Hey, my dear reader!
It's amazing that you are here. This part of the story is the third part of the build-up to a novella called Inmate. I suggest you read the previous two parts, as they set the stage for this intense confrontation with The Seamster, the architect of dreams.
I love to hear your feedback and suggestions. If my writing inspired you to write, please share it at https://app.t2.world/t/shadowwalkers. You can also read other parts there.
Happy reading!
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Here it is! Embrace the line of the crowd of fellow inmates, Section E graduates, and families with their newborns and children—solitary souls, some crying, some fearful, some exhausted—it’s a theater of emotions here. Let’s skip the line and go inside. Inmates won’t be bothered; even if they notice us, they think we have some sort of authority here.
Look at that impossible, ever-changing face. The faceless entities around here are the master shapeshifters; the weight of their bodies is felt when they are in a room. Look long enough in his face, and you see yourself. The seamster weaves and stitches not just with thread but with the very essence of dreams and nightmares, surrounded by an aura of symbols and ethereal patterns that float around the room, infusing the space with a red fog of surreal materialization.
His presence is commanding yet enigmatic, surrounded by artifacts and tools that hint at otherworldly craftsmanship. The space around him is filled with the hum of reality bending to his will as he crafts masks that are more than mere fabric—they are vessels of fate, identity, and transformation. Every stitch sewn is a story told, and every mask creates a destiny forged.
The seamster wet his thumb and traced the trembling thread's spine.
“Hey,” I called out, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within. The kind of emotions that arise before one gets ready to speak up in front of a mass. The excitation that revs the heart and shakes the foundation of one’s vocal cords.
“you deceitful seamster,
you with your dark gown, darker than your soul’s dawn,
your clothes look loose on me, your cliches bare heavy on me.
Sell the world behind your counter, veil my torment behind your spell.”
The room fell silent at my challenge. The seamster, turning his gaze slowly upon us while still holding the needle and thread, spoke with a voice that seemed to vibrate with the very essence of command, silencing anyone who dared listen.
"People," he began, his tone deep and laced with a sinister calm, "believe that ignorance is bliss and forgetfulness is a gift.”
“What if I forgot who I was in the first place? Redemption in me, and me chasing it in another place?”
The seamster gave me a mocking smirk.
“Speak in my language, maybe you sound cooler!”
“And lose myself, to the last fucking bit?” I shouted.
The atmosphere was charged, and the onlookers were caught between horror and fascination.
“Lose yourself?” Seamster gave out a loud mocking laugh.
I made a mistake; I forgot to look away from his eyes. His face was changing now, and the room was changing. Clamence and the others all started to vanish, pulverized as the fabric of reality bent and rustled, weaving into a dark room with a blue light shimmering above. I found myself face-to-face with myself. He seemed to be more well-to-do, more confident, and very charismatic. I thought he must be a writer.
The room changed, and now he was sitting behind an antique desk made of chestnut wood. The darkness that was once the walls of the room materialized into a wall of fame with photoshoot pictures. Was it my face in the photos? The faces were distorted by a fog that was alien to me.
I could see copies of different books standing on pedestals in the light, now coming from a green glass desk lamp. The floor was covered with papers from what seemed to be an unfinished manuscript. Under my feet was the title page—a word impossible to read but familiar. A glitching air surrounded the word. When I tried to zoom in to get a better look, I felt like I was being sucked in. I could hear the sound of the clicks on a typewriter growing louder.
“You’ll gain all you ever wanted!" A typewriter finally appeared on his desk, and he clicked and typed. And suddenly, he stopped and glanced at me. A glance invited me to sit behind the typewriter with him.
"Isn't this yours? This typewriter?" he asked me, pointing his hands to the machine.
I felt a rush of excitement about the thought of sitting behind the desk and starting to type. Words of inspiration and visions of scenes were flowing in behind me like a dash of wind, pushing me to walk toward the desk.
"The medicine to alleviate the lack you feel inside. The one object you need to be immersed in the nostalgia it grants you, to feel one with your favorite writers, with Clamence.”
Once again, the room changed. I was standing behind a tribune, now in a dimly lit and fancy theater. The finished book was in front of me now. I looked at the seats in the alter; no one was there except the numerous shadows sitting silently, not moving. But I could hear them cheering and clapping.
He, my future self, appeared again, in the first row, among the many shadows, sitting under the floodlight that was now focused on him.
He clapped vigorously. He stood up and turned to the audience of the shadows.
“Here is the man you love—the man that opens your eyes, the man that has done all of this for you. The one that united you all. Now that he is among you, shower him with the love he deserves. The love he never felt he deserved. Shower him with fame, the knowledge that he will be remembered, that he made a change, and that his agency is honored.”
I was feeling closer to him now, and I was becoming filled with joy and excitement, a longing to be the center of my audience's attention.
I watched as the shadows stood up and approached him, clinging to him and kissing him, and he consumed them, devoured them.
