Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25458443-20180720101448

I lay on the floor, blood surrounds me. Oh God, I say, and close my eyes.

Silence, and darkness, for a while, then tangible thought comes to me. I'm unsure of the cause, but thought starts flooding my brain. Pain, I think to myself. What a peculiar thing to behold. It's truly a process devoid of all reason or requisite of it. Somewhere in my minds eye, I see the open torn flesh, blood oozing out from it. What a strange dissociating thing to behold. It is, in every way, me, yet at once, it is not me. Me, in a way, although not one that I'd ever be able to comprehend.

Indeed, the leg will soon be gone, but I will feel as me as usually, no more me, nor less me. Perhaps I'd feel more handicap, indeed, lame, but never would I feel any sense of identity crisis over losing access to a leg. A leg, says I, is just meat, acting on protocal, I am so much more than that.

But what am I? I have to ask. A brain? If so, than I hasten to say I am still merely meat acting on command, although perhaps command more eruditical than my leg. But yet...ah! There he is! I turn towards my leg and spot that other me, bent over in a wave of panic as he tries, but fails, to heal the torn bleeding wound. Determined, may he be, and indeed, he is also me, but then he manages to be somebody else, who's thought process I have no command over, nor insight into.

I call to myself, and scream. Enough of that! I yell. He ignores me, proving at once that he understands me even less than I do him.

A strange idea seizes me. How many me's are there? Is there, perhaps, more me's inside me than I'd ever come to know? The me that's busy away healing my leg is one who I've aquainted with, although shallowly, but that dissociated presence begs the inquiry of more me's, who's aquaintence I've never met. I'm afraid it would be impolite of me to call for them, although I'm certain they'd be as unaware of me as that other me by the leg.

Another thought sweeps over, distracting from the pain. What if, I wonder, there is truly another me hidden somewhere inside me who truthfully could understand me? A me within me who's presence I haven't yet found, yet knows of mine. A me more self aware, perhaps, than me?

Methinks I've thought of myself too much, for now.

I lay on the floor, blood surrounds me. Every me. Soon I will die, I realize, before another sickening thought comes forward:

Will all of me? 