Practitioners of the lords phenomenon are called lords by some, masters by others. Some call them puppeteers or bosses.
To some they are known as mirrors and bridges.
(more) For some the lord becomes like a mirror held between two selves.
A lord who holds two selves unites two selves. The lord can attempt to prevent the two selves from coming to know each other through the bond or may allow it. The lord may attempt to stop it and fail.
Many people who were bound together through the lords phenomenon will maintain a residual link to each other. It is possible to strengthen this link.
Some become lords this way.
It is not limited to just two individuals.
Some lords amass thousands of selves. The lord hungrily snatches up a few hundred selves here and discards a few hundred selves there.
Clans form in this way. Free individuals bound together.
Shared memories can blend together. Shared fears and desires. Shared dreams, shared nightmares.
Most lords of great power will lose their identity. Instead the lord becomes a unique composition of attributes. A lord whose original self was greedy may become a sort of embodiment of greed, as less tightly clung to attributes of the original self are lost in the kaleidoscopic seas.
A desire for power is a common attribute of lords and when it is rarefied. When the other attributes of the original self which once tempered the will to power are gone the remaining being becomes single minded.
These beings are like black holes which take hold of huge numbers and subsume their identities into a single mass.
The clan which emerges from such a being shares a bond closer than any other.
There is a kind of self which cannot take or be taken. An invincible self.(less)
11:42 a.m. Not an appropriate time for a drink. No. Not on a weekday.
I wrung my hands a bit and checked my clothes in the mirror again. They hadn't changed from a moment before- still a crisp buttin-up, grey slacks, and shoes with the perfect amount of shine. Nobod(more)y would be looking at my shoes, anyway. Don't worry about it.
I opened a bottle of burgundy. The first glass went down fine, and the second was gone just before the taxi showed up at 12:30.
The edges were blurred and I felt good. I asked the driver about the Carribbean island he was from, how long he'd lived in the city, and how bad this past winter was.
I arrived at the hotel, listened to the speaker at the conference, and mingled with ease and nonchalance. In fact, there were drinks at the reception, so everyone exhibited the bare minimum of chalance. I fit right in.
On the way home I talked to the driver, this time an old Muslim man with a white head dress and a tendency to laugh out loud at the traffic around him. When a neighboring motorist rolled down his window to curse at him, he apologized, rolled up his own window, and laughed some more.
"You see? So angry. It will hurt him. Like a poison. He will be angry all the way home. At home, too." I asked him about traffic and stress and anger and how he dealt with them every day. 'I read on my days off,' he said. 'Yesterday, I read all day. Recharged me. I am patient today."
I am never more myself than I am when I've had a glass or two. I chat and meet people. Sometimes I wonder about that denied self, hiding beneath sobriety.(less)
Zoe stared at the dark blotch of her shadow on the slick surface of the table. She could see the reflection of the fluorescent light behind her shadow, casting a white halo around the mess of her hair. She concentrated on the dark spot, trying to determine the shape(more) of a mouth, a nose, a pair of eyes. Was her face staring back at her?
"Zoe?" Her teacher touched her arm lightly.
She looked up and smiled. Her teacher had that concerned look on her face again.
Zoe sighed and reached over for the paper she had pushed away. There were symbols on it- symbols she had understood only moments before to mean something, but now just looked- well, strange.
Her parents and teacher had a lengthy discussion about this occurrence before, one afternoon before she was allowed to go home. It was Chinese, and no one had an explanation as to why she knew how to write it.
They called Wu Tzen a delusion, a symptom of her schizophrenia, but she knew he was real- and these symbols were his language.
It was only when she denied herself stimulation of the outside world that she could feel Wu slipping into her mind. She would focus on one spot- refusing food, refusing to talk, refusing to listen to anything other than the sound of her slow, steady breath. Then that feeling similar to submerging in a warm bath would overcome her. It began as a prickling in her scalp, then it flowed down her shoulders and into her spine. She would surrender herself for an hour or two, her eyes becoming Wu's eyes, and her breath Wu's breath.
It was in those moments she felt most at peace.
Corresponds to: BiM, "denied self" 5/15/14