She Who Wrote the World- Part 1: The Author’s Origin

She Who Wrote the World, a novella by Hannah Brewster-Stein

Part One – The Author’s Origin

Man with conceptual spiritual body art

The first time she spoke to me I was sitting in a bus staring blankly at an exam review I was supposed to be studying.  I heard her voice as clearly as if the passenger beside me had spoken and in fact, I looked over at the woman beside me and was surprised to see that she was clearly sleeping.

“Hello,” I whispered, but she continued to drool and softly snore.  I looked around at the other passengers who were absorbed by their cell phones, or sleeping and one was busily knitting with a bag of yarn on her lap.  I thought maybe I had misheard.  Maybe no one had just said my name.

I returned to the pages of scholarly gibberish with a tinge of unease.

There it was again.  My name.  Her voice was smooth like jazz and I could feel the whisper of breath chill and twist down my spine.  My eyes pricked with tears and the hair on my arms rose, while electric heat flushed my face.  I blacked out and was transported into Abidaba.

In English, Abidaba can be loosely translated to mean the cable through which a message is received. (Abi being a derivative of the term abidesce, or to transmit and daba literally meaning a cable).  Therefore this place I first visited that day is a state of being in conscious alignment to pick up the messages transmitted.  My brainwaves are the cable; my mouth, my words, are the translation.  Very much similar to the computer screen displaying a user friendly graphic, but underneath of that are the codes that the computer itself understands.

It is very difficult for me to describe the sensations I experienced that day.  No words can truly do justice to what I could see as clearly as you are seeing me now.  Reality changed for me.  The illusion of all that is here stripped away as I first saw that which is real.   That which is everything.  That which is she, which is me.

Imagine me in the moments before she first spoke.  Tired from my shift, sifting through papers, my eyes losing focus on the words until they were barely recognizable anymore as English.  I was struggling through my existence.  My outer shell was young and easygoing, but inside I was lonely, I was scared and I felt myself failing at life.  Little did I know then, I was not truly failing at life, I was just living the wrong one!

My origin, which was explained to me in Abidaba, will be simpler for you to understand in an illustration.

There was a writer.  The writer infused her work with parts of her own story, some factual and some embellished.  Other parts were completely fabricated.  She intermingled the two so that it was impossible to tell them apart.  Certainly, no character in her story knew the difference and no one who read the book knew the difference.  The parts though, that seemed to resonate the most, those parts that were most favourably commented upon, were the truest parts of the writer. Although, of course, only the writer could observe this pattern.  True or false though, nothing was real, all of it just words on the paper.

In her next book, the writer decided to write herself as much as possible into the story.  As she wrote the character and allowed the story to write itself, she was quite stunned to see that the written version of herself was miserable. Nothing, not the good attributes or normal upbringing, or trials she herself faced could make her character be her.  It was as if the character itself intrinsically knew that she was more than a storybook character, that she was supposed to be the author of herself, not just the subject and this led to a perplexing and deep dissatisfaction within the character.

The writer, realizing this, realizing the autonomy of the character and the frustration of its limited potential (due to being a character), then devised a plan.  What if the writer told the character that you are a character, but not just any character?  You are in fact me, the author of the whole book.

You see, in a matter of speaking, I am the character in the book.  I am both the author and the character and I could not reach my own potential until I knew this to be true.  This reality in which we live, is, like a storybook, an illusion.  But, I tell you, we have become conscious beings and can transverse this reality into the next.  I, the author, can lead you thus.

For you must be me and in being me, you will be she and in being she, you will also become authors.

That day on the bus the truth was revealed to me.  This truth is privy to no one else and so it has become my great burden to share it with you all.

Today I walked through the great halls and admired the artistry there upon.  Interpretations of my lessons given visual form from those blessed with such talent who dwell here partaking in my wisdom.  It brought tears to my eyes.  How could I, twenty years from the first time she spoke my name, be standing here like this?  It amazes me.  It amazes me every day.



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