The gallant knight slew the beast with his mighty sword... The old factory was now just a shell full of dead bodies and rats... He knew he had to kill him or risk blowing his cover... Inspiration didn't come easily to Jeremy Garrison.  

Ideas of his were either too bland or had been done countless times before. He had written a few short stories of which he was proud, but he wanted to get the theme of his debut novel perfect. He wanted to create one of the great literary masterpieces so he would be remembered forever. He always considered himself a pessimistic optimistic. He aimed high but knew that most the time the outcome is average. He thought that was karma in a way. There are so many people in the World that the net good and bad deeds balance out. If people were being reincarnated continuously, eventually each individual person's would probably be approximately zero. Jeremy was always thinking about little things like that. He was very analytical, which wasn't helpful when he wanted to be a fiction author. He just couldn't make things up. He wrote his karma theory down in his notebook. He liked to record things because he hated the idea of things being temporary or being forgotten like thoughts. His head was an empty forest and his thoughts were trees falling. He had filled half a notebook with ideas and scenarios that he hoped to use in his novel. Many of his ideas had been written during the night when most people are sleeping. Jeremy wished he had that luxury, but his thoughts kept him awake most nights. Most of the things written when tired made no sense at all. "Maybe sleep is a journey to another dimension with universal laws that our waking mind's can't fathom." That was one of the more coherent things written late at night in his book. He didn't believe it, but he might be able to use a quote like that in his book. The latest note written in his notebook was a proposal of a method of indefinite life. "You could connect a brain up to a simulation of real life or even a better life and have it powered by cosmic radiation, while encased in the strongest container imaginable. It could be sent into outer space to allow that brain to live on after the ultimate destruction of the planet. It may eventually meet a black hole or melt when approaching a star, but if it doesn't, it would theoretical last until the destruction of the universe." He closed his book and sighed.

Jeremey thought again of his book. He thought that the setting and concept of a book were secondary to the style of writing and that a good author could write a good book about any subject, but Jeremey wasn't confident he had a enough skill as a writer to rely solely on his style. The one thing Jeremey did have in abundance was time.  A shy boy with few friends, Jeremy never went out much, apart from school. His courses were mostly essay-based and he could knock out a two pages of essay one-handed while snacks in about an hour. Despite his prowess for analysing texts, he just couldn't write decent fiction. He could never find the right words to describe things with passion and instead his work sounded like he'd just copied loads of words from a dictionary. He could paint an accurate picture in the reader's head, but he always felt he was using a Biro to describe an oil painting. He also struggled with appropriate metaphors. He thought his always seemed inelegant and forced.

Not helping Jeremy's book or loneliness was his virtually contant self-imposed solitary confinement . Though he had a lot of time to write, he hadn't experienced anything to write about. Every day he would say he is going out to do something, even just go for a walk, but he never actually did. He knew he was pathetic. In his 17 years out the womb, he'd never stolen a chocolate bar, never got so drunk he passed out, never been abroad, and only kissed one girl. The lack of a experience with girls bothered him the most. He knew the situation was pathetic, but not attending parties, there was little he could do. He couldn't go to parties now because after not going ever before, it'd be obvious something had going on. He thought people might get suspicious, but also thought that a bunch of drunk people wouldn't notice or care, but it was one of those things that he couldn't do. The thought of asking a girl out at school was out of the question due to cowardice. He felt like he couldn't experience the real joys in life and had to rely on trivial things to make him happy like finding a pound coin or completing a video game on the hardest difficulty. He sometimes thought he might have depression but he thought that depression was sadness without a cause, and he knew why he was sad. He wasn't even sad that often, and it's only when he remembers the effects of time and the ultimate conclusion that he worried that he hasn't made the most out of his life. The worst thing for him was that he was young enough to turn his life around, but he knew he wouldn't. He often felt something compelling him to go to parties and talk to girls, but he just ignored it.

