The Meshuggah of Subject 66. The Madness within.

Magnus Arthur had worked at the Asylum for ten years. He had seen it all in his line of work. The doctor studied deeply and feverishly, immersing himself in the uncharted depths of his patients minds. "Careful, you may one day become one of your patients", his colleagues would say cheerfully, smiling, yet with a genuine concern. For his dedication and long hours, poring over his cases, analyzing and annotating, consumed him with the genius of the zealot within.

The light of maniacal frenzy shone from his eyes.

The enigmatic, chameleon-like characteristic of the psyche...called Madness, begins with subtle signs, it's characters ripe with color and intrigue! Ever-shifting! But is madness what we conceive it to be. Those perceived as psychotic or insane see us as the crazy ones.

Maybe we are...For who among us knows for sure which side of the spectrum we truly exist within. The many sides to the human matrix may be just a matter of piercing through the thin veil between sanity, insanity and psychosis.

Thus we meet Doctor Magnus Arthur. A Protean Soul (tending or able to change frequently or easily).

In the dimly lit corridors of St. Avacyn of Innistrad Asylum (named for the Archangel of Madness), there exists a patient who defies all psychiatric norms. His name--well, that’s a matter for debate. The staff simply refer to him as “Subject 66", always guessing at the identities he embodies.

On different days of the the week he exhibits scholastic outbursts of learn-ed knowledge, indicative of one who is supposedly highly educated in both science and the arts.

.......

For the patient, Mondays become, "The thief of identities".

Mirror...mirror on the wall, he would ask, remembering the phrase from somewhere---are you real or am I. A face peers back which the looker does not understand.

To 66, the looking glass is a mocking gateway to introspection and perhaps a labyrinth of reflections for our enigmatic Subject.

When 66 stumbles upon a full-length mirror in the asylum’s dimly lit hallway, its ornate frame, chipped and faded, it seemed to whisper secrets. And as he gazes into its silvery depths, he ponders his Reflection.

66 stands tall, robes draped like a philosopher of old. His eyes, ancient forgotten pools, meet their twin in the glass. For a moment, he believes he’s found a kindred spirit---a sage from another dimension, perhaps. They exchange nods, as if sharing cosmic insights.

The mirrored reflection becomes Socrates, he raises an eyebrow. Asks the outer self a loaded question.

“You quote Heraclitus, yet you’re lost in your own labyrinth. Are you questioning his assertion, that the world exists as a coherent system in which change in one direction is ultimately balanced by a corresponding change in another"?

Subject 66 frowns. “Am I both the questioner and the questioned".

The mirror-Socrates smirks. “And therein lies your paradox".

..........

Tuesday

The Mischievous Imp meets His Reflection.

He becomes Puck, the mischievous Shakespearean sprite, grinning back at 66, mischief dancing in his eyes. He winks at the starer, expecting a conspiratorial chuckle.

But 66 frowns. “You’re a caricature, a jest".

“If I am the jest, then so are you". Puck retorts, miming an elaborate bow.

"Careful now sir. For you insult my intelligence".

Mirror-Puck leans closer. “Beware, for jesters often reveal truth".

......

The Brooding Artist - vs. His Reflection

Wednesday.

Charcoal-stained fingers trace the mirror’s surface. The tortured landscapes stare back...twisted trees, stormy seas.

Mirror-Frida Kahlo raises her unibrow. “Art is your asylum".

“And madness", Subject 66 whispers.

“Perhaps", she says, “but art births catharsis".

"Ah, Frieda my dear, would if there be that relief and release from our repressed emotions".

She concurs, nodding sadly.

.........

The Paranoid Detective on day 4 makes an appearance. His Reflection cynical.

Thursday.

Subject 66 inspects the mirror’s edges for hidden cameras. “They watch"!

Mirror-Sherlock scoffs. “You’re the conspiracy".

“I am the cipher", he counters.

“Then, pray Decrypt yourself, for you bore me immensely”, huffs mirror-Sherlock. Annoyed with the triviality of madness.

For Holmes too, on many occasions has been branded mentally unstable. Yet they knew not the method in his Meshuggah.

........

The Romantic Idealist reflects on love's enigmatic fickleness.

Friday.

Cravat adjusted, Subject 66 serenades the mirror. “Love transcends dimensions".

Mirror-Keats raises an eyebrow. “Or delusions".

“I am both poet and fool", 66 admits.

“Then Write your own sonnet", mirror-Keats suggests.

66 grabs quill and parchment. He concurs.

