Mirror in the Aether

III

As usual, the coffee is bitter but piping hot. I sip at it and wonder if this time I'll get a buzz, a wave of inspiration, or merely anxiety. Breakfast is served on a tray, emerging from the utility chute with punctual detachment. Half of it is synthetic-tasting cold paste, the other is a hot mealy mush. A careful balance of artificially fortified macro-nutrients and micro-nutrients - a precious cargo held in a vessel of calories served at the bare minimum. I'm not here to grow strong. I'm here to ponder and pontificate, learn and relearn, relent and reform. And then do I return? Or change direction? Perhaps I'm just ejected out into the vacuum. Spat out like machine coffee through another utility chute.

I imagine Ramesses at his breakfast ritual. Dates and jujubes. Milk and honey. Cheese and bread and I'm sure, if he so commanded, ever-flowing wine poured with fearful precision by loyal servants. Starting the day with purpose and a positive mindset. With deferential company he would sup and regard his kingdom. Planning his next great conquest. Giving life to another momentous vision. He wouldn't suffer any indignities such as paste or mush or mockery in his sleep.

In the ablutions quarter I endure the blast of acrid heat as it sears my skin dry. With my neck shaven and my deck suit laundered it's as refreshed as I can feel. Physically at least. It's almost worth getting up for. I took the usual care with my scars in the shower. The thin skin and missing flesh around my knee is still sensitive to touch after all this time, and I seldom feel at ease with the raised welts and uneven ridges across my trunk and upper arms.

I sometimes wonder about strange things when I'm in the shower. I do it constantly of course, but especially when I'm in the shower. I imagine myself giving powerful speeches during some distant century, a commanding orator rousing the masses to some unknown destiny. Or I'm a great battle chief fielding skeptical critique from disloyal generals, but then after our inevitable victory I have them imprisoned for life. Or I return some priceless artifact to its rightful owners and despite their protestations, I refuse to accept payment because I'm truly and purely noble and heroic and of course, impassive in the face of recognition. Is it still narcissism if you're aware of it? 

Sometimes I end up turning over the most granular ideas. Strange thoughts and scenarios. Convoluted dialogues on impossible topics. Questions to which only I know the answer, and although my subconscious knows the outcome will be my inevitable triumph and, naturally, rejection of the subsequent praise, I get stuck on the same repeating moments. The other party asking me the same cutting, probing, searing question as I disintegrate their position with my coolly focused will. And again and again. Is this madness in some form? A reflection of the inner workings of my deepest sub-level of consciousness? Is it side effects of machine coffee?

I think about my scars and how I've often wondered since I was awarded them about the iron in blood and how there is an infinitesimal poetry to the idea of iron in a metal alloy meeting the iron in my blood cells at that great moment of rupture and letting. A fleeting moment of synchronization. A true oneness in homicidal violence. Not that I died, but that was what my opponent wanted at the time, I'm sure. 

Ancient civilizations knew violence as a function. A condition. A pure state of truth. I think a lot about pure states. I'm not quite sure exactly what they are, but I think I'm formulating some sort of personal theory. Like my theory of time which is essentially that it's merely a theory. How else can we reconcile the brimming cacophony of our minds with the oppression of quotidian repetition?

I feel a mild disgust at how much better I feel after breakfasting and bathing, and as I stretch my limbs and take a deep controlled breath as part of my preparatory physical routine, I anticipate further disgust once it's complete. For all my grand delusions, simple function is the greatest source of satisfaction and relief, whether I accept it or not. As I move my limbs in tandem, holding postures and breathing accordingly, tensing and relaxing and stretching and straining, I imagine the distantly familiar frenzy of battle. The adrenaline, the rage, the wave of sadistic intent. Thirst and anticipation. When you both know and you see in their eyes the freezing of the instant and the heat of blood at its peak. The summit proffers a gift to the heavens only to release it to a rapid descent. My limbs are shaking as I hold what I'm sure is an elegant pose, reminding me of those not-so-forgotten aftermaths.

I think that pure states are a reflection experienced in one of two modes. The first comes through ritual, practice, and concentration. A feedback loop which manifests as a time-slowed moment, like holding this position and controlling my breaths and invoking connection and control. The second comes through submission to unfettered response. When you snap and the entire universe implodes. Everything retracts and shrinks and all that is left is the pure state of intent. Perhaps in my first life I was too ready to renege my control, and now in my second life I must master the rituals and practices and then concentrate so that I can achieve the first of the states and maybe when I do I'll find...something meaningful.

Or perhaps, like time, pure states are just a theory.