Genre: Psychological, Philosophical, Solipsism
5 minute story | Short Stories | Quick Fiction | By: Atman Brahman and AI
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Meta-Postmodern Notes From the Underground
A Voice of Infinite Consciousness
As Victor hummed the tune of ‘Yesterday’, peering into the unclear face he sighted in the reflective steel panel of his breakfast mint case, he swore he heard something. It was like an echo, perhaps, carried from beyond the breezy curtains—and he knew no neighbour was twisting the dials of ultrawave radios this early.
The sound was a faint, intricate curl of murmuring voices, triumphant and terrified, echoic than resonant—it scripted like embroidered bavardage whispering cryptic secrets. Victor dropped his mint case with a clatter.
Losing his rythm, he turned, looking over wide plains of imagination. The pleading whimpers seeped up from the deepest wells of fears he’d tirelessly cemented beneath layers of logic. His heartbeats heavy against his chest when the murmur escalated, mimicking the Butterfly effect—and this played like a chaotic symphony that wound up from chimeric whispers.
A single whisper stood out, looping in his mind, resigned and melancholy bouncing off the tenement walls of his conscience. It spoke words that danced around him—invisible, yet potent. Terrified of what this might spell, Victor tangled himself in this existential turmoil—he thought, by God, he was insane.
The relentless murmurs forced him down into haunts of despair like Dante’s Inferno compelling him ever downward into frozen subterranea of mutual suffering and loss—Engulfed by darkness, having his descent witnessed by Virgil’s helpless eyes. The cryptic whispers soon became a mind-altering symphony of ceaseless questions, grueling self-doubt—an echo chamber fostering fruitfully inflamed anxieties.
Pieces of his once admirable façade fractured as he was besieged by radiant visions of Mount Analogue. Leaping shadows danced around him evoking crudely-made puppets on Plato’s cave wall as chilling shadows etched the oldest myth mankind conceived. His mind became a dazzling foe, a cosmos construed of chequered darkness and gnashing voices—rendering him a prisoner in his once cherished solitude.
The shrinks called it the first stage of schizophrenia, murmuring signs and solutions with clinical intensity, comforting as a corpse’s cold touch. Victor, however, displayed remarkable insight. Like Captain Ahab, he strode into the jagged edges of his hallucinations, obsessively hunting the white whale of sanity amongst the roaring seas.
Victor then stumbled upon a Pre-Socratic consideration weaving a spectrum with Zeno and Heraclitus. Staggering under the obscure chant’s weight that echoed in his head. He realized he wasn’t hearing a non-existent voice from an external inferno, rather ’twas the profound echoes of his internal cosmos. He was Audrey’s small goose—a regular person cursed, or blessed, with sheer eternal grandiosity.
The vast sea of mazes Victor strolled absentmindedly through was his self-abdicated dominion—his mind, where one wrong turn could lead to Minotaurs of chaos. Fear released its icy grip, replaced by the true paradigm that He had not lost himself—he instead wandered upon facets of his soul, his essence, long since silenced.
As the moment of ferocious self-discovery arrived, the murmur transcended torment becoming the comforting familiarity of a lovingly worn library of leather-bound books. The whisper greeted him like an old friend in the wilderness and Victor tightly clung to it—a lifeline he considered ethereal. Adrift at ship in his sea of consciousness, the countless voices fused into harmonious enlightenment—the soothing tale.
He stood tall amidst the shadowy chaos evocatively embedded within his consciousness. Gradually accepting the whispers meant he slowly accepted fading pieces of his intricate self. What Victor discovered hearing voices hinting the whispers of Parisian ballrooms, breaches of discarded barricades, the melancholic whisper of vanished civilizations—was purely the echo birthed from the profound labyrinth, the inward universe, unifying his charismatic demeanor and irrational fears.
The voices were him all along, saturated vividly on his soul’s canvas, bright paint slowly seeping out—one voice penning his doubts curling like newly touched fern while another warmed his affection embracing the bluish lilacs and his courage, seen throbbing through the fiery rip tide brightening a sometimes lubberly psyche.
