When he awoke he was no longer lying down. In fact he was standing it what seemed some sort of ball, or not really a ball, but like the inside of some sort of round crystal. It was faceted like a gemstone, but unlike a gemstone each of the facets was a different color, except some of them weren't so much a color as a texture, or a scent or a sound, and he was sure there were some he could taste.

"Where am I?" he asked, only half expecting an answer.

"It's called an identity sphere," said a disembodied voice, as if it were trying to be soothing. "Each facet of the sphere is a facet of yourself. One of the many parts of you that challenge and battle each other in your self. In each of them there is potential for greatness. It is only in there constant infighting that you have found failure and anonymity. You have but to choose one, and that facet will become yourself, and you will have the greatness you have always been destined for."

Intrigued he touched one, and felt, experienced, himself as a great writer. Loved by millions, billions even, in mulitple countries, as they read his stories, and made up their own based upon them. He could see the nights he spent up editing, and the conventions where he discussed his works with fans. He spent an infinite instant in this new life of his.

He touched another, and felt himself watched. Felt the whole nation eying each other askance, wondering which of their neighbors might be him, might be the wicked killer who seemed to take life indiscriminately. He felt the blood flow between his fingers, and heard the screams of his victims, and smiled at the constant news programs with no purpose but to glorify his works.

Yet another and he tasted the flavor of his creations, the spices that only he knew how to use, that only he was famous for. Watched as the wealthy came from all around to beg for scraps at his table.

And there was another, strangely different from all the rest. It had no color, no sound, no texture, no smell or taste, almost as if it weren't there, as if there were a hole in the sphere where he could sneak out. He touched it, too, and for that eternal instant he felt himself unravel. And the he felt nothing. He exalted in his non-existence, reveled in his death, and then, as with all the others, gave it up to move on to the next one.

For time unmeasurable he explored himself, touching each facet and feeling it, seeing it, becoming it, until the voice returned.

"So, have you chosen?" questioned the voice.

"Yes," he said, coming back to himself from himself. "Yes, I have."

"And which of them have you chosen?"

"All of them," he said. "Perhaps I am doomed to mediocrity or simplicity, but I can't give any of them up. They are all me. If greatness is my destiny, it will just have to fight along with the rest of me." and so saying he stepped forward, the many facets of his sphere encircling as he walked the road of his life.

recent...
2002-02-21 - Not all enlightenment has a path.
2002-02-21 - Just so you know.
2002-02-21 - Stages of sleep.
2002-02-20 - Where I'm a whiney bitch.
2002-02-19 - Inequality in spades.