Jeremy began to thing again of his space brain. Technology, real or fictional, fascinated him. The only reason he would watch sci-fi films was to see giant space lasers being fired and people teleported. He was of the opinion that mankind defying the natural world with technology was much more interesting than mankind defying each other. He didn't watch many films for that reason. Occassionally a film would come along which he would see, but that wasn't often. The thing he liked about technology was it's predictablility, whereas as people are mysterious. He didn't like the unknown, but he knew he probably wouldn't like the truth either. He rested his book of ideas down on his desk. Deep down, Jeremy knew that he would never use any of the ideas or write a book, but he continued to write down his thoughts as a sense of duty. He didn't like leaving things half finished - it was just unfortunate for him that this project would take his whole life. I suppose he did have some hope that maybe his life had purpose, but maybe his mind was lying to him to make him feel slightly better. He thought about the mind for a while. He thought about how his thoughts are pointless and that everyone is pointless because the universe will cease to exist. He was feeling low. He often thought about suicide, but he never thought he had any intention of doing it. It was just to scare himself out of his mood.

All his woes stemmed from a fear of death. He was laying down and thinking about everything. He though about his panic attacks that he gets when he considers that he one day may not exist and how he was thinking about how he sometimes feels that  if he confronted his fear, his fears would go away, but the only way to face the fear would be to die. He says to himself that he knows for a fact that this is our only life, but he is lying even to himself. He knows that part of him thinks there's more to this realm than what is apparent. He has hope that there is more to existence than life on Earth.

Hope is just another abstract concept like Heaven or love, he reasons, so maybe not everything is as straightforward as it seems. He knows he can't convince himself. He's had this conversation over and over again. It's like part of his mind is constantly active dedicated to proving the existence of an afterlife, because he knows that is the only thing in life that will make him truly happy. He was thinking about life and how people say it's about the journey. He wished he could think like that, but he can't help but look ahead to the future. He laid in bed thinking about his panic attacks and how they must be how someone feels if they're on a crashing plain or if they have a gun to their head. That fear would be justified five seconds before death, but what about five minutes? What about five years? The panic attacks are just a human reaction to the inevitable. He knows his private apocalypse is coming, so he can't fully enjoy life knowing at any moment his life could end. It would be like if at some point in the future, all food was suddenly lethal. You would fear food and you could never enjoy eating knowing you might die as a result. Technically, Death wasn't Jeremy's only fear, though - things that may cause death also made Jeremey uneasy. He knew that everything has potential to kill. but liked to think he was logical in his fears. He would probably go skydiving for example but not play Russian roulette. His tired brain whirred as he considered that there must be a point at which an activity becomes too dangerous and beyond that, most people wouldn't attempt it. He was thinking about maths again. If the odds of survival for defeating a demon were 51%, one would probably expect to live, albeit without much certainy. If one had to defeat another a demon, the odds once again being 51% of success, one would expect to succeed. If you carry on ad inifinitum treating each event individually, you wouldn't expect to die. Jeremy was too tired by this point to write that idea down, even though he thought is was interesting. He would probably think of it again, anyway. Thinking about probability made a change from the usual topic of a night time.

Jeremy was asleep, but his mind was still active, he just wasn't aware of it. In any living person, the mind is always active regulating breathing and heartbeat, but maybe it could do more? Maybe the subconscious is able to think on its own. It regularly produces dreams, so maybe with enough time and the right inputs, the subconscious human mind could create create cures for diseases or pieces of music without any interference from the conscious mind. Jeremy was unaware as he slept. 

He was at home writing his book. He was surprised and pleased he had actually started it.

Jeremy then woke up. He quickly realised hadn't started his book. He was annoyed and went back to sleep.

Once again, he awoke. It was starting to get light outside, but Jeremy had several more hours of sleep left. He rolled over and bumped his arm on his bed. He pretended it hadn't hurt, even though he was the only person there. He had been having conversations in his head a lot lately. They were essentially normal thoughts spoken in his head as if it was a dialogue. He wondered if he was going mad, just having a laugh with himself or maybe he was faking a mental illness to seem interesting. He thought he was just messing about because the conversations in his head were like an old Vaudevillian double act. He was neither of them. His arm injury drew his attention to his bed. It was designed to look like a formula one racing car and Jeremy had had it since he first left the crib about 15 years ago. His Mum wanted to get rid of it, but he couldn't bring himself to, even though it was too small for him and incredibly embarrassing if he ever had a friend round. Luckily, he once thought, that wasn't much of an issue for him. He often made jokes. He'd heard that comedy is a defense mechanism and he felt it was was true in his case, but he didn't know from what he was defending himself. Maybe it was just his way of trying to forget about impending death which seems to drive every emotion and thought in the deadman. He turned in his bed again. It was comfortable if nothing else. He was drifting off to sleep as his mind leapt from one topic to another seemingly random topic like only a tired mind can. A noise woke him and his thoughts were about his bed again. He wondered how he had become sidetracked, as his subsconscious retraced the mental steps along the path just travelled and finally arrived at thoughts of death. Jeremy grinned at the predictability of his mind leading him back to death, yet again. Realising he had become sidetracked for a second time, he  went back to thinking about the bed. It was only a bed. Could beds even have sentimental value attached? He felt mad for wanting to keep the bed. He was treating it like a person who he didn't want to see die. He felt like he was acting superstitious in wanting to keep it. Part of him came to the conclusion that sentimental value is just an example of man's superstition. If you have something for any length of time, you assume it must be helpful, even if it's obviously not like a child's bed. The bed was to go. 

