The active creator

In this strange world do I persist. I look upon these ancient halls, and recognise these walls. The ornaments, the damage to the walls that time susues; all of these things are familiar to me.

What then, is this place that is so alien? No one exists in these chambers, these halls, these classrooms, these libraries. This is clearly a place of learning, this is a place of eminence, a place of training. I see the weapon rooms filled with ancient tools of war, the training rooms with damage from heavy and sharp objects, the blood stains completely eaten away by the stale air.

Is this the place of my conception? For days now, I have not the guidance of Destre or Sophia. My name is said to be Sinistre* but I find no memories of my own apperception.

I admire the beauty of this place. There are artworks dating back centuries, and some a mere number of years. The technology in this institute is about 5-6 years old. There seems to be no remnant of technology after this time. There is a mix of modernity and renaissance here. Of the old humanism of Europe, and beckoning signs of the globalised world; an ancient chapel with a wonderful depiction of Christ’s crucifixion upon twelve stations through the length of the building, yet across the premises is a computer lab; there is no electricity in this place, except the stale yellow lights. Outside is an eternal dawn. As if the sun were to rise in a late morning of winter; but never does, it is as if the light cannot penetrate the clouds that surround this domain.

Clearly this is not the real world, this is some mental realm, some mental construction. But belonging to whom?

This seems to be a world of my own construction. Human experience is said by one to be the construction or construal of what otherwise would be chaos; we, by means of a priori concepts or ‘categories’, impose the order of our experiences insofar as it makes our own experience. We construct time as the relational property to our own experiences and self, and space as the relation between ourselves and that which is beyond, yet subsumed within on a continuum.

This must be the place of my birth. This must be the place of my growth. As I immediately came to realise this; suddenly, I heard something, a loud ringing, it shook the cold chambers, and my own heart. It shocked me as a loud sound, and it comforted me as a familiar feeling. This is the warning bell. I remember that much.

Why is this place uninhabited? I walk through these corridors alone, ever slowly I see flashes of what once lived in this stale place. Fruitful discussions, schoolboy pranks. Orchestra practice, turning pages for the music director during choir practice.

“I was lead bass”, a voice says, as I stand before the darkened church.

“Is anyone else here?” I replied, struggling for words, as I turned to face the source of sound. I saw a young boy. Curious. This young boy looks…curious.

“No one else is here, sir. I’m here for choir practice.”

Sir? I am referred to as Sir? This parochial institute instills the old values of humility and respect to older and authoritative men. Am I a ‘sir?’.

“Excuse me boy, I shall show this visitor around. Why don’t you continue on to the choir loft, and we shall hear you all at work”. Destre came from behind me, as the boy went into the choir loft, we followed suit to the pews. “Follow me, prime.”

As I walked into the church again, the stained glass was filled with light; beautiful colours lit the cold, dry and empty altar. Beatiful colours depicting natural scenery; various saints standing by trees, grasping lions, holding swords. All lit the room, while dark, it was illuminate.

“Are you beginning to remember this place, Prime?” Destre asked, his voice deep, as if it were not him: his voice was firm, authoritative, sturdy, and frightening. “This is the place of our inception”.

“I don’t remember anything” I replied, “are you a teacher?”

Destre sighed. “It is in this world that you must come to realise your memories, and here, you confront them, we both exist here, in this creation, this illusion.” The boy walked along the corridor past us, wearing his choir garb, in deference to God, his head depressed towards the floor.

“This is a place of rigidity, they moulded us here, Prime”.

“Am I that child?”

“Yes”, and with that. Our eyes filled with white light. What other image am I going to be portrayed as I have come to this realisation in this introspective world?

This…noumenal realm.

Sinistre*

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