Malachai

Malachai awoke one morning as if still dreaming. The room about him seemed distantly familiar; he could feel his entire body in pieces, in rhythm, each cell pulsing and moving and living; his thoughts were slow and methodical and primitive: as if mired in a swamp, in the middle of a fog. As his consciousness settled into being, as his awareness became sharper and took hold, a rush of emotions came upon his fumbling brain.
     Stark Confusion, pondering Exhilaration, a restless Wonder, niggling Doubt, childlike Curiousity, subtle Joy, a Calm that seemed the softest waves of a vast ocean: All of these he felt in a swirling, undulating crescendo. The first and the strongest of all, however, was Fear; and so it was Fear which he instinctively clutched at, which he embraced without the slightest hesitation or thought.
     He rode it (that sickening Fear) handsomely, peering about at the stillness, as still as stone himself. The Fear enveloped him like a tide sweeping through: sharpening his vision of the room; tuning his senses to the air rustling around him, the soft mattress beneath him, the light taste of organic decay and the room's must in his mouth; now making him aware of his whole body at once, focused in quivering stillness.
    And slowly it left him. Evaporating into the air, receding back into anomaly within his blood, loosing its grasping grip on his mind to fade back into its place of rest.
     He sighed deeply, only to suck in once more--almost a choking of recycled air--was this his first breath? The rhythm of breathing felt new, and yet he could remember it in a way one can recall a forgotten trick: knowing it, knowing the sense of it, without the action. The oxygen filled his lungs and coloured his blood and he breathed out again. He felt an infant, taking his initial gasp from out of the womb; except that this was different in many ways from a birth. There was Calm deep inside of him, that tip of the ocean, lapping at him, drawing him in with measured patience. All the other Emotions, having been pushed aside by Fear, returned.
     He realized that he was seated now, at the head of his bed, a warm pillow beneath. He could not remember the movement, and vaguely wondered if it had happened at all. Perhaps this is a dream, Malachai thought. But there were more pressing matters, and there were the Emotions vying for his attention like eager children.
     He took them one by one, as fully as he could--as fully as he had Fear, though this time with more intention. And with each came fleeting memories (if they could be called as much): half-recalled thoughts and experiences and entanglements so subtle and sweet that the mere fleeting glimpse of them was almost too much. With Wonder came the feeling of discovering truth, and images of people and places and bright nights, the tug of Exhilaration and Doubt and Fear and Pride. He followed Doubt. With it brought a shudder of Depression so deep it near made him sick, seeing some of those same shadow people and blurred places, but in a different light. From Doubt he let himself embrace Curiousity. And then Exhilaration. And Joy. Confusion. Pride. Depression. Acceptance. Determination. And so forth. With each came the images, fleeting and ghostlike, often the same ones: whether ideas, people, perceptions, biases, struggles, places, situations, times, but they mostly focused on himself. Himself focusing on himself, on doubting his Fear, curious of his Joy, fearing his Pride, depressed at his Acceptance, accepting his Depression. More often than not it was he himself that was the focus of all his battling emotions.
     He did not know how long this journey went on. At the end, he felt tired, and ocean of Calm returned, now that he had tried and embraced and was spent of all the rest. Perhaps they all returned to that ocean, were ships that pulled into port in a storm, to commandeer him and rule him and guide him. Or perhaps they belonged to the land, and the ocean was a thing of itself, ever-present if sometimes out of sight, when he was embroiled in the battles of this land of blood and tears and piercing happiness.
     Is this death? he thought slowly. He did not think it was. It felt too real, his body felt real, his thoughts felt real. It could be a dream of some sort, though he could well be awake, he reasoned. Maybe he had slipped into a state of meditation, like the yogis and buddhists did. Perhaps he was in a coma, and his mind was creating his own reality. Is that any different from a dream? he wondered. Is life different from a dream?
     However, before the trail of thought could expand any more, the ocean swept it gently away. He watched it leave, knowing it would return when he needed it. Or that he would find it again.
And so he sat on the warm beach, his legs to his chest, his eyes staring at the rolling waves as they patiently, patiently nuzzled his feet, caving the sand around him, drawing him deeper. Perhaps he was ready to let the ocean take him, though he knew not where. Or perhaps he had more to do on the land: more storms to weather, more Emotions to seize.
     For now though, Malachai was content to sit, to listen, to watch, and to be--free of thought. To let Calm slip him closer and closer to a land on fire.

     "Samuel?" a voice said, harried and hoarse; a voice I know, he thought but dismissed.
     He reopened his eyes. Two women were staring at him, one younger, one older.
     "Sammy?" the voice again, the older woman.
     "No," Malachai said quietly. "My name is Malachai. Who are you?"