Jeremy walked to school. It was about a mile. He was thinking about how he would create the perfect country. He thought that one day he might stand up for what he believed and start an armed revolution. For someone so greatly afraid of death, he thought a lot about being a hero. Of course, his heroic thoughts were just an escape from reality. Usually he would save a girl and get a non-lethal injury. His fantasies rarely even culminated in sex with the girl. He just liked being helpful and liked. He would have been more helpful in reality if he wasn't afraid to offer help. He didn't want to seem like a know-it-all or patronising, so he normally just kept quiet. He started to think about his book. He always got excited when he thought about the idea. He tried to think of a good concept when he glanced beside the road at a dead fox. Another reminder. He thought about how the book could be a study into death and the afterlife considering he's always thinking about it anyway. He thought of writing a book presented as though it's fact while the content is actually fictional. The idea appealed to him because he could just present the facts without having to think up a story or use elegant language. He mulled it over and then those thoughts turned sour as they lead to a panic attack. He thought of a happy future with a wife and kids to try to forget the attack. He always thought of that to stop his panic attacks, and it always seemed to work. Jeremy decided the book might genuinely drive him to suicide so he binned that idea.

Jeremy was a few minutes early at school because he really didn't like being late due to all the hassle. He didn't mind school because he got to see some of his friends. He was happy with them around. The day passed with nothing much happening. School was one of the few things that kept Jeremy and his mind occupied without it drifting over to the fields of alien technology or mortality. Jeremy had arranged to go to his mate's Paul's house after school. Jeremy felt a sense of accomplishment in arranging it. He joked with himself that the benefit of often being regularly sad is that it doesn't take much to make you happy. Jeremy met Paul by the gate and they went home together. They talked about school and video games and alike. Jeremy mentioned his Mum had got rid of his old bed but not got a new one so he'd be sleeping on the couch. Paul inivited him to stay at his for a night. Jeremy accepted. This was an adventure to him. 

Paul and Jeremy spent most of the evening playing Xbox. Though Jeremy was enjoying himself, he felt like he shouldn't be messing about with games and should focus on his book. A while later, Paul asked Jeremy how his writing was coming along. Jeremy explained his lack of inspiration. Paul said that he always writes his best lyrics while on acid. Jeremy was worried. He instantly thought about dying, but the back of his mind wanted to try it. Paul sensed his apprehension and explained it was perfectly safe. This was the sort of thing Jeremy needed - not only for the book, but to break up the repetition of his life. 

The pair sat on the sofa and each took a blotter. They just spoke for an hour before Paul said his was kicking in. Soon after, Jeremy felt strange. He became agitated and started thinking about death. He began really thinking hard about it. It was too much and he had a panic attack. He couldn't stop it. Paul did the best he could to calm Jeremy down, but Jeremy collapsed to the floor. Jeremy was still thinking, but he was't the one thinking. He was having thoughts but they weren't coming from him. He just listened to the thoughts. They weren't like his own thoughts; they were happy. For the first time in over 10 years, Jeremy actually felt happy. He thought about death and didn't even care. The thoughts which were now his explained that the mind is separate from the brain, and exists in a universe of external bliss. The brain is just a simple machine controlled by the mind. The mind is unbounded by possibility and is free to explore all possibilities once the brain has died. Then voice trailed off and then there was silence. He shouted hello, and the same voice replied hello. His eyes opened and he saw Paul beside him. He explained to Jeremy that he'd cracked his head open as he fell and ambulance was on its way. Jeremy just smiled. Paul handed Jeremy a pen to write down as much as possible before he forgets. Once again, Jeremy smiled and just said "No rush."