Time for me is unmoving, a dead sea in which there are no waves. This stillness of time is a result of my own stillness within space, I have known nothing but the interior of my castle for about three days. Feeling no desire to travel through social space, I was compelled to stay within the confines of my abode, and the unmoving sea, with its cold stillness, has presented me with the gift of self reflection.
When one is in this state of self reflection it is advised not to be within social space, for it is a truly exhausting experience when he must watch every word escape from his mouth and flutter like autumn leaves into a box of regret. As this box fills up he is always conscious of his manner, where he rests his gaze, his posture, and the way his garments rests upon his shoulders. This is not reflecting as part of a real existence, when one looks in retrospect, after the event. Rather, it is in the moment, reflecting as one goes along, swimming in a tumultuous sea of worry, simultaneous to the event.
Thus, I have remained in the castle from the moment I noticed the symptoms, for one simply cannot survive socially when struck down with such an ailment. I know not what to do, for this illness of mine seems unrelenting, and I cannot stay here forever. At moments such as this, I tend to think about the Ice King. I wonder how he would deal with such situations. I picture him sitting in that cardboard box with a calm exterior and stolid expression, internally tending to his bitterness while showing absolutely no sign of the chaos I imagine to be within him. Perhaps he owes it all to that cardboard box, it may regulate his bitterness, which means it may regulate my self reflection. Perhaps my desperation has caused me to latch onto any absurd thing to find a solution, but it is certainly worth a try.
I manage to find a cardboard box, it seems a bit small but I don’t have any others so I’m going to have to settle. I place one foot in it, and then the other, and slowly crouch down into the box. I’m barely in it when it starts to rip and I find myself on an unintentionally fashioned raft that separates the floor and I. Sitting on my makeshift raft, floating in unregulated self reflecting waters, I decide to leave the castle to go the Ice Palace. I need to communicate with someone, and I come upon the realisation that, in my current state, the Ice King is the only person I can speak to.
A teapot of green tea brews as I stare into the blank eyes of the Ice King. I have been telling him about this illness of mine, my inability to leave the castle, and my short-lived adventure in the cardboard box. I was sure I noticed the faint trace of a wry smile when I recounted the last story. He sits there now, pondering something, turning it over in his head like one turns a pear drop over in their mouth. “Do you think it’s something you ate?” he asks, pouring green tea into both our cups, “something I ate?”
“I remember you telling me that you once felt this way after eating pesto.”
At this moment the Ice King resembles a strange combination of my doctor and some sort of detective, a premise for an abysmal Eighties television programme. “Yes I did feel the same self reflection when I had eaten the pesto, but it only lasted for a short period of time, this has lasted for about three days..” I say as steam rises from my cup. The Ice King takes a sip from his before saying, “I’m not so sure if the self reflective nature of pesto can indeed be measured so concretely in time..”
He has a point. I breathe in the pleasant aroma of the tea, I begin to feel better as the floral fragrance of jasmine envelopes me, filling me with undertones of optimism. Being in social space doesn’t seem as traumatic as it did an hour ago. However, I am not completely cured. As I get up to leave the Palace, the Ice King says, “I’d go for the red pesto next time if I were you,” that faint trace of a smile appears again. I smile and leave the Palace, slightly bewildered at the possibility that the Ice King might have actually made a joke.
Once I get back to the castle I go straight into the kitchen for I stopped off at the supermarket on the way and need to take out the items I bought. I carefully take each item out of the bag and place them on the work surface. Olive oil, garlic, pine nuts, parmesan cheese and basil. I start to feel slightly nervous, for although I find all these things pleasant, I am uncertain of what effect they will have on me, as they the ingredients for pesto. If it is indeed pesto that has struck me down with this self reflective illness then perhaps the only way of being cured is to understand it, deconstruct the nature of it and immerse myself in its process.
After chopping the basil leaves, I put them in a food processor along with the olive oil, three cloves of garlic, a few tablespoons of pine nuts, some parmesan and salt and pepper before blending the ingredients together. The aroma exudes from the blender and wraps itself around me, making me feel slightly nauseous. I empty the contents into a jar and close it, staring at the very thing that has kept me in the castle these last few days. Ironically, I can’t seem to make out my reflection in the jar.
I am uncertain if I have been completely cured, but I understand pesto a little better. I think I can see past its neutrality now, for I know of the individual components that it is comprised of and how it comes to be.
I stare at the pile of invitations that have not been replied to (describing it as a pile endows me with a false sense of popularity. The ‘pile’ consists of no more than two invitations) I decide to go a concert that Disappointman has invited me to. Perhaps the only way to know if I am cured is to immerse myself in social space again.
Disappointman arrives at the venue, he’s half an hour late, but I expected him to be later. His powers must be wavering. I hand him the jar of pesto I made because I know he likes it, he drops it on the floor by accident. Luckily the jar hasn’t cracked and I am safe from the self reflection inducing aroma.
“Ah homemade! Fantastic. Did you grow the basil too? You have a basil plant right?”
“No it’s shop-bought basil, the plant died a few months ago,” Disappointman nods sympathetically, this nodding blends into a dance. I decide to join him.
I’m in a stream of dancing couples, embracing as they float gracefully. It is proving difficult to move with such grace, I’m finding it hard to move my limbs, their rigidity cuts through the gentle flow. I am aware of every movement I make, and each of these movements is attached to regret. As I move awkwardly I start to feel guilty about the basil plant that had wilted and died as a result of my failure to water it. It had been completely removed from my memory. Maybe that’s when it all started, perhaps the guilt within me had manifested as self reflection when I ate pesto. Perhaps I’m making excuses for my awful dancing.
I sit down, staring at the dancing stream, hoping that I too might float gracefully through it one day.
*
It’s a Sunday morning, thus begins that day of reflection. Part of my maintaining a real existence involves looking back at the week’s events to anchor myself in uncertain seas. To be honest, I think I’ve been reflecting a bit too much of late, and have grown tiresome of the whole business. I walk into the kitchen and boil some water. I pour myself a cup of jasmine tea and breathe in the sweet fragrance of optimism. Sunlight pours in, washing over me as sprouting basil leaves emerge to meet it.
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