(no subject)

[taka-kitsune.livejournal.com]

"Men's private self-worlds are rather like our geographical world's seasons, storm, and sun, deserts, oases, mountains and abysses, the endless-seeming plateaus, darkness and light, and always the sowing and the reaping."
-Faith Baldwin

Those are the words that begin the chronicle which we have tentatively titled "The Dream." It fits.
I suppose before I can describe this project, I have to describe ourself. (Can I use that word? I like it.) I am Ace, the general front-person for our system. I am almost always at front, at least in co-consciousness, and we're beginning to think that my memory's open to everyone, which is how we deal with day-to-day life even when I'm not at front. Even when I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that I was one of many people sharing this body, I never thought that our mind could have a "self-world" such as the above quote describes. I don't know what I thought about the others... Maybe that they just didn't exist when they weren't up here, lurking in the back of my consciousness? It seems silly, now.
It was the dream that started it, definitely. A dream that began in a desert, and a meeting with an all-too-familiar young man who protects the world from itself... who as of late, hasn't been able to. I followed him as he dealt with some of his own inner demons, and then... I'm not sure. My memory of it fades, though I know we still slept on, each to our own dreams.
When I woke up, I began writing. Except this was writing like I had never written before. As I wrote, I realized that I was there, living the dream inside my own mind. Our own mind. I found myself drawing pictures, attempting to convey the images, and then Lucien was drawing, as well, and others, all writing, contributing, building it, correcting my sometimes-flawed memories of the world, the journey, the realizations. Even the cat had things to contribute. (Yes, our system has a cat. It lives with Luc, but likes me better, so nyeh.) [[Lucien: You can have the damned cat. Please. Take it. *Tycho, the cat, glares at him, as does Ace* ...Or not.]]
I suppose the strangest thing about it is, although it's an incredibly personal story, and I'm writing it from "memory," I don't know how it ends. Something... Someone? is keeping me from seeing the end of our tale until I reach it in writing.
It makes me wonder, sometimes, if I myself am nothing more than a fictional character, for all that I pretend to be alive as I waltz about in this shared human shell.
What are any of us but figments of our own imagination?
Dreams of ourselves.

Ace