The Enthusiasts

The Final Chapter

"It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways." – Buddha

Emerson awoke. Though momentarily unsure of where he'd been or who he'd been at any point in his life, he was calm. Soon something wanted him to jolt alert inside, but he could not comply. The beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor sounded like he was in a season finale episode of ER (The Tablet stored a few paramount Clooney-era episodes for playback). Hoses connected to air flow were heard hissing and sucking their vacuum seals open and closed around him. Opening his eyes wearily into half slits was a struggle. A few holoscreens and many tools designed to puncture, cut, and tear with precision into flesh and bone were splayed out like parts of an artist's workspace, with no particular method or evident sense of organization. The Carly Rae Jepsen tee he'd worn under everything over the past week had been severed in half up the front with a pair of bent-handled scissors draped over a surgical tray coming in and out of his focus.

Emerson wanted to move his head to see more of the room; but he could not. He wanted to move his eyes around; but he could not. He tried moving his hands; and he could not. Never before had he felt this way. He tried with all of his efforts to send a conscious signal to any obedient body part, but he received no feedback. He could think about moving, but nothing responded. He sat motionless, wondering if he would ever blink. Then, without trying, he did blink. He sat with no control over the body he inhabited; only Mind was left to him. Mind wanted to panic, but his heart rate remained constant. He listened to his heartbeat. He listened not on the sounding monitor, but inside. He had never felt it so deeply before. He listened closer. He could feel and even hear the blood pumping through his entire body. Flowing, like a looped water treatment center, recycling the life blood through every organ and vein in his body. Drenching every muscle, bone birthing marrow — in a precious flow of shared, naturally occurring divine intelligence or... Love. That's what it was. The real stuff. Not the fake sexed up nonsense sold in stores, he realized. And it all seemed so miraculous to him in that moment.

If my blood is pumping, I am to be here. This sentence had formed from the nothingness that he was becoming more in tune with in his new state of awareness. He was not the body. And with that, he seemed to be much less of an 'I' — as in the I which would have responded to the name Emerson when called or tried answering a question asked by an 'outsider.' Mind was unable to contact the body for anything at this time. He was losing touch with it as well. Then a new thought arose: Why am I here? he asked when it finally occurred.

Oh, yes... The bad guys were around, doing something bad, and I was fighting the bad guys. This idea seemed silly and impossible to Emerson right now. He was in a similar set-up as he had been in Salt Lake. This was getting old fast. Sitting up in a restrained chair, part of the room was visible to him, but without control over his eyes, he became bored very quickly with the tiled wall and long countertop he noted as though they were props used in a play. These aren't my eyes, he thought. This isn't my body, he thought. These are props in a glorious, ever-spanning play of make-believe; and I am the observer now.

His eyes remained fixed on the physical objects in front of him. Sharing the same experience Sasha had as she thrust her knife blade upon him back at Ranchlands, the objects took on a new purpose, the same purpose, and then they blurred out of his vision into nothingness. What should I think about? he asked himself. I can think about anything I want! A concept that had been with him every day of his life seemed like a new one in the moment. He felt exhilarated by it, and it throttled his imagination into action. He didn't think about any one thing or any particular person; instead, he thought about everything and every person. He had tried to do this in meditation before, but it was so easy for him right now. It excited him, and he imagined his ideas encompassing the entire planet. They are real! he thought. I really have this Imagination Power! This Creation Power! He imagined vast, steady streams of light flowing down and covering the entire globe with an instant healing elixir, administered through understanding: Compassion - by Emerson.