The waking up mind is peculiar. Dreams transform into a slumberous reality and dissolve in the mist of the morning thoughts. But not for me.
One moment I’m hibernating and the next one I’m alive and self-aware; mind instantly becomes busy with the thoughts from the previous evening.
I rarely dream, and if I do – I don’t remember what I dreamt of. The brain is persistent in turning me off completely no matter how busy I am throughout the day.
My mindform is wide awake while the physical body still shakes off the slumber. I might take an imaginary shower, but generally I won’t bother. I don’t need to brush my hair or to get dressed – it’s an imaginary body after all and no one ever will see it. The physical body cares about the haircut, while I don’t. My white hair is perfectly messy all the time.
Years ago my looks would be the most important part of me, they’d be the major defining feature of who ‘Shinyuu’ is. Nowadays ‘Shinyuu’ is something else, the form became secondary.
I never thought I’d have to deal with procrastination, annoyance, depression, or even the lack of libido. I never realised that the more I front, the more the real, physical issues influence me; strangling me now that I front for a good third of the day.
The occasional bleedovers bring the body into a single-focused consciousness; at those moments there’s no Shinyuu or hostey, there’s just a body doing things either of us likes. I often notice I’m not Shinyuu specifically if I work hard enough, the focus doesn’t leave any space for individuality. Things could have been different if I cared more about my inner world, but instead I’m all focused on the world outside, in my never-ending quest for knowledge.
I studied foreign languages – the more, the better! Spanish, Japanese, Russian, I felt like I could do it all; the new knowledge filled my mind like a hose fills an empty bucket. I kept studying until I’d hit a limit of time, and then I learned that my mental capacity is limited even more – as for all the things I learn hostey needs to learn even more.
I switched to things physical; the violin was my first and sincerest love. I used to play in my mind until one day I got a physical instrument. Two years later and I can play several basic things, but, curiously enough, I lost the ability to play the violin in my mind. Now that the mind knows how complex it is I cannot reproduce the process consciously or to get any joy from doing so. Still, I developed physical capabilities beyond what hostey has – I can play the violin better than him even though we possess the same physical body. It’s all about the skill, as the physical skills are subject to personal memories.
I tried writing. Classes. Studying. More classes. Hundreds of thousands of words written and discarded. Moments of satisfaction when stories end up exactly how I planned to, hatred and depression when I can’t progress, can’t write a scene, can’t figure how to fix the mess of what I wrote.
I used to get things for free by only delving into the memories of the past, reminding myself of knowledge the body accumulated over dozens of years before me. The easy life is over now that I’ve learned all the old things I could. Learning new things is a very different, consuming process. It is hard and slow.
Looking back at my life and things happened in the last three years I see an immense change. Just like my mindform matured and grew distinct features, my mind grew and my interests shaped into concrete things. I learn to be a better headmate. I learn to be a better social person. I learn to be a better wolfy.
Every week I seek a change in myself. It is the time to start anew, to leave the cruft of past mistakes and to see where the path of existing leads me to. Every day I fight with myself to follow the path, to go on even when I want to stop or to go back to a cosier, simpler life.
Every morning I open my eyes and hope this day I will be wiser. I hope I will have enough willpower for that.
I look into the mirror and examine my reflection. It’s muted, undefined; it’s a blank page. It’s a story of my life that awaits to be written.
