It’s such a rollercoaster of emotions the first time your words find themselves alone, on a white sheet of paper.

For me, writing story after story formed an intricate labyrinth between my heart and my stream of consciousness. I won’t lie, intentions were sometimes  false starts and often got me lost or in dead ends but the voice I constantly heard at the other end was the thread that lead me finally home.

 The arrival seems strange right now, but slowly, minute by minute , I start to recognize familiar grounds , corners of my mind never unlocked before .

The Manuscript  is a story I wrote right before my own manuscript was final.

The manuscript

She worked for the best known in town publishing company.  She edited manuscripts eight hours a day. The job came along during a very difficult time in her life.  For a while, it felt as God existed.  Plans could be made now and, moreover, she could eat anything she desired every night.  Big deal!

There were six more people in the office. One Monday morning, upon arriving at work; she found a manuscript on her desk:

.  "Your Conscience ”. It was written across the very bland grey colored cover.

Funny, she said to herself.

“Conscience is the biggest enemy known to man.  Because of it, no one can be free since the chain between past - present – future cannot be broken.  Maybe you think you do not need to break it but you do, trust me!  When you’ll be at your lowest point you’ll remember my words.”

She let a smile bloom in the corner of her mouth after reading the first paragraph.  Although she was not a writer, she was aware of her role in the fate of a manuscript.  Before publication, all writers were anonymous, insignificant, and unknown to the written word.

.         Interesting words she thought and closed the manuscript to see the writer’s name.-Anonymous?  The manuscript was not signed. 

"Tell me, back then,  what would you have done if you had no conscience?  Stand in front of the gate like a mule and beg for forgiveness, without thinking how you would feel about yourself the next day?  Yes!  But you did not do that, because your conscience held you back.  If you ask me as soon as you acknowledged the power of your scruples, you became unhappy.  Am I wrong?”

It was like the manuscript was talking to her.  She closed it once again and looked for a sign, a clue that would suggest something about the origin of the material.  She asked her colleagues and as expected no one knew anything.

Maybe I will figure out this mystery in the end.  Maybe it's just a coincidence.

.         " When the final colors , the ones  defining  you as a frail human invade and take over your well guarded white purity, you start crying every night  lying to yourself in the morning and in the end live a dull life in a publishing house.  You should be elsewhere. Think about it.  Look around you, who is the master of your life?  Who are you in your life?  "

She closed the manuscript again; maybe it was not addressed to her.  Just last week, it was discussed in the office the success of books that speak directly to the reader. 
She asked another colleague to read the manuscript and took off the rest of the day. Exited the building and continued to walk. 

Who am I ?

Some years ago, her life was full of drama, but she almost forgot the details. Or did she? 

What am I supposed to do?  What can I do? 

And the answer came to her with velvet softness. She left her job convinced this time the road she was on was a good one.  Her conscience was her ally most times, but how much of her success or failure depended on it?  Many new questions popped in her mind suddenly.  Mysteries and inner passages from one state to another needed attention all of a sudden.

She carefully stepped outside of herself and started to write about anything running through her mind while ignoring her inner voice.  Every time her imprisoned principles tried to surface, she pushed them back in the depths of her conscience .

Time passed.  Her manuscript reached the desk of a famous publishing house.  It was accepted.  Published.  Then another one.  And another one.  There were three books with her signature when unexpectedly she received a call from an unknown man.  He introduced himself as Seth...

She agreed to meet with him because his voice ... somehow ... sounded very familiar, almost like her old self before she buried it along with her conscience and memories.

They met at a coffee shop.

“I could not let you go on like this anymore. “
“ Excuse me?  “

“I meant something else when I wrote the manuscript.  I didn’t want you to burry your consciousness, or to re-educate your conscience and kill your beautiful personality in the process.  I just wanted to help you know yourself better.  You misunderstood.  You did exactly the opposite.”

“Do I know you?”
“Not now.  You used to know me. Until you killed me and made a simple man out of me. A simple man. “

“Is this a joke or ...”
           “Or the manuscript was true?  It was true but you did not know how to read it. "

“But now I am happy. “

“  Really?  ...  No regrets?  “

“Why regret anything?  It all depends on what you want to hear.  You - as you said already - you are a dead conscience, wanting to restore itself.  Why not leave me alone?  Many people manage to reinvent themselves.  It is not a bad thing.  “

“No, unless the result is a fake one.  You used all the suffering from your past to create a new unprincipled, without conscience, new you...” 

“If I remember well, you were advocating something like ‘

Consciousness of your conscience cuts your freedom’.  Why would I want to give up my freedom?  “

“Because you are locked in a cell you are confusing with freedom. “

She got up and started walking without paying for her coffee...

“Someone is messing with me .so bad that  ...  “she mumbled without finishing her sentence.

Seth was behind her ...

“So bad that they know who you are?  “

“Who cares who I am?  Never mind.  What matters is that nothing will be the same.  For anyone.  You will not ever be a real conscience. “

She continued to write.  Well.  Seth continued to look over her shoulder.  She and her conscience.  But never the same.  Never the same...