Berekiah Freid came about from nothing, like all people, but he wasn't concieved of sperm and egg, exactly...more of imaginative seed and a lonely little girl who had nothing to do but dream of future children who could never be. I never thought I'd meet anyone remotely Berekiah. And in the end, Berekiah wasn't my son, but Sibyl Freid's. And Sibyl Freid was the lonely little girl who tossed away her present and her past for a future that never would exist.
I guess I lied. Sibyl is me in a way. Not in most, but in the most fundamental. Caught up in dreams, living them with false hope, loving everyone and no one...but mostly loving specific people in the ways in which they can never love me back. Anyhow, I transcended the part of me that would shut out reality. Sibyl Freid took that on and I wrote her and her children as if there would be no tomorrow in hope that yesterday will never be forgotten. So I made Sibyl Freid fall in love with her children, like any mother should, but I made her children fall in love with each other in too many ways so that they drive each other mad and into oblivion.
The funny thing is, I did meet a Berekiah. No, he didn't fall in love with his sister, but he is like him in so many ways. When I speak to him, it's as if I'm speaking to that child of my creation. Someone who is only supposed to exist on the page and in my mind. I can't explain it. It's almost as if he's a character from In Pursuit of Wind. It's almost as if he's Berekiah, the kind of person who shouldn't be real and usually isn't. But the creator (who would be me) should always preceed the created, and this is not the case. Which is even more Berekiah-like. Because Time is irrelevant to him.
Does the world fall upon his shoulders, unwarranted, just as it does for Berekiah? I don't know. But it seems to. And he chooses it. And intrigues me, just because of this--how life passes into his hands and out, and how he writes it down and goes on and turns off and turns on according to nothing. But the nothing is something and it doesn't make sense. In the end, Berekiah is everywhere...nowhere, except where he's always been: on the uncatchable wind of the fragments in the kaleidoscope of figments of the imagination.
"Will I ever catch it?" I asked.
"Catch what?"
"The wind? Will I ever catch the wind, Doctor?"
"No. It can only catch you."
"How do I break away?"
"Go inside."
I laughed as the clouds shifted and a sunbeam fell on me.
"I'm in the doorway," I said. "And all I see is the World."
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