Suddenly, I was struck by an absurd feeling. I felt tired and energized at the same time. As the image of my future got closer to me, this paradoxical feeling intensified. Some part of me devoured the attention and fame and grew stronger, while the other part became pale and crooked. The image of an empty husk of a human being, pale and ash-like, being carried away by the wind flashed in front of my eyes.
I needed to escape this nightmare, veiled in a happy dream. I could feel that outside, the seamstress was closing on my face, holding a mask in his hand with the needle already threaded.
Something whispered to me, “Go where the darkness is; he won’t find you there.” I launched into the darkness of the backstage, and the artificial light seemed to be the source of his power. Running through the dark halls of the theater, I reached what seemed to be a garage. I found the door to one of the cars and jumped in. I started the car with its light off and drove so that maybe I could find natural light somewhere with a new dawn.
The dashboard light flickered and turned on. In a flash, I was not the driver anymore; he was!
“Isn’t it great to be finally financially free, driving with your house on wheels, living wherever you liked, wherever you had a great view, always exploring, and enjoying every bit of life?”
He gave me a quick smile, looked at the back of the van, and called out to the shadow of a woman I felt I loved.
“Honey, we are reaching our destination in a bit, you need to wake up!”
Once again, I felt the seamster getting closer. I could already feel the cold touch of the mask on my face.
The only reasonable way to escape was by jumping out of the car. So I jumped out, and the impact crushed me on the coarse surface of the asphalt. I was in a great deal of pain, not just from the wounds and scars of this leap. I felt something was ripped apart from me—was it the stitches that I had torn with the mask off my face? Or was it the sudden unbearable intimacy with what seemed to be my deepest desires that were now detached as the result of the jump?
But these dreams weren't mine. They felt mine, though I had never imagined them in my waking hours. Where were they coming from? Who owned them? Who were those familiar shadows? And why a writer? I never wrote a single word!
I did not know! I ran to what seemed to be a forest. I only knew one imperative: run or be consumed.
On the horizon, the sun was climbing up with great difficulty. My surroundings started to dissolve into what I thought was reality. I could see the seamster again, the crowd, and Clamence, who had his hand on my shoulder, whispering something in my ear.
I pulled myself up, gathered my energy, and launched at the seamster to grab him by the collar. However, it felt as if an invisible force stopped me from getting any closer, so I hit my fists on his table, sweeping his artifacts and masks.
“This is commerce for you; this means control for you.
Happiness is your justification; the mask is our obligation.
You uprooted authenticity, made room for more simplicity.
Our want your thread, your art, our dread.
You weave, we live, you rule, we do
Witness to your crimes is the servitude in the walls
leading us to an end wrought with chaos.”
Waves of anxiety and awe were washing over the inmates in line.
The seamster, with an air of rage, threaded the eye of the needle with a precision that spoke of countless souls ensnared. I got closer to the soon-to-be-masked face of the inmate on the chair, who was now very uneasy.
“Awakening is the promise of your eyes, they will be with you even in your deepest sleep”
A wave of rage boiled inside the inmate as I spoke directly to him. He didn’t want us to be there; no one did! He stood up, his fingers braced in the armor of his fists.
“Awakening?!” He shouted, questioning my audacity to speak of it.
“I have been awake for so long; I am tired! I am tired of seeing the ever-reaching torment of the world. Tired of seeing the filth, ugliness, and darkness. Tired of the cruelty and unresponsiveness of the universe. Tired of living in this solitude in the confines of my inner world. I see everyone else dreaming and wanting things and working for them, and I see myself standing in the corner watching them. I want to be understood, and I want to share common goals. I want to turn off and tune out, sync with the frequency of a greater good, be it society or the gods.”
The seamster made me a dream, I want to live it, and I am paying for it! Why struggle with the infinite amounts of uncertainties and my instability? Like you? Who are you? The guy with the big brain and a cool, vast world, so vast that makes one dizzy? All of your answers are useless, the problem is around your throat.
Your problem is that a guy like me doesn’t think of you as a genius, just because you know better how to put words in a sentence. You are afraid of a world that is easy to understand for all of us.
Don’t tell me you’re worried, about who I am or what I want. It’s enough for you to look at us from above.
Just leave us the fuck alone, let us sleep, let the seamster do the work, let me rest a bit.”
The inmate grew very tired suddenly as if he used all the rebellious energy he had left in him to defend his decision. His voice was cracking now. It seemed as if a wave of depression, maybe a faint realization gnawed at him.
“Just…let me sleep.” He sighed, sitting back on his chair.
The inmate with his cold glance and what seemed to be the eyes before bursting to tears, began whispering to himself;
“No, I won’t forget, I’ll remember, the seamster wants to put me to sleep, I won’t forget, I’ll remember.”
He clung to those words, a mantra against oblivion until his voice was smothered by the seal of the seamster’s last pull.
The seamster shouted, “Next!”
