The Bibliotherapist

I imagine her sitting in a quiet room at a table, a glass of water — iceless, before her; notepad and pencil by her smooth pink hands; no windows, a single candle lit: a dark atmosphere pervaded by emptiness. Her mind cleared, she takes the little orange pill, waits the prescribed twenty minutes, and slowly feels the lift of the veil, the waves of energy rising from the inner sea; the sudden weak drift of her oceanic mind as the images pulsate and throb into awareness. Her blue eyes dilated,  smoked by the grayness of the empty world surrounding her she sinks inwardly into that stillness that is aflame.

She pulls the threads of the inner nanoviewer: the plug-n-play reality of the drug manifesting, the dreamscapes exploding like a thousand flowers, and sees amid the dance of fire and shadow a man sitting at the other end, his lips moving soundlessly – thoughts snapping into her brain like recordings of lost books from a secret library. Her mind filled with fables and cartoons — manga figures from a posthuman dripspool; the laughter of children; the polished wisdom of ancient Taoist and Zen Masters; the crisp dialogues of Greek Philosophers; the portents of Nostradamus; the frog wisdom of Rousseau; the castigations of Nietzsche; the Mysterious Stranger of Twain beckoning to her; the flutes of Orpheus in Mozart’s ‘The Magic Flute’; men, women, and children parading across times and times; the darkened embers of fallen citadels, amid the burnt out timbers of a war torn world – the lonely hollows of a city in ruins, a dog barking in the distance; the Calypso tales of Odysseus, the lovely lotus leaves glint in the morning sun…

The biblioregistry of a million books speaking to her in unison: alive, musical, distant, near, alone – or together, the dialogues of authors from times long lost amid the sands… the careful weaving of elephants and unicorns, effigies and jungles, jaguars and tigers, peasants and nobles, merchants and thieves, urban streetwalkers and country soothsayers… a world brought alive by a voice gray and muted, rainbow and darkness; methodical, lifting, pitched, humming along in machinic precision. Caressing with her mental eye the vestiges of dead worlds, she receives this prismatic infoscapes like a dark diver in a sea of frozen fire.

The session comes to an end all to quickly. Her eyes once again registering the world’s blank interface. The quantum ties to the collective lifting her once again into the general intellect: connected, one, undefined, marginal; a worker, a numberless minion in the chain of endless algorithms of a social matrix where things drift among lost dreams to no purpose…

As she passes the desk, the automated figure taps her imprint, billing her session — time variants posted, the erasure of her session, the moments of past thought obliterated, the images of lost worlds vanishing even as she rejoins the tribal enclaves and her happy days of memoryless ease.


 

2 thoughts on “The Bibliotherapist

    • Thank you, Danica! I should actually build a page someday for awards. Let me come by see what you got 🙂

      Oh, I see, this is one of those chain style awards. True, I wish I had time to do all of those things. Either way, thank you for your kind and generous nomination. 😉

      Liked by 1 person

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