The Prime observes our other vessel through our main vessel. As usual, he mimics the movements of her. This is just a warm-up to the main event. The eyes of each reflects one another, two sides of the same demon without reproach. They put their hands against each other, her left and his right like they are pressing towards a mirror. He is somewhat taller. At this point, however, it doesn’t seem to matter. The Prime forces a voice through the vessel’s cords.
“Who are you?”
He smirks in response and gives the only answer that could ever exist.
“We are Anna Daniels.”
And this is correct. We know it well. The vessel made this vessel while we and the world and our beloved slept. This other one is every bit of our flesh as what we’re operating is. So your question, dear reader, must now be “who is answering, She-Who-Writes?”. The Prime questions and the Prime answers. It is the same but in a way…not. It is a piece of the Prime, an echo that speaks with an intelligence that is the same and yet different than our own.
The best people we can ever talk to is ourself because we’re the only ones that make any kind of sense.
In the darkness of the soul, Vɛrin prays.
There is no true reason why it does what it does. It is fluid like water. It is the settling of the gut. The inner commandment, not from force but of nature. The glitch in the system that occasionally overrides the power of the Council of the Multitudes. If there’s a god here that isn’t a Multitude, it should be instinct. What brains can’t do, instinct can. Out of all the links they have between them all, this is the one that remains underrated but also strong.
The only thing you can control is your own head.
That’s not to say it’s an easy thing to do. It is quite honestly the hardest thing anybody can do. Never mind the people with mental health issues. Focus on the “normal people” once. Focus on your mind and what you think about during the day. Odds are it’s a lot. The bills, the job, family, a biting insult against that asshole that cut you off, random trivia you picked up from somewhere that suddenly flashes in your head with the vaguest reminder, your hobbies. Especially this one. You think about being an imaginary wrestler on the internet? What’s wrong with you?!
The point is you do a lot of thinking. I’m willing to bet that you also do a lot of doing things on auto pilot while you’re thinking. You’re walking down the street. You see everything around you. The blue sky, the parked cars you walk around, the brick that juts out of the sidewalk you need to avoid, you fucking klutz. You hear the birds tweeting, the leaves falling, and the kids bursting out of the school so they can play in the middle of the road for recess. You can feel the breeze that has just the slightest hint of a chill equalized by the equally slight hint of heat from Mr. Golden Sun.
You see and feel and taste and smell all this shit. You know it exists. But it’s only in the periphery of your mind. You’re not focused on any of it. You’re not one with any of it. It’s all secondary. Because in the forefront of your mind is this thought, whatever it is at the moment. And the thought damn near consumes you. At this moment, you live in two different worlds. The physical world that you walk in, that you’re pseudo aware of, that you actually exist in. And your inner world, the thought world that swallows your attention.
In the thought word, you’re already stressing about situations that you know are coming or may simply be a fabrication. You are reliving crispy fragments of memory you may never truly remember in its fullness because even then you were in two worlds. You have conversations with celebrities or heroes, using a mix of words you’ve heard them say and your own to figure things out or simply make the day more bearable. You construct and deconstruct and you do it from the time you wake up until the time you sleep.
You try meditation. It doesn’t stop your life being split, nor does it help the physical world become more real. It just makes the thinking world…empty for a very short period of time.
You hate feeling emotions. Every time you became overjoyed, life would always do something to fuck it all up and crash it. Every time you get angry, you get berated for being angry even when it’s right. Every time you get sad, you hear “why you sad? Stop crying!”. So you stop. You keep them mild at best and nonexistent at worse. Then you get yelled at for that! You get told “oh, you don’t care”. But if you didn’t fucking care, would you be here putting up with shit? Surely, that requires a bare minimum give-a-fuck!
The worst part of it all is when you try to explain this but the words don’t come. Or when you try to explain something, they look at you like you’re speaking a foreign language.
Penalized for emotions. Penalized for thinking.
Makes you very, very frustrated. But you’re not allowed to be that either.
Perhaps it seems a bit off that we–cheerleaders of chaos, that we are–seem to also be adherents of order. That is by design. Chaos without order and vice versa makes the whole thing quite meaningless. Without an opposite to provide itself as a counterweight, there’s no point to the entire process. Here we sit, the Multitudes on the throne, watching each universe fall to bits in their paths to growth and we know what needs to be done. We need to become the order. Or at least something resembling such.
The problem is we do so love to feed off of the moments we’re in. As much as we know what we should be, there is an urge to add to the Madness (capital M). It is embedded into our bloodstream even if it will get drowned out in the rest of the noise. Just to howl out into the night sky unprompted and unrelenting.
There is rage in our soul and at this point, there is no telling where it clicks.
Breath in through the nose and out through the mouth.
Something whispers inside of us. This is not the way that this is supposed to be. We should’ve murdered Jacob Mephisto. We should’ve bathed in the blood of him and his entire “family”. Patience McCuntface shouldn’t be breathing. Nobody should be breathing except for us. We can control He-Who-Hates…
Actually, wait. No. Scratch that.
There is no controlling He-Who-Hates. He is only “controlled” because He allows it. He lets us, our logic, our superiority create the story because he knows that’s the best way. Until it’s not. We never see him head towards the microphone. He’s a blur, a surge that overpowers the rest of us suddenly, sharply, and usually temporarily. He’s a blink of the eye. And then he’s back in the shadows again.
He is supposed to be channeled into our fighting spirit. Clearly, this is not enough of a role to soothe a savage beast.
We look at Nate Colton. We watch him be so busy poking and prodding that Russian fellow and we know we should be aiming at him. But he’s not exactly aiming at us either. He’s looking over the horizon of his own mind beyond thrown together matches and into the abyss of forging his path, even if he may not completely know that yet. We cannot say that we blame him one bit. He has a book of advice and an iron will. A fair amount of talent and his entire life ahead of him. The Eagles blaring from a stereo and a stuffed pig made of memory. People will talk about the pedigree. But honestly? It’s such a minuscule thing. Names are only as good as those that carry them.
We have the experience that he doesn’t in every instance, in wrestling and in rebuilding. It seems like something to emphasize. Nate Colton and us are in the beginnings of creative stages, his first and our latest. He has finally flown the coop of comfort–seemingly for good–on a quest of his design while we, like Shiva, begin the process of demolishing our own mental constructs and figuring out how to reconstruct them. He craves to make a mark. Given that beating he gave and took to Mister French Sword, he will succeed should he choose to stick around.
We’re striving for godhood.
And so here we are. Crossing paths at this point of our respective journeys. Honestly, this match could be anything. It could be a bump in the road or a starmaker. It could be iconic or just another match drowning in a sea of Madness. The only thing to know for sure is that nothing–in PRIME or anywhere–is for sure. We watch all the worlds throw themselves into a flurry. We wonder about how deep He-Who-Hates hides.
We plan on bringing a metaphorical surfboard and ride the waves as they come. And we shall ride them to shore.