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Enigma

Donald Reed Greenwood

    I’m not certain where and when the spark, if that’s an accurate description, originated.
    Was it born of strange, nonsensical fantasies that the subconscious mind concocts in dream sleep, or of an interruption that springs unfettered during waking hours? At night, is it the transitory purpose that dreams use to make sense of the daytime world? Why do some dreams survive the night, while others are mists evaporating with the rising sun?
    I recall the nights when I awoke in the darkness, shocking my eyes’ optical rod cells as I switched on the bedside lamp, and scribbled down, as best as I could describe, the inscrutable fantasies I experienced, before they were lost to the cleansing light of morning.
    I hoped those jottings might lead to something inspirational, but mostly they were forgettable gibberish. Some songwriters have claimed to have had nighttime epiphanies that become the progenitors of popular compositions.
    But until recently, I had never before had that kind of creative experience, whether in darkness or in daylight.
    Did that spark, urge, compulsion, or whatever it might be, originate in random thought? Was it the result of some subconscious need, insisting to express itself regardless of the hour; ideas that might be the seeds of written expression, whether poetic or prosaic, and with unexpected meaning and purpose? And if so, what was inside of me that drove it?
    It frustrates me that I can’t pinpoint exactly when or where it happened, whether I was wide awake or subdued in a state of REM activity. Perhaps I should resign myself to the fact that it simply exists. What I know with certainty is that it now occurs with increasing frequency and intensity, whether with mundane daytime routines disrupted, or with the experience of those moments of dark wakefulness, when my subconscious triggers me out of peaceful slumber, with a something so desperate to be recorded in hurried expression; a tale of some nocturnal expedition.
    Obsessive-compulsiveness is most likely the correct diagnosis. I can’t consciously control the when or the where.
    It began with poetry. At first my creations were mundane affairs, with conventional meter and simple verse. Nothing about them signified any profound meaning. There were no dense or esoteric expressions signifying the need for someone reading them to exercise a cerebral effort toward profound understanding.
    All I can claim with certainty is that I experienced a metamorphosis. I can’t attest to it as a gradual evolution. It was likely an abrupt experience, as if I were sailing, vulnerable on an open sea, watching a storm develop; a meteorological detonation, where the force of wind and rain envelops the body with a sudden fury that is unavoidable. The person sees and feels it approaching, but remains powerless to shift course or mitigate the impact; instead, compelled to accede to its power, must ride it out, body and soul mercifully intact, but transformed by the experience.
    I was consumed by the rapidity with which my mind exploded with ideas and notions, for not just poetry, but prose: The short stories poring out of my mind, into my fingers, and ultimately to the keyboard. It was a fevered activity dominating my days. At night, I kept a pencil and writing pad on the nightstand to satiate the unceasing noises that demanded consummation into polished works, once daylight was dominate.
    Ultimately, sleep became a hindrance to a hyperactive imagination. That I could even function, and perform in a manner to complete the volume of poems and short stories gushing forth from my brain, was both incredible and terrifying.
    Regardless, I’m firmly convinced that the consequences of my hyperactivity have produced works of consummate literary caliber.
    Even with such firm conviction, how could I dare to assert that I possessed the acumen and judgement to claim that this was so?
    And if I am right, how did I suddenly develop such extraordinary artistic acuity?
    That question has remained buried by the unceasing labor at my desktop. Tirelessly, I began crafting a full-fledged novel. The idea was inspirational, with a plot that would flow smoothly, aided by the occasional twists amplifying and enhancing the story. There would be no writer’s anxiety, no arduous effort in choosing the ending that would deftly weave all the threads into a seamless fabric.
    I had the perfect title even before the plot existed. Any notion of doubt was expendable.
    Although I’m fading physically, with sustenance and sleep now bothersome and irrelevant, strangely, my mind remains sharp. I have literary creations to nurture. As it is with the conclusions of my works, my own ending is pre-ordained.
    Sophia, a close friend, calls regularly, and has a key to the apartment. Anytime I’ve traveled, I knew she was the sole person on whom I could rely to inspect my flat, water the plants, and purge my refrigerator of any forgotten leftovers transformed into toxic waste.
    Although she hasn’t revealed it, I know she’s concerned over my health. It’s evident from my voice. Its tone is weaker; my attempts to disguise it ineffectual.
    One day, I know she’ll call, and I won’t answer. She’ll panic, abandon the subway for Uber, quick-step to my apartment door, hurriedly retract the deadbolt, and in shock and horror, discover my depleted, corporal shell. Yet life will remain. My literary works will be healthy and whole. I’ll leave her written instructions, the last act of my hand; publishers to call, the ID and password for my account with the US Copyright Office, and Certificates of Registration for all my poems, my short prose, and most importantly, my novel.
    That they will all be critically acclaimed and treasured by readers is an unequivocal certainty.
    Why? Because now I remember. Out of vanity, I have deliberately suppressed the truth from the beginning, whenever the inception began and however it occurred.
    I am not obsessive-compulsive.
    I have an arrangement.
    I have no doubt that my novel will enter the pantheon of great modern literature.
    I will be the author of a towering achievement, a classic American novel. I’ll be the second advent of Harper Lee, having written a beloved literary masterpiece, except that this jewel will forever be untarnished, not occluded by the creation of an unfortunate and unnecessary sequel.
    My deteriorating physical condition will render that an impossibility.
    I am the instrument; the hurried hand that furiously scribbles in the dead of the night, the pen pressed to the paper, and the manic strokes on the keyboard. Whatever the enigma is, it is the Source.
    It will ensure my legacy, and it will be a posthumous one.
    I know the Source is unknowable and otherworldly. And, it will be with me until I have finished. But, it is not, and never has been, me. I am now at peace with that.
    A contract must be honored. How can I refuse payment?

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