......

The Zen Gardener seeks answers in nature on a lovely Saturday morning.

Scissors in hand, Subject 66 trims imaginary Bonsai branches.

Mirror-Mr. Miyagi nods approvingly. “Balance, young grasshopper".

“I am the pruner", 66 murmurs.

“Prune your soul", mirror-Miyagi advises, for 66 had missed all the thorny rose bushes.

........

The Blank Slate on day seven is lost, confused and inconsoleable.

Sunday’s void stares back---a mirror within a mirror, infinity folding.

Within the resounding silence, the subject ponders every personality within the timeline combined. They all blend into someone whom he desperately tries to harness into one single entity.

“Who am I?” Subject 66 whispers.

Mirror-Nothingness replies, “You are the question".

“And the answer”?

“That, my friend, is your new journey".

And so, Subject 66 leaves the mirror, each reflection etched into his psyche. Is he fractured or whole? Perhaps both. But one thing is certain: mirrors reveal what we dare not see...a papier mache of selves, waiting to merge or shatter.

Seek your own reflection.

.............

What the observers actually see.

On a new Monday morning, Subject 66 emerges from his room with a serene countenance. His eyes, deep pools of ancient wisdom, seem to hold secrets from epochs past. He quotes obscure philosophers, recites poetry in dead languages, and gazes at the sky as if deciphering cosmic riddles. The nurses whisper, “He’s channeling Socrates today".

Tuesday, that Mischievous Imp dawns, and Subject 66 is unrecognizable. His laughter echoes through the common room. He wears mismatched socks and dances a jig, twirling an invisible partner. His vocabulary shifts to slang, and he regales fellow patients with absurd anecdotes. “Call me Puck,” he declares, winking. The staff sigh, “Midsummer Night’s Dream, clearly".

On the third day, the Brooding Artist Wednesday arrives, and Subject 66 dons a beret. He sketches feverishly, charcoal smudging his fingertips. His room becomes a gallery of tortured landscapes...stormy seas, twisted trees, and faces half-hidden in shadow. When asked about his muse, he murmurs, “Van Gogh, my dear. Or perhaps Frida Kahlo". The art therapist nods knowingly.

The Paranoid Detective, on Thursday awakens and Subject 66 barricades himself in his room. He rearranges furniture, convinced of hidden microphones. His eyes dart, scanning for coded messages in wallpaper patterns. “The Illuminati", he whispers, scribbling cryptic notes. The psychiatrist sighs, “Sherlock Holmes meets Mulder from ‘The X-Files".

When the Romantic Idealist Friday arrives, Subject 66 wears a cravat. He serenades the moon from the courtyard, reciting sonnets to an imaginary lover. His heartache is palpable; he believes he’s lost a soulmate across parallel dimensions. “Keats would understand", he murmurs. The night nurse rolls her eyes, “Or maybe just a dash of ‘Twilight".

On day 6: The Zen Gardener Saturday blooms, and Subject 66 cultivates bonsai trees. He trims leaves with precision, whispering affirmations to each miniature forest. “Balance”, he intones. His room smells of damp earth and tranquility. The occupational therapist muses, “Zen master meets Mr. Miyagi".

Sunday arrives as a Blank Slate, and Subject 66 retreats. His eyes lose focus; he becomes a cipher. No name, no history. The staff watches, helpless. Is this the truest version of him? Or merely a void where personalities collide?

And so, the days cycle...a repetitive matrix of selves. Psychiatrists theorize: dissociative identity disorder, perhaps, or a cosmic glitch in the matrix. But Subject 66 remains inscrutable, a living Möbius strip of personas, a one sided, half-twisted end of a rectangular strip, with one end affixed.

As for me, I wonder: What if he’s not fractured but whole? What if he’s the embodiment of humanity’s collective madness...the sum of all our masks? Maybe, just maybe, Subject 66 is the sanest of us all.

"Doctor Arthur, doctor Arthur...open your eyes...on the count of three. One. Two. Three". Snap!

Magnus opens his eyes, violently trying to jerk upright in his bed.

"Where is my patient"? he asks, perceiving the restraints on his hands and feet.

"What patient"? Someone asks.

"Patient 66".

"Doc, you are patient 66".

The doctor looks around the room, sterile...with machines clicking everywhere. Bound to the bed...he remembers...vaguely...when the madness had slowly started to creep in.

.................................................

Is Subject 66 a tragic puzzle or a product of an over stressful cosmic life. And which personality would you like to meet on your visit to the asylum?