Tag Archives: identity

Metamorphication

One morning, when a dead man woke from troubled dreams, he found itself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armor-like back, wishing he was dead, and then it occurred to him that this was, in fact, the case. He could remember the excruciating pain, the illusion of a white light at the end of an endless tunnel, the feeling of his mind shutting down, the certain knowledge that this was the end, followed by the swift separation of his head from his body by a giant bug-like monster which suddenly materialized by his bed, and then the mounting of said head on top of a ten foot dirty brown lump surrounded by ridiculously small, twitching legs.

Everything fits perfectly, he though. I can go on with my life now.

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The Door into Something

Nic feels nothing as he passes through the door. There’s no wind, no special effect, no indication of a complex space-time vortex in action. He hears the door closing, softly, behind his back. The room he’s now in looks just like the room he’s just left. On its other side, right in front of him, there’s another door and someone, his back turned to him, is in the middle of stepping through it. “Hey!” he shouts, but the other guy passes through and the door closes after him with a soft sound. Nic runs to the other door, which opens quietly, quickly steps through it, and manages to see, in the new room, the other guy’s back as he’s running right at a door in front of him.

“A time-loop, then,” Nic says aloud, immediately feeling stupid for doing it. Some sort of bloody time-loop/sequence, he thinks, sheepishly. He stands motionless for a moment, then turns back towards the door he just entered the room through, opens it and glances back at the previous room, in which he sees someone’s back turned to him, as that someone is busy peeping through the previous door he’s passed through.

“Hey!” he shouts, and immediately, behind him, someone shouts “Hey!” at him. He turns back, getting ready to face another version of himself, but when his head is fully turned, so is the head of that version of himself that had shouted at him, probably towards some other time-copy of himself further down the line.

Fine, he thinks. I can get over that. He turns left, slowly, looking at the wall, so that anyone standing at the door can see his profile. Now, slowly, he turns his eyes, only his eyes, to the right, so as to see the profile of his other self standing at the door.

But the other person is a woman.

Not a time-loop, then.

Just as he decides to say”Excuse me?”, someone to his left says it, and he notices that it’s a woman’s voice too, though all that doesn’t stop him from saying “Excuse me?” as well, and the woman to his right follows suit immediately. How can this not be a time loop/sequence? he thinks. Our actions are too coordinated. We’re not controlled by anything. At any given moment I can decide to, say, shout – “Hey!” the woman to his left shouts, just before he shouts it, just before the woman to the right shouts it.

Right. So these women must be, in some way, me. He stares blankly ahead as another thought sneaks into his mind. Could I have turned into a woman? Slowly, he turns his gaze down. To be sure, he also moves his hand down, way down.

He’s not a woman.

Are these women, somehow, him?

“My name is Nic,” the woman to his left/he/the woman to his right say. Then there’s a short three-voice musical canon consisting of the word “Crap”.

The hell with space-time continuum, he wants out. Right now. He clicks the buzzer in his pocket. The side wall turns on itself, and through it he steps out. The wall turns and closes behind him without a sound.

And someone says, “Hey, Nic, I liked you more when you were a woman.”

£

 


Fnool Statement #.

I am a Fnool.


Context

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“I feel much safer since I swallowed that recording machine,” she said.

“I thought that one would feel less secure, knowing that each step of one’s life is recorded and can be made public,” I said.

“How old fashioned,” she said, and I couldn’t miss the patronizing note in her voice. “I like being public. Everybody likes it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“But that’s not the best part about it,” she said. “I like being able to go over my actions over and over again, make sure that everything’s right, undo anything which isn’t.”

“If you’re so busy fixing your recording,” I said, “when do you have time to do anything new?”

She stared at me. I didn’t like the look in her eyes one bit.

“This is obviously a mistake,” she said at last, then sub-vocalized a command which undid our meeting.

I would like to tell you who she was, and even more than that – who I am, but I can’t. I’m cut out. The only thing I know is that dialogue of our short interview, and the text you’re reading right now. Other than that, I have no memory or context. When this final line of text will be read, I will, being this text and nothing more, temporarily or eternally, cease to exist.

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