E.C.T. # 15

My disintegration continues apace. I have lost yet more memories. Curiously enough, I don’t know what these memories are, yet I have memories of them being lost. But even the memories of lost memories will soon be gone. What then? What shall become of me without memories? Without the memories of lost memories? How shall I live from moment to moment, without a train of thought, a stream of consciousness, a past, a future—without a single touchstone of recollection? Is it true that the unexamined life is not worth living?

E.C.T. # 16

I awoke after an indeterminate sleep and was overcome with a sudden clarity of mind. I knew at once that the Devil planned this from the start. It’s snowing outside. Summer is a half forgotten dream, full of strange chimeras, injections, disembodied voices, and many demons of desolation and desire. What have they done to me? Something stirs within: a gestation in the inner depths of mind. It has always been there, lurking, waiting to hatch in the sunlight of consciousness. What is this hidden power? A distal force, antipodean to all things corporeal. I yearn for it like a long-lost love. A new becoming. A new body. A psychic body. I kindle it to life with flints of faith. A magical power of Nature. A transcendent field that operates outside Time and Space. A spiritual kingdom that exists beyond the confines of this material world.

I continue to pray, despite the atheists. But I no longer visit Chapel on account of the priest, who’s in league with the doctors. Doctor Hardy said the constituents symbols of every religion are phallicism and sun worship. But last night, after taking paraldehyde, Christ appeared in my cell. The Lord said the constituent symbol of atheism was the Devil, but the atheists couldn’t see it. When I told the doctors this, they made several accusations: “You do not, or perhaps cannot, understand the complexity of your psychosis.” And, “Your lack of understanding is of itself proof positive that Freudian theory is absolutely correct in every detail.” And, “You’re in denial. You don’t want to get better. Your hatred and criticism of our methods just completely and undoubtedly proves our case.”

The great secret of creation unfolds upon the wall; it bubbles up from unknown depths, like a fountain of Light, illuming the darkness of my soul. I behold a woman, black as pitch, her naked body smeared with terra negra. She beckons me to partake her feast of summer fruits. What is that happy throng, with pipes and timbrels, who ride upon hosts of amorphous beasts? I move amid their orgiastic rite, where fishes and birds speak in foreign tongues. Behold my new reflection: a vestal virgin with tresses of golden hair. I bathe and sing of Christ whilst straddling a narwhal horn, an apple balanced on my head. Hush my child. Who speaks? Be still and listen. His holy name is whispered on the wind…

Copyright © Nicholas Shea 2014