terrible thing I wish for, I know.

‘I know I’m a terrible thing.’

The weeping voice is in front of me. The creaking of the wood stopped. Something softly pushed against me; the warm, smooth skin that nestled against my own; clothing rustling against one another; if I weren’t aware of my perspective; of my own ego, I’d have thought that this desolate woman and I were of the same person; and within the abyss that my sight resides, light pierced through once again.

The light from a large, intricately detailed window illuminated the room; the white and broad ceiling that only seemed to span on, the high quality paintings that acted as décor, covering the walls with an intelligent and thought provoking prose, and the chandelier made entirely of crystals, the soft sheets that I could slide off like butter, the foam mattress that swallows my body, the bed that could hold seven of me. The room alone could fit at least four of my own.

My eyes fluttered a few times, adjusting to the light. I feel a softness on the back of my nape, my hair cascading across a pillow as I turned a few inches.

My hand is cold with poignant liquid streaming off the knuckle to my wrist. I lifted my hand from my face, opened, and closed it; bones popping from stagnancy, rising it to the tall ceiling as the liquid made its way down my forearm. I lowered it a little, palm facing me as tears coursed their way down my cheeks.

‘This is me.’

Letting out a deep breath, sitting up on the bed, I spoke: “I guess I should take a bath now.”