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Page 19
* * * * *
My device for dislodging him from the chair by striking my head, is
failing. I have to hit much more violently, and I do not succeed perhaps
more than once in a dozen trials. My head is quite sore where I have so
repeatedly struck it. I must use the other hand.
* * * * *
My brother was right. There is an unseen world. Do I not see it? Am I
not cursed with the seeing of it all the time? Call it a thought, an
idea, anything you will, still it is there. It is unescapable. Thoughts
are entities. We create with every act of thinking. I have created this
phantom that sits in my chair and uses my ink. Because I have created
him is no reason that he is any the less real. He is an idea; he is an
entity: ergo, ideas are entities, and an entity is a reality.
* * * * *
Query: If a man, with the whole historical process behind him, can
create an entity, a real thing, then is not the hypothesis of a Creator
made substantial? If the stuff of life can create, then it is fair to
assume that there can be a He who created the stuff of life. It is
merely a difference of degree. I have not yet made a mountain nor a
solar system, but I have made a something that sits in my chair. This
being so, may I not some day be able to make a mountain or a solar
system?
* * * * *
All his days, down to to-day, man has lived in a maze. He has never seen
the light. I am convinced that I am beginning to see the light--not as
my brother saw it, by stumbling upon it accidentally, but deliberately
and rationally. My brother is dead. He has ceased. There is no doubt
about it, for I have made another journey down into the cellar to see.
The ground was untouched. I broke it myself to make sure, and I saw what
made me sure. My brother has ceased, yet have I recreated him. This is
not my old brother, yet it is something as nearly resembling him as I
could fashion it. I am unlike other men. I am a god. I have created.
* * * * *
Whenever I leave the room to go to bed, I look back, and there is my
brother sitting in the chair. And then I cannot sleep because of
thinking of him sitting through all the long night-hours. And in the
morning, when I open the study door, there he is, and I know he has sat
there the night long.
* * * * *
I am becoming desperate from lack of sleep. I wish I could confide in a
physician.
* * * * *
Blessed sleep! I have won to it at last. Let me tell you. Last night I
was so worn that I found myself dozing in my chair. I rang for the
servant and ordered him to bring blankets. I slept. All night was he
banished from my thoughts as he was banished from my chair. I shall
remain in it all day. It is a wonderful relief.
* * * * *
It is uncomfortable to sleep in a chair. But it is more uncomfortable to
lie in bed, hour after hour, and not sleep, and to know that he is
sitting there in the cold darkness.
* * * * *
It is no use. I shall never be able to sleep in a bed again. I have
tried it now, numerous times, and every such night is a horror. If I
could but only persuade him to go to bed! But no. He sits there, and
sits there--I know he does--while I stare and stare up into the
blackness and think and think, continually think, of him sitting there.
I wish I had never heard of the eternity of forms.
* * * * *
The servants think I am crazy. That is but to be expected, and it is why
I have never called in a physician.
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