A Theory Newly Proved

For sixteen years, I have been pursuing the true substance of life. But now, with hardly two years under his belt, that welp has supposedly overtaken me. He, in his pressed robes and combed hair, took to the halls like his mere steps would transmute the stone to gold. Has the boy not learned his history? Has he not taken note of all the parables he was plastered with?

It takes an old master to make miracles, and a young fool to undo them all!

Does anyone heed these oft-repeated words? The whole faculty has abandoned the teachings of common sense in favour of the drivel that has littered the continent. Its muck has marred all the places I used to love. The laboratories are now teeming with microbes that whimper and squirm. The lecture halls no longer stock their seats with worthy pupils. And, worst of all, the library has gained a new section of what-about-isms that masquerades as science.

And that gangly cur is at the centre of it all!

He stands as their shining beacon of excellence. He has synthesised a theory that is made of fog. He purports that the centre of a human— that intangible and so often debated concept of consciousness— can be defined. A definition to all of life! Our peers are praising him for putting it all in such plain language. He states that there are three parts of said consciousness: the Mind, the Body, and the Soul. The Mind governs thought, takes what information the world offers and translates it so that the Body can manoeuvre within it. The Soul links us to that which the Mind and Body cannot touch. As such, it can allow one to understand the inhospitable fringes of the known world. With all three, consciousness arises.

 But where are these distinct parts? Can he cut one out of a person and slap it on a table? I did so when I proved that a frog’s brain can be restarted with a mere jolt. I linked my wires so delicately and clearly that even the students at the very back of the theatre could see. It is the scientific method to dig one’s arms into the filth of life, gleaning what you can from its innards. All this time, I have adhered to this rule. Yet he accumulates praise without lifting a finger. Why doesn’t he take a good man and show me how evil writhes within him? Where does one find humanity’s hatred? Where do we find the pollution of the heart? If one’s Mind strays, how does the Soul bring it back? If the Body falters, how can the Mind go on, flaccid in its prison of flesh? If one’s Soul is extinguished, how can either of the other parts continue? How can one ever come to a conclusion about the whole of living?

His use of the full stop reeks of the type of narcissism only an undergraduate would possess.

I had to see his work for myself. I stole into his office— they gave him an office for his ‘breakthrough’— and found all the meticulous notation. Piles and piles of wasted paper and ink. He whirls and whirls around his theories, confusing himself and so, mistakes his own words for proof. I can see it below my hands. Despite this, my fingers can make something out of this worthless drivel. He has lines of reasoning that I can follow, that I can mould into an actual revelation. For too long have they moaned that I am small-minded in my work.

Well, I will finally take their criticism to heart.

If one can revive a dead rat, can make a bone twitch with mere electricity, then what would stop one from controlling any muscle? All you need is a source of power to propel and manage the movement. And like that dopey, slime-infested blight upon knowledge has stated, the Mind is such a source. The Body, in his theory and my research, is nothing more than a vehicle to drive human will and spirit to its goals. Upon death, the Body is detached from the Mind— I have proven as such with my first thesis. A Mind can continue to exist in a Body that has died. After all, the frogs still hop and the rats still skitter no matter how many times I startle their limp bodies awake. But does it have to be the same Mind? Can it not be another, transplanted like a fresh, warm kidney?

The worthless, writhing worm turned into a babbling lunatic when I strapped him down. His “one in a million mind” could hardly form a sentence. He realised rather quickly that for all his wonderous intellect, he was a mere child who liked to have his ego stroked. I tried to lecture him, to inform him of where he had strayed and where he had points that needed growth. He merely foamed at the mouth and moaned. I suppose no one can help it when a rod is inserted into their brain. And here I thought his intellect was tougher than steel…

Overall, the procedure was simple. A child could do it. He could have if he was a smidge more driven.

To put it in simple, scientific language: I have become him. I have made his Body mine. My Mind puppets his corpse. I see through his eyes, write in his hand, speak with his cloying mouth. His Mind is slowly, maddeningly, disintegrating itself. His Body is wriggling, full of the life that I shot into his veins. Humbling though it may be to realise the laziness of my previous vessel, I cannot say that the energy I have gained is unwanted. The rising, hiccuping thoughts make me want to use the last of this stolen energy to do more with what I have discovered. But what makes this Body sing with glee is the irony of it all. 

I have technically proved his theory!

All of those doddering doctors believe me to be that prancing twit. They smile at me, marvel at the culmination of my research and don’t know it themselves! Hypocrites and liars! My genius mocks them from behind this facade. And to think, they will never know it. How could they understand what I have done? How could they come to comprehend that I, this lowly gnat that they so carelessly swatted aside, could do the impossible? I have gone beyond the bonds of humanity. I have melded with that snot-nosed brat and so, have become his better. My Mind pilots his Body so that I may benefit from his acclaim, all whilst using my wit and worth to its fullest potential.

But what is this emotion that comes to me in my times of rest? It is like a guttering rain to my brilliance. It soaks me through with terror. It eeks into my bones and makes me colder than an abyss. Is it calling to me in wails? No, it is more accurate to call them throatless grunts— maybe tongueless. The yawning emptiness has gained form. It stalks me, dogs my every move. It is a phantom made of impish light. It laughs— mocks. It tires to tie my hands. It impedes my experiments. Every morning, my legs feel as if they have been broken and reshaped. Spasms rock my body. My eyes are deepening into hollow pools. I can scarcely make sense of what progress I made in my dreams.

Is the lingering stain on the floor mocking me?

The boy was wrong. The boy was more a fool than I could ever give him credit for. The Soul doesn’t link to anything outside this circuit of the human consciousness. It’s all one closed system, comprised of permeable membranes to allow thought, words, and emotion through. All of life comes and goes like boats in a harbour, always arriving with some other job that compels them to rush off. The Soul never departs. It stays, hunkers down and makes note of all that passes through. It makes sure they are correct. It inspects, insesently, as if that was its entire purpose for being.

What happens to the Soul when it has discovered an invader?

What will it do to this interloper?

He appears like smears of jellied darkness. He continues to envelop all that I am and see. He has tried to reach out, to smother his eyes and squeeze them dry. I have come close to seeing his face but every time I can make out the shape of a nose, the lines of a lip, the shadows come. He hunches and lunges from the furthest corners of my office. He hides behind students and creeps over their shoulders. Not even the sunlight can dash it away. He basks in it. He is vitalised by it. He hungers for the light.

There is only one silver lining to this ordeal:

That sickening runt could never have discovered such a thing!

Never!