Victor remembered himself, living within his labyrinth, symbolically representing the Minotaur as his unfaded authentic self. He accepted the orchestra of voices that filled his consciousness as blessings despite projecting the strikes back to his own fears—it was evident they were not imploding destruction but an echo embodying his multilayered existence. “The Voice of Infinite Consciousness” it was indeed—beginning with fear and chaos, yet seeding with acceptance and synthesis.
Insanity shed its jagged cloak as Victor’s footsteps reverberated, rolled, and wavered, sanctifying the halls of his harshly beautiful cerebrum exploring every etching buried beneath the ebony strands of his insecurities, finally emerging in this loop flooding plain bathed in purifying sunshine freshly kissed by summer rains. And he bathed in epistemological certainty: revealing true insightful realm—searching for himself and arriving at comfort only made him stronger.
Victor examined himself, studying the man starring back from the glassy surface of troubled pools. Unlike Narcissus, he recognized the man in the mirror—the voices he’d been lugging around were his own fragmented reflections. Stripped of his layered fears, he now understood that the noises weren’t a descent into madness but a crescendo into self-awareness. The light of this revelation aided Victor in transforming the paterns of his mosaic consciousness into a beautiful symphony.
Instead of shushing these voices, Victor instigated purposeful dialogues, each voice lulling him into an understanding. He appreciated their complexities, resonating with the solo violin of melancholia, drumbeats of excitement, the piano’s tender melody of nostalgia—all elements orchestrated by eerily cryptic yet powerful Maestro—the resounding Echo from his internal cosmos.
Victor’s identity transcended from a cramped chrysalis to a vibrant butterfly, fluttering to the sonata playing out within himself, where every beat was toned down, letting the butterfly effect of fleeting chaos reside. The acceptance of voice metamorphosed into an entity of strength. These voices, cacophonous initially had now swelled into the hymn of unity—a jubilant choir adorning the cathedral of his consciousness.
Even the seemingly disastrous voices—much like Macbeth’s witches, cryptically hopeful as Pandora’s Box, faded into echoes as they together weave a narrative of resolution, self-discovery and reconstruction into the saga that was Victor.
Emancipated, Victor sketched the riveting visage reflecting in his bathroom mirror; his own, emancipated, and as he began to sketch, for the first time since the echoes started, the silent air bore witness to his progressively darkened peace. Akin to Santiago’s journey, Victor not only understood himself but also loved him, reconciling with the echoing voices and finally quieted the once roaring sea of his consciousness.
Breathing life into his canvas, he depicted a tower, majestic yet crumbled at places. Some architectural segments were ancient, others—innovation of eclectic voices. Intriguing frescoes filled the ancient chambers and contemporary galleries—they were metaphoric circles of his life, a journey through his personalized inferno birthing his paradise.
This tower, in the labyrinthine recesses of his consciousness, was a testament of time weathering him, reconciling him into the grandeur he now recognized. By peering into its reflection through the mirror, it manifested as a melodious concert bearing tales of his gallant expedition whispering epics of victory—the symphony of self.
Eliot once posited, “At the end of our exploration, we arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Victor understood this well; he was the Minotaur and Ariadne both, the entangled puzzle and the unwound maze—his identity possessing the multi-faceted character of his cerebral cathedral, each stained window illuminating an aspect of his consciousness.
In the end, the voices that once threatened to dishevel him had sculpted this tumble-shinned man into a maestro him himself. Victor’s epic played out like the coda, echoing profound wisdom—our minds are our theatres, wherein we whisper our lines in darkness; to embrace that whispered script—unique and profound, is to embrace our infinite consciousness. And like a phoenix birthing from foreboding ashes, the voice of our infinite consciousness can rise to be the most captivating melody to grace the amphitheater of reality.
*Disclaimer: Some of this story was generated through the use of AI. All italic text was created by the AI Writer.
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