This is a piece I wrote/channelled a few weeks ago. It’s about the wider, collective consciousness of a teen girl called Lily, and what some would call her alter-ego, Richard, though Richard and the broader entity of which he is a part knows no such thing and believes to be just as real as Lily. Richard is depressed and frequently entertains suicidal thoughts. Lily is a struggling teen who is a burgeoning artist, but who finds herself falling into Richard’s pit of depression as she attempts to make sense of her own life. Neither is aware of the other’s existence, though the more evolved narrator of this piece has a different perspective. It is a metaphysically inspired philosophical piece that aims to deal with the subject of depression and suicide.

It was something I channelled, though now that I’ve afforded myself some distance from the piece and had a chance to re-read it, it reads like a piece of potential fiction. I didn’t get to finish it as I probably got distracted at the time and forgot all about it. It is, I think, and interesting piece and merits a read for the few insights it offers, despite its being incomplete.


“The truth of the matter is, that life is a sham. It’s a big ‘ol sham that in its breadth holds very little depth of character and emotion worth even writing about. It shames me to think that I have lived so many lifetimes, and that I still can’t recall one that I would like to relive in its entirety. It is of monumental and greatest sadness to me that, as I progress through my experiential awareness of physicality, I want less and less to be a part of it, because it does not and cannot bring the joy that I seek. I live this life because I must, and because those who depend on me wish me to be here, and to be present. Though, rarely these days, am I present. I turn the pages of this book, and read of a life yet to be lived, but I seldom reach the end of the page because my mind begins to drift before I hit the closing scene, and the words fall out of reach.
My name is not Lily, it’s, Richard. Richard is a boy of twenty, who is confused about life and about his place in it, or without it. Richard pours over his books of critical analyses looking for an answer to his tortuous dilemma, that of whether he should live or die. He lives because he does, but no more understands its parameters and premises than he does of his potential demise, and the impact that it would have on those around him and indeed the fabric of existence as it underwent the adjustment necessary to eliminate him from its archival, and viscerally real components. Though he courts understanding, and an admonition of his previous behaviours – guilt being the one and only logical trap he cannot escape. His time is filled with angry rants, albeit inside his mind, and desperately trying to seek solace in the thought of escape, even though he knows not what it is he is attempting to escape. The reality he seeks does not yet exist, in his mind. He does not even know how to envisage that which he seeks without affixing to it pre-established notions of what an alternative might be. Yet he understands that it involves some sort of release, so that the relief he desires can be exercised. Death seems to be the ultimate release, because as yet he permits himself to be entrusted in the care of his most basic of premises about the nature of life, and therefore the nature of non-life. Though of course, he is incorrect in his estimations because life is never-ending, and a puzzle one cannot hope to solve with one’s apparent suicide. Richard is not dumb, but he is afraid, and fear that has no resolve is a destructive force indeed, which of course is a contradiction in terms. But isn’t life just full of those?
Fear shapes integrity as a madman would shape a piece of clay, neither finding solace nor form in the culmination of its action. Fear is a weight too heavy to bear for even the strongest of wayfarers who believe they can navigate the turbulent waters of misconception due to dogged experience, and perseverance. You see, Richard is an idealist, and idealism is good for one thing only: the shit house. You’ve got to extricate the burden and move on. Find your rhythm and dance until you understand that you and you alone set the record on play. Fear attacks us in the night, in our dreams, during the day, and mostly when we least expect it, because fear is a thing of unknown consequence, of unknown dimension or intent. Fear is the antithesis of freedom, because in freedom we hope to find happiness and peace, and the relief of an existence lacking burden. Fear then, is precisely the medium of his very human delivery that Richard wishes to exorcise from his life, but the only way he can think to achieve that is by creating its antithesis – as if such a thing were possible. When you realise, as I have many times over that life is merely a matter of perceptive ability, then one tends to stop and smell the roses. It’s an odd consequence of dying that one finally gets to see the bigger picture, so to speak, but it’s so brief as to be insignificant in the scheme of a day’s living. These moments of clarity and inspiration come to us in short, sharp bursts, and as much ‘in’ life as at the point of so called ‘death’, and in part that is what becomes so abundantly clear once a broader perspective is engineered. Life and death are one and the same and are ways of comprehending a time/space reality that in its linearity affords a certain degree of anonymity and amnesia from the greater project of which it is a vital part.
A process of expansion can no more be explained by the laws of physics currently held in high esteem by the beloved human race, than a mouse can explain its ability to cough or sneeze. But expand we do, in a way that is abstractly appropriate to the current state of human form.
Richard implores those around him to leave him be. To allow him his inexcusable anti-socialism in light of the fact that he is ailing and incapable of connecting with anyone, least of himself. He torments not only himself, but all those caring, doting souls around him who would see him happy and wish him well. Richard is not Lily, yet Lily identifies herself with him in ways that she does not yet comprehend. Neither is aware that they coexist, side-by-side almost, in their own respective dugouts that they happen to call their subjective realities. She feeds off of his dementia, as he drains her of her happiness. Her creativity being the antithesis of his engulfing fear. But she is not Richard. Richard is a figment of a collective imagination, a name she was once jokingly given by her younger brother, and which her mother would from time to time call her for a lark. Though she hated it, and would object saying that it wasn’t her name, reaffirming that in fact, her name was Lily. Little did any of them know that another reality had been born in that moment, one in which the ‘real’ Richard would exist and would not think twice about questioning the validity of his existence.
One could argue of course, that perhaps the existence of Richard as a concept within the realm of greater consciousness, is the spark that ignited that particular thought in her young brother’s mind when he decided, on an intuitive whim to award her that title. One could also argue that it would be nigh on impossible to really find causality amidst the confusion of possibilities available to one so inclined to ponder such things. Insanity would be a logical plea, and a welcome surcease in that instance.”

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