"You come here" he stated. And stopped. Did he really said that? Almost a minute passed; I'm still as I can be; if he actually said it, it wasn't a question so I'll keep just staring. Things around him got darker; I'm sure some candles must have been put out, maybe by some mysterious back draft that didn't register on my skin. It's hot in here, I'm sweating... I would definitely feel some kind of breeze.
"But you seek not what you think". Good thing that I was quiet and not supposed to really say anything, because that stumped me; I had come here to find a path - something so generic - how could it not be that? What else could I've been looking for? I guess it's my time to be mysterious and keep staring at him. He's got to know he needs to explain what that means... instead, he starts to hum some kind of chant that reverberates around the small room, getting louder and louder.
We still haven't broken eye contact; I force myself not to look at his mouth or the cracks around his eyelids or the apparent smoke coming from underneath us. His pitch black pupils mesmerize me, bind my gaze to his and there's our bond. Hum hum hum, I feel like I almost know how the song goes, but it's not repetitive or anything popular; like something from ages ago, from ancestors that we must have had in common and that he somehow still keeps in touch with. I am lost. I am the definition of the modern man, the software developer, the man who deppends of so many layers of civilization to survive on a daily basis that I am unable to cook raw fish if my life depended on it. Yes, I feel lost as shit, disconnected from Earth, disconnected from these ancestors, disconnected to purpose; and when I come over to this supposed tribal, ancient spiritual guide he tells me I am not here for what I think I am. I'm glad he did not charge me anything or I'd be pissed right now.
The song stopped. The walls kept vibrating for a while.
"What you seek". A long pause. "You can find...". Yes? "...but you must seek...". Great. "...Inside".
I recognized the sarcastic asshole in some corner of my personality cracking jokes about the vagueness of whatever it is he was saying but somehow this part was so quiet I couldn't hear it. I had to take this very seriously and I didn't even know why... felt like when you're a kid about to jump from some very high place making jokes with your friends about brown pants and laughing, only to reach the edge and think for yourself for a second "Hold on. This is high".
I was high, for sure. Standing there.
"Do you wish to go?" - How should I respond? A nod? A sound? A though projection of some kind? I didn't know; my heart was pounding hard in my chest but this stillness has frozen me; I was lost in place and in my thoughts, spiraling, looping between saying something and thinking of what to say and how much time has passed and what was that smoke coming up. His eyes squinted a bit and light came from underneath them except it wasn't really light, it was a blurry yellow glow; I guess he smiled.
"Yes you do" - the "oooo" sound at the end of the phrase elongated weirdly while he took my head in his hands, spreading some kind of goo in my temples and blowing smoke on my face; when did he inhale anything? There was only the blackness of his eyes, became two dark blackholes in my field of vision while everything around it became smoky grey; sound seemed to come out of the walls again, or out of my own eardrums picking up my heartbeat. He let go of my head and closed his eyes. It all turned muddy grey. I was out.
The color took a few minutes of my attention; I didn't notice the room around me disappearing... but it did, and when the color faded there I was, in this ocre dead landscape of twigs and dry branches forming a type of path forward that only meters ahead was already engulfed in fog. I dared not to look back, and stepped forwards slowly.
This place had no sound to it; broken branches under my feet would cast no crack or snap, everything was as quiet as physically possible in an imaginary place, so very quiet. I kept going forward, looking for that I didn't know what when a shape took for in the distance, that of a person.
I didn't want to whisper or talk or scream anything, for no words seemed appropriate to break such silence; I just slowed my pace a little and tried to make as much of the man in front of me as I could. First that he had his arms to his back and long hair, then glasses and a conforting albeit unsecure smile, and then I figured it out. It was David.
I thought that was weird, definetely unexpected. He said "hi" and his lips moved but it sounded like the voice in my head.
Hi man. Am I taking to myself?
Obviously. I'm dead.
What purpose does this serve then?
What purpose has any conversation? To exchange ideas in order to get to know other perspectives and hopefully evolve yours.
Is that possible by talking to myself?
Depends solely on how well you can change your own perspective in the process. That's why projecting me can be useful.
How can you tell me anything that I don't know yet?
You're asking me to explain how do you have any new idea.
I was looking for guidance, how can you give me any?
Looking for guidance means looking for a direction, I can give you one.
Do you care where do you want to end up? Otherwise any direction will take you there.
I want to be at a place where what I'm doing is the most natural to me.
What you're doing for a living?
What I'm doing daily.
What you do daily now is not natural enough?
It is not. It has too many layers of abstraction integrated whithin; natural to me means closer to the core of existence, more independent of electromagnetic conveniences and systems.
You are really having a trouble with computers, aren't you?
Yes I am somehow. I think people can be admirable and computing systems can be admirable, but the current combination of them bothers me.
I see; I feel it. You know and I know by now what comes most naturally to you, what it is that you do, that you are doing now, that you are.
And when you're by yourself doing this that you do, you usually use analogic tools or a computer merely as an old-timey typewriter with and easier way to erase things.
But when you consider the possibility of moving forward with that, developing it, you think about the audience and that screws you; how good would be the success that comes from doing something that's tailored to become a success, even if you do figure out how to make something like that? How is this going to sit inside you? Makes no sense, even if you had the formula; you'd be a fraud to yourself first. Be a writer to yourself first. If success comes, then you're a successful writer; if it never does, then you're still a writer; odds are whatever comes will be unexpected, so there's no sense in planning either. Do it for yourself. Your own self.