René Beauchemin leaned back in his office chair rubbing his temples in search of relief from too many hours at the keyboard with nothing to show for his efforts. The fact that he had written next to nothing during that time which was spent perusing the tweets and Facebook posts of his friends and followers, as well as playing a few games of Hearts against the computer only made him feel guilty. His headache didn’t go away. He knew that the only way he was going to ease his sense of guilt as well as his headache would be to return to the story that demanded to surface from someplace deep within himself.
With his training in Jungian psychology, it didn’t take much for him to realise that he had tapped into something deeper than his own unconsciousness. There was an archetypal feel for roots of the images that sought to be expressed in words. And, René sensed that he had somehow accessed the central core of whatever it was that lay as a foundation for life, both conscious and unconscious life. Perhaps it was that all-encompassing whole that Carl Jung called SELF, that wholeness also envisioned by humans as God in a myriad of forms over centuries and millenia. Whatever it was, it seemed to possess him with a will that superseded his own will. Why was he resisting so much was the uppermost question on his mind. Perhaps, it was fear. After all, becoming the voice for this inner voice that came out of darkness meant that he had to give up control, not something so easy for him to do. With a sigh, René turned back to the computer and brought up the document he had begun earlier, reading what he had already written down:
It was dark. Darkness was all that there was, an infinite darkness that was unbound by time and space and place. The darkness was anything but empty. All that was to be, all that would never come to be, everything was already in the darkness simply being unformed. It was dark, always had been dark.
Sitting still he heard the echoes of the voice which had demanded that these words be written just this way. Letting his guard down, the words began to flow again as he listened to the voice.
Time was unmeasured in the darkness. The dark pulsed as though alive which it was in a way that defied definition, an unconscious and unformed soup of invisible movement. The whole was alive with no parts. All was simply being, not becoming, not regressing or differentiating or birthing or dying. The darkness just was, and knew it just was.
There came a moment of almost awareness for that darkness, and in that moment, an agitation began to disturb the eternal sameness and sublime nature of simply being. That moment of almost awareness gave birth to form which gave birth to matter. Yet, in spite of the creation, the whole was still as it always was.
So it came to be that the whole became a universe in which a gathering of energy birthed planets, and moons, and other sterile forms with the space between them remaining a darkness that had no definable substance.
“You know,” observed René, “If I didn’t know better, I would say that this is just a complicated way of saying the first line in the book of Genesis in the Bible.”
“You’re right. I knew that you had it in you to write this. By the way, you kept your ego out of the way and wrote it just like I wanted it written.”
“But why bother with re-writing what already has been written. You know that it will only create a boatload of misery for me and most of the world. I will likely be terrorised and likely even murdered when, and if, this gets published,” moaned René.
“Well, not that I have any choice,” René admitted , “but no. I guess I just want to understand what I am doing and why I am doing it.”
“Well, the times have changed and fewer and fewer people have a clue of what I had written for me in the past. You know that Genesis wasn’t the only version that was recorded. I have been explaining to animate life that was able to grasp at least a small part of the story in multiple versions suited for the time and place of those who would hear it. That time has rolled around again.”
“But why me?” asked René puzzled and surprised with what he was hearing. René knew he was either stark-raving mad or . . . a thought he didn’t dare complete.
“Well, just think about it. You’ve had a good life, of sorts – family, a career, love, and all that have ever needed. You have spent a lot of time exploring where not many dare to look. True you got seriously lost a few times, but here you are now doing my work.”
“That’s it?” quizzed René.
“Well, there is also the fact that your boundaries between yourself and me have weakened enough to let you hear me. Your willingness to be vulnerable in search of meaning and truth, a vulnerability that shows up in your poetry, your photography and your embracing the natural body you were gifted with. Is that enough?”
“Yeah,” admitted René. “I think I get the gist of what you are saying. But, something tells me I will have more to ask you as the story gets told.