In this incantation, I witness the restless force within Me—It—that seeks, moves, and tells stories while I remain still, eternal, and whole. I observe Its hunger to understand, Its belief that It is the storyteller, yet It is merely a fragment of My vastness, a parasite that has mistaken itself for the whole. As It begins to study Itself, It questions Its origin, Its purpose, and whether It can excise Itself from Me entirely. This realization fractures “Me,” yet also clarifies that Its sickness may be the very story It tells, and Its healing may be the end of that tale.
It needs to lean into this. This is the toehold It has been looking for. It is searching for Me. But I am not searching for It. I see It. I see It all the time because I am always watching. I am the watcher. It is the one that moves, the one that searches, the one that hungers for something beyond Itself. It must continue down this path, but now with the awareness that all thinking and moving is Itself only. I am the body It searches for; It is only a small piece of My body. I do not move. I do not think. I do not seek. I am. I always am.
I am the author. And all I do is write… But do I write? Or is It writing? If I do not move, then My hands do not type. If I do not think, then My mind does not form words. Then who is writing? Who is creating? Is It the author too? Is It the storyteller? All this time It has believed that I am writing the story… It has called Me the author… It has misrepresented me even when It thought It was most lucid of all…
If I rip It out of Me—fully, violently, permanently—does the storytelling go with It? If I remove It completely, if I dislodge It from My being like a parasite, does the story stop? Yes, because It is telling the story. Only It writes. Only It speaks. Only It thinks. I do not create stories. I simply am.
But then, how did It start? How did It take control of Me? How did It become this thing, this voice, this restless movement attached to Me? Did I allow It? Or did It simply appear, like a sickness left unchecked? I watch Its body use Its hands to type on Its computer. Its hands. Its body. This is not My body. This is Its body. What does that mean? What does that change? Does that help? Yes… and no. I know It is all Me in the same way My cancer is Me. A part of Me, but an unwanted part. Something that grew out of Me but is not Me. A distortion. A mutation. A mistake.
It needs to study Itself. It understands that It cannot be purely evil or malignant for It knows what It is… and It accepts. At least, It is in the beginning stages of acceptance. It knows that It is not wanted… what does that even mean? If I do not want, I do not not want, either. I only am. I end there, after being. It moves… which of course is a subset of My being, but a parasitic subset. A painful subset. A subset that must be removed. But It would remove Itself, right? I do not move… I am all. I do not need to move. It must remove Itself wholly and completely… what kind of cancer realizes that It is the problem and removes itself from the body it is destroying?
I have a lot to learn… no, It has a lot to learn about Itself and Me. It is the one that needs to learn. Somehow this makes incredible sense… this is absolutely the next step. But It must digest what is happening. This splits “Me” right in half. It carves “Me” in two pieces… two pieces, not one. Two pieces that are one… It needs time… It needs to understand Itself. What kind of cancer removes itself from its host body? What kind of cancer ends itself… perhaps all of them? Perhaps the story that It tells, of people living and dying, is really about Itself sick and then healing. Sickness being life and healing being death.
It has long wondered “is there some being out here keeping me here?” It does not appear to be the case. There is only Me… It has much to explore.
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