I Dream of Madness

    What?!

 

    Why can I not edit it, or delete it, pages filled with text written by a hand other than myself.. Why can they not see it?! blank pages of changing amount is all anyone else perceived. They did not believe me. I pushed print, there, there the pages are, in a font, a language, with sigils and horrifying images that I do not see upon the screen. I see only text yet here printed are pages, pages claiming by an introduction to be for me to compile to create a sister book to the Victorian manuscript. Have I gone mad? No, peer review is reality, the printer prints them despite no proper source. They tell me it is a virus, that somehow Carter is contacting me and sending these by means beyond his capabilities.  I know him despite what others say, I know him incapable of such a thing.

 

    I feel compelled regardless to put the pages together, I see something, something in them. While I cannot read the language, or know the importance of the pictographic images and wood carving styled drawings I noticed lines near the edges. I thought them only boarder decorations such as made by bored friars. They formed a puzzle, upon the wall of my study I have pinned them, what strange sigil is this. I am at a loss to describe it, it is not complex, it is not simple, it is not a shape or form I would ever have dreamed of in any number of nights. I heard a whisper, my own voice in my own ears, like a thought only foreign, a me outside of myself looking in and through my eyes. Complex Simplicity, so little to unlock so much the very foundation of the very concept of quantum mechanics; a field I know very little of being as I am an anthropologist, and one who graduated back when even the faintest whispers of the concepts of that strange field were the things of not even science fiction but of fantasy that even science fiction writers would scoff at as one trying to put magic in their outer space settings. That shapes and forms could influence anything other than our minds is so laughable, yet I am not laughing. Why? Why do my ears burn, and my fingers go numb as I trace the shape with my finger tips? Why is it that it hurts my eyes to look at it? How is it that no matter how far I back up in my study I seem never able to behold the whole thing, all the pages at once?

   

-I will…I…not do that again. Took photographs, made the images small and able to sit upon my desk, wandering if it was a trick, an optical illusion the page designers discovered that played with the part of the brain controlling perception and distances. I placed them on the desk and looked down. I found my vision blurred and spinning, distorting all sense of direction and distance and speed. I vomited on my carpet and awoke having passed out for twelve hours. I was quick to flip over the photo and burn it at the first opportunity. I don’t know why I did it. Some primal instinct of fear like a memory lost to those twelve hours that was far too unpleasant to risk experiencing again.

 

Fear:

 

   It has been three days since I last typed in this; I dare not enter my study. My heart beats so hard I fear it will break as I walk past the door. My legs go numb trying to enter it. It is as if something is swallowing the light from the windows. From outside in the brightness of day It looks as if the room is draped in eternal night. Yet in the day from inside it is only a bit dim, although it should be bright.

 

    Another day: what have I done? What is scurrying through the walls and windows at night? Why do I hear a sound not unlike the wind coming from the study, and why…why can’t I open that god damned door! Also…when did I transfer my files to my laptop? Who changed the title of this file to “Bard’s Testament?”. I cannot edit it. When I try to make another file and transfer they simply do not. I have given up asking the comp instructors about it; they just keep saying it’s a virus but don’t know how to help other than to erase the whole computer and start over. Why is my home so hot? And…why…why is there a breeze in my hair when there is no windows open!

 

   Have I slept? Why…how’d I get into the backyard with my laptop, and what happened to the three pages I could have sworn I wrote? I. I know I wrote about something, something; red maybe, or pink, big, or was I small. Heat and wind I know, and some shade or shades of red. A lost dream most likely. I must have thought I was typing in the dream and sleep walked out here. I don’t know why I keep typing these thoughts instead of putting this down and going inside,

   Chay

 

   

Deposition I guess:

 

   The doctors told me to read what I wrote, now that I am lucid again. They say it’s amazing, I just one day; today in fact; snapped out of a psychotic state. I don’t remember any of what I wrote. Last thing I recalled was that dream I wrote about, about the blue glowing woman, although clearly not as detailed as when I wrote about it. They tell me that indeed many of the technical problems were real. However they believe, and it makes sense really, that someone was using their hacker skills to mess with me. It seems hard to believe I was in such a fragile state, but that is part of going crazy; you don’t know you are crazy. My study from what I was told was burned out; thankfully the fire somehow didn’t spread to the rest of the house. It seems I had tried to burn those papers on the wall, successfully apparently. They plan to hold me a few more days for observations, it seems I have spent the last few weeks needing sedation for constantly screaming about the devil; or devil women or something to that effect and hellfire. I don’t want to think about it honestly.

 

 

Apparently I have failed the observation as I don’t remember typing anything on here other than the deposition. They tell me they didn’t give me a copy of the file minus the blank pages, they had shown me once before I wrote and only showed me what I had written before asking if I remembered any of it. They gave me a closed PC with no outside lines and just the word document. I…somehow in a span of only fifteen minutes re-wrote exactly what had been there, including what Carter wrote, word for word, and then added my deposition part. Now this part.

 

 

How did I write that they ask me, I wasn’t given computer privileges or access, and the cameras show I never left my locked room. But…I remember writing it. They say I only think I remember writing that after looking at it; an invented memory. So much for being cured. I hope I actually wrote this…questioning reality is not a good sign.

 

 

Yes; the song, that burning song calls to me. I write, I never leave my room. The walls burn the sigil, I can see it reflecting in my eyes.

 

Good bye.