Psychic Host 1

Starving Artist by Michael J. Bowman

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Vivid experiences beset me in my sleep from the first day of winter several years ago. Doing things and interacting with others. Writing a chapter, cleaning a room, spending a day at work. I could’ve sworn these things were done.

But when I woke, none of these things had happened yet. All purely imaginary. Except for the physical toll. Stiff neck from leaning over a keyboard, sore muscles from lifting and elbow grease powered scrubbing, the fatiguing boredom of the day job.

I ended up doing all these things twice, doubling the bodily wear-and-tear. Soon it wore on my psyche. Written passages and conversations I couldn’t quite remember were the worst, fuzzy memories all that remained.

My first assumptions were these dreams were visions, projecting my daily tasks. But over time I sensed a nefariousness, intentional act by an unknown source. Some unseen phantasm, perhaps even my own mind, casting hallucinations.

Help was hard to find. Expensive or mundane opinions I already considered. I turned to the least expensive treatment, alcohol, which caused more trouble.

So I started writing about it, and it alone, cataloging the events, looking for patterns. Mapping the torment in words.

And I read. Starting with haunted geniuses because there is ample evidence, not because I consider myself in their class. Reading I also did twice, the content fading on waking as the writing and conversations. I could vaguely remember their portraits. And I had to do it again. Because I dreamed it.

Hemingway, Kafka, Plath, Poe, Tesla, Van Gogh, Woolf, more.

Hallucinations, nightmares, depression, mental illnesses, addictions.

No double lives. Just human suffering.

Confusion overtook me. Was I deciding my own life or being compelled? I feared the answer but still searched for it.

I tried not sleeping to escape the pattern. It backfired. I barely made it through the workday. Coming home exhausted, I slept hard, dreamed long with heightened intensity. Vibrant colors and sounds. Harsh and angry. Waking to keyboard indents on my forearms, the smell of cleaning solutions on my hands.

A new strategy of investigating meditation instead of tormented historical figures occurred to me. It was not easy and I often slept but something changed. I could sense a presence in me. Subtle, quiet, yet distinct.

The high-energy dreams continued furiously, sapping my energy. Something had to give and I was afraid it would be me.

Then the first message came. More a thought than words. Still, plainly communication.

“Don’t resist.”