I’ve been reading a lot of science fiction. Probably too much science fiction. The book I’m reading now is a strange novel from the 80’s called Armor. In it, the main character has an internal locus of survival that he calls, “The Engine”. It pushes him, drives him forward, and keeps him alive. It kicks in when he is terrified and scared, blocking out the rest of the world, and leaving that small space in front of him in which to operate.
The thought of it makes me queasy, and questioning of my own life, of my own “Engine”. The terror is that to live like that, is to live without mediation. Years and years of the relentless drive has led me to this place in time. If you were to ask me to map how I came to this point, I couldn’t do it. It’s beyond comprehension, however it’s all by my own hand. And then I look back and see a trail of devastation in my wake, and I look ahead, and see a future of pain yet to be inflicted. But I only see that for a moment, because whatever the Engine is, it is real, and it comes over all of us. Even as I write this, my mind is slipping away, and the true actor is taking control.
