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Author: Krishna Padmasola
e-mail: krishna@scri.fsu.edu
Credit: The idea for writing this story came after reading the 1992 Scientific
American special issue on Mind and Brain.
Case No. 234FA
``It was a diminutive winged creature, a little bird with
crimson headdress, its brown feathered body quivering with the
restless energy derived from the accelerated metabolic rate so
characteristic of its species. Displaying excellent navigational
skills, it would suddenly dive into the thicket to feast on some
insect which betrayed its own presence and relieve it of its burden of
existence, and emerge again from the world of inconstant shadows into
the brilliant sunlit garden. However, the feast is soon forgotten, and
the search for new source of food begins all over again; this time
perhaps it is a flower in bloom, its scent hinting at the presence of
nectar, advertising its need for pollination. It was fascinating to
watch the exquisite little bundle of life, and I could see every
detail of its feathered body, I could feel its heartbeat, I followed
the rythmic motion of its wings flapping in synchrony, its tail
serving to steer and balance at the same time. There was no message in
its existence, and as I realized the senselessness of the demand for
the meaning of life by ossified minds, I felt a strange kinship
towards my avian friend...''
Three days ago, a patient was admitted to the ward. Evidently
he was suffering from severe depression. He used to be a dancer in a
Broadway show, before he was fired six months ago for being rude and
giving unsolicited advice to the director. As is usually the case, the
onset of mania was quite sudden and apparently without any obvious
reason. At home he mistreated his wife, and made life difficult for
her with his tense and irritable demeanor. Then he left to live with
his father, who also suffered from similar symptoms, though not quite
that degree. There, however, his condition steadily deteriorated , and
finally he accepted hospitalization. Although he received a dose of
tranquilizer, he spent the night disrupting the ward, and in the
morning, signed out against medical advice. That was two days ago....
Yesterday we learnt that he had committed suicide. Interestingly, the
cause of death was unknown. One would have thought that he had passed
away in his sleep had it not been for the note found in his clenched
hands, in which he stated that he was committing suicide of his own
free will.
The description of the bird in the garden was one of the many
remarkable entries we found in his diary, each of them revealing an
intensity of perception and heightened awareness which a prejudiced
mind would have thought him incapable of possessing. It has been
observed that manic-depressives are talented or even endowed with
genius. Perhaps, as some suggest, the extreme swings of mood and the
accompanying changes of outlook may give rise to creativity. The same
emotional fluctuations often lead manic-depressives to exhibit
suicidal tendencies, and their spark of creativity is prematurely
extinguished , perhaps an indication of the inherent instability of
creativity itself. If I were allowed to speculate, I might say that
creativity is a local revolution against mental entropy; but that is
the philosopher's job, and henceforth I shall withhold myself from
trespassing into the realm of his investigations.
How did he come by his death? That is an interesting question,
but his diary is mute upon that point, understandably so. Perhaps if
the fleeting images of his thoughts in the moments prior to his death
were captured by an invisible scribe , they might read like this...
`` I am on the shore of a mighty ocean, a silent observer, dwarfed by
its magnificence to an insignificant speck . The waves are rushing to
pounce upon the beach, then receding to muster all their strength and
prepare for a fresh assault with renewed determination. But deep below
the raging surface, there is an undercurrent, signifying confidence
and purpose. This, I recognize to be my mind, my conciousness
witnessing the various activities going on in it. I am now lying down,
with the suicide note in my hand, and have willed myself to death. The
waves are subsiding gradually , and now the surface is disturbed only
by tiny ripples. I feel my breath to be a tenuous thread connecting me
with life. Deep down, on the ocean floor, a dormant volcano is about
to wake up, and if it did, its tremors would create a tidal wave of
uncontrollable fury. This is my innermost survival instinct rebelling
against the sentence I have placed upon myself, but it vanished as
soon as I recognised its identity. Now the ocean is completely
stagnant, its surface mirroring the blue sky above. Suddenly, there
are clouds floating across the sky, their reflections skimming the
ocean surface. These are the images of various people, cherished,
forgotten or vanished memories , the faces, sights, sounds and smells
that I had hoarded in my unconcious. They are of no value to me
anymore. Of what use are dead memories to a dead man? My breath has
stopped and the heart has followed suit. Now there is just the calm
ocean, and a clear blue sky , both merging together in the horizon.
There is no more division between the mind and the conciousness; they
are one. Only I exist. ''