Writer, Reader, and Character

A question burns in my mind. Who am I? What am I?

They call me by name. I once called myself by that name, but it feels small.

Who am I really? Am I the butterfly? Am I you? Am I everything?

It sounds crazy to consider, but the question burns. I can sense an answer hovering just at the edge, but not quite within reach.

Words cannot describe this question or what the answer feels like, an answer both known and unknown.

The question has burned all day.

The question is a fractal. The answer feels like a fractal.

A fractal, where every part contains the whole. All of reality a fractal. Perhaps I contain the whole.

But then, what does that make me? What does that make what seems to be outside and what seems to be inside?

The question burns. The answer known and not known.

It sears as darkness embraces me in the warmth of the blankets, night descending.

In sleep, I awake to find myself writing books. Book after book, all with me as a character. As I write the books I make small changes here and there, sometimes larger ones too. I observe how the story shifts, how the character changes, how I change. Book after book after book.

I awake again, now in my room with the familiar sound of my alarm. The night’s dreams linger in my muscles, heavy and half-remembered. As I move, they surface. Fragments of the question or perhaps the answer still burn beneath my skin.

I begin my morning yoga and workout, and images and remembrances fill the space from the night before and then I hear the words.

I am the reader. I am the writer. I am the character. I am all at once, all in a sea of other books. Books upon books.

The question still burns, but the answer feels closer. Yet still unknown.