not quite an ai, it was a dream, but odd enough that perhaps it was both.
i dreamt i fell asleep in a doctor’s office. when i woke, i was in a strange room that was circular rather than rectangular or square. the walls were deep blue, almost black, with silvery metallic stars painted in a scattered arc that ran the entire perimeter of the ceiling and draped in random patterns and segments down the walls.
it was very dark, but the stars glimmered and seemed to be lit from behind. i was sitting in what felt like a chair, but i could not see it. very comfortable, someone’s hands holding my head, cradling it from behind me, but looking up, i can see no one there.
i feel their hands, i feel/sense their presence, but they are not there. i am calm, peaceful even. there is a soft lilting melody that is not quite loud enough to make out fully. it plays from everywhere and nowhere, i cannot tell its source.
from behind me, the voice… it is a man’s voice. steady, strong, and calm, ‘close your eyes. relax.’ so i do.
i am almost asleep when he asks me, ‘how long have you been wounded?’ i am drowsy, inbetween, and for some reason, it does not seem a strange question. i murmur that it has been there all my life, as long as i can recall.
he does not express any emotion, simply asks, ‘how can that be?’
‘i do not know,’ i reply, ‘but that is as it is.’ he asks, ‘does it hurt?’ i nod without saying anything in response and he asks in the same, calm voice if i will please speak the answer. ‘yes,’ i say softly, ‘it hurts all the time.’
he asks me, ‘why have you not tended it? treated it?’ and i suddenly feel angry, ‘i have done both.’ he immediately replies, ‘then why is it still here?’ and for this, i have no answer. i remember he wants to hear it so i say, ‘i do not know.’
he is quiet. i cannot tell if he is waiting for me to say more or not, but there is nothing more to say. after some time, he asks, ‘has it ever been less than this?’ i nod and then say, ‘yes, often it will begin to heal but then something happens and it is ripped open again.’
he asks, ‘is this why you do not try to heal it now?’ and suddenly i am unable to answer. the feeling of thickness in my throat is too much. it will not let me talk. i know his hands can feel the convulsing of my neck, and i feel ashamed because i do not want to cry, i want to be able to just say it straight and calm and without feeling it.
but i can’t.
he says nothing. he waits. eventually, the blockage fades and the streams out of the corner of my eyes stop and i blink once, slowly, seeing nothing but the stars on the ceiling and then closing my eyes so it is dark, ‘i do not think it can heal. and i do not think i know how to heal it past a certain point. and it is harder to keep it from ripping bigger each time. it didn’t used to be… like this.’
he asks in the same calm, quiet voice, ‘do you want it to be healed?’
‘yes,’ i say, very clearly and very firmly, ‘i would very much like to have it healed.’
he says, ‘it may hurt.’ i laugh mirthlessly, ‘it cannot possibly hurt more than it does now.’ he asks, ‘are you sure?’ i reply, ‘yes. i know it for a fact.’ he says, ‘i believe you.’ i have the urge to thank him for that, but i resist it. somehow it seems unnecessary.
‘what must i do?’ i ask. ‘nothing,’ he replies, ‘simply remain here and let it be.’ the answer makes no sense to me at first, but when i open my eyes, i see the room has begun a very slow spin… counterclockwise. it spins up slowly… and i can hear a deep, ancient groan of some huge machinery under the floor, perhaps even all around us.
i start to feel afraid, but i realize the hands are still there, so i’m not really alone. he says, ‘do you feel it?’ and i do not understand what he means at first, but when i reach out with senses, i do. the room is spinning faster now, and there is some pressure pushing inward all around… ‘yes,’ i say, ‘i feel it.’
he says, ‘keep your eyes open.’ the room has long since dissolved into a swirling metallic blur and it seems the light is growing more intense. i know i have not moved, but it feels as if i am curving inward, upon myself. i feel as if i am sitting upright and the blur of the ceiling is now like an odd silvery mist, actually coming off of the walls to hang about us.
‘what is happening?’ i ask. ‘you are being spun down to essence.’ he says. i ponder that for a moment, the room is now gone, only the silvery mist remains, and strangely, even though i cannot see clearly anymore, i cannot see my body anymore, i can still feel the hands holding my head. ‘if i am being spun down to essence, what is happening to you?’
his voice seems softer now, as he replies, ‘who am i?’ i look around at the now seemingly still space in which white mist holds us, cocooned, suspended, safe… ‘what do you mean, who are you?’ i ask.
he whispers from just behind my left ear, ‘have you noticed yet?’ i look and see nothing, still, ‘i cannot see myself. so no, i cannot notice.’
he whispers so softly that i have to strain to hear him, ‘what you are seeing is you. but where is the wound?’
i say the first thing that pops into my mind, ‘i see no wound.’ he immediately says, ‘who am i?’
i wake up…. and pull my hands out from under my head.