What is a brush for an artist? It resembles a syringe, and the paints serve as medicine. You approach the blank canvas, preparing to make a life-saving injection. With a light stroke of your hand, you begin to paint. Vital warmth spreads through your arteries and veins. Painting becomes a form of anesthetic. To convey the essence of the piece, you must engage every fiber of perception. The sense of reality becomes like an electric charge. Each spark must be preserved on the canvas, depicting the tasks set by the creator.
Constantin smiled at the sudden seriousness of his thoughts and glanced at his completed work.
On the canvas was a boy sitting on a bridge at the water’s edge, examining a pearl held tightly in his small hand, illuminated by the light. The delicate cracks and muted hues gave the piece the effect of an aged painting. The boy’s dark brown overalls and rubber boots reminded viewers of the fleeting nature of modern life, which would someday become an "outdated model."
Setting down his brush, Constantin felt a quiet satisfaction with his work and habitually made his way to the mini-bar, hoping to find something appealing.
Pouring himself the remaining Scotch, Constantin glanced at the clock. It was early morning. Dawn was breaking.
He approached the window in his bedroom and looked out at the empty street in the early hours. Taking a sip of his drink, he paused to gaze at the spinning fan mounted on the exterior wall. The hum from it began to swell in his mind, intensifying his heartbeat.
Blinking rapidly, Constantin tried to look away from the fan. The noise gradually subsided, but an unseen force compelled him to glance back.
The fan blades sliced through the air in a synchronized march, and Constantin instinctively grimaced, trying to suppress the unpleasant, familiar symptoms as he distracted himself from the nagging hum outside. He took a step back, intending to retreat deeper into the room, when suddenly, in the window frame – like a scene from a painting – the silhouette of a girl appeared, reflected back at him. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: the reflected figure was painted in the same colors as his recently completed canvas.
"I need to change my daily routine." Constantin smirked and took a sip.
He stepped away from the window, glancing back one last time. The silhouette had vanished, and a cheerful ray of morning sunlight blinded his eyes, inviting him into a new day.
Hurriedly, Constantin rushed to the shower, shedding his clothes along the way, unaware that he was stirring his second self – or what is referred to in the Higher World as a "Guide" – who was lounging comfortably on the bed, having observed the scene outside just moments before.
Due to the limitations of earthly life, Constantin could neither see nor know his faithful companion. The thoughts and insights she whispered in his ear, having spent hours performing her role as a Guide, he perceived as his own ego, occasionally amusing him with fairly decent works he crafted from memory.
The droplets of water, like a life-giving balm, flowed over his body as Constantin relaxed and closed his eyes. In that moment, his subconscious whirled with thoughts, dragging him under the surface of an unfamiliar lake. Suddenly opening his eyes, Constantin felt a sharp pang of breathlessness.
“You’ve successfully mastered your skills.”
Constantin stared in astonishment at the familiar dark-haired girl, who was jotting something down in her notebook. He wanted to ask who she was, but no words came out.
“It’s a pity your time was so short. But now you can choose another version. What do you prefer?” The girl snapped her notebook shut and looked at him. Her gaze pierced into Constantin, rendering him immobile.
As if rewinding a film, Constantin found himself again by the river. He sat at the edge of the wooden bridge, searching for something in the water. An object sparkled enticingly, and as he plunged his hand into the water, he grasped an unknown item between his fingers. It was a string of pearl beads. The thread holding the alluring beads snapped suddenly, and nearly all of them scattered back into the water with a characteristic splash. He managed to keep the last pearl in his hand. Constantin began to examine it in the sunlight, admiring its beauty.
The water turned suddenly cold, and he frantically searched for a switch. But it was nowhere to be found. Panic spread through his body, and once again, he felt the suffocating grip of airlessness.
He abruptly looked up to see the water closing above him, as if two doors were slamming shut. Only a faint sliver of sunlight filtered through. He was drowning. No matter how hard he flailed his arms and legs, he couldn’t push himself to the surface. Constantin didn’t know how to swim.
Slowly, he turned his head and opened his clenched fist. The pearl glimmered in the water, catching the light and falling to the bottom alongside him.
"How beautiful she is," he thought again, the words lingering in his mind.
Cursing under his breath, Constantin struggled to climb out of the bathtub. Water, mixed with remnants of bubbles, trickled down his body. He hurried down the stairs to his studio and approached the painting he had recently completed. The boy was looking back at him – the very same boy who was destined to drown. Or had he already drowned?
His vision blurred, and a familiar pulse throbbed in his temples. His blood pressure began to drop.
"A panic attack," he realized, moving toward the first-aid kit to take his medication.
Each time Constantin thought he had learned to control the process, panic returned with renewed intensity. He tried to calm himself and breathe deeply.
It wasn’t helping. Waves of panic enveloped his mind, and through the fog of consciousness, the boy and the painfully familiar girl kept appearing. Frequently closing his eyes in futile attempts to block out the "film" racing before him, Constantin suddenly realized it was all in his head.
With a trembling hand, he began to rummage through the nightstand for the medication he had promised himself not to take – or at least to take as infrequently as possible. But now, enduring the finale was unbearable. He could almost feel the damp clothing clinging to his skin and the heaviness of the rubber boots.
Finally, he found the pills. He swallowed one without wasting time looking for water to wash it down.
He sat on the floor of the studio, cradling his head in his hands. How heavy it felt. Then he curled up in a fetal position, placing his right hand over his heart while his left hand gripped some object tightly. He could feel chaotic thumps in his palm, as if an inexperienced person were hammering a nail for the first time.
The Guide, looking grimly at her charge, quietly left the building and headed toward the Guide accompanying Constantin’s friend. She needed him to drop by and find Constantin on the studio floor, displaying those all-too-familiar symptoms.
Constantin awoke in a hospital room, shining with cleanliness. His mind felt empty. Just then, the door opened, and a young nurse entered with a tray of syringes.
“Don’t worry, you’re in the best clinic in the city, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time,” the girl smiled warmly.
“What happened to me?” Constantin asked, bewildered. “I don’t remember anything—”
“No wonder,” the Guide muttered from behind the headboard.
“It’s nothing serious. Just ordinary exhaustion,” the girl said. “You need rest and peace.”
She gave him an injection and, as she left, placed a shiny bead on the bedside table, casting a sly glance over the back of his bed.
“You were holding this when the ambulance brought you in.”
Constantin recognized the pearl, painted earlier on his canvas, and grimaced. He didn’t have the strength to think clearly. All he wanted was to sleep.
The Guide rolled her eyes, clearly displeased, and waved dismissively at the Ephor nurse as she closed the door behind her.
The medication wasn’t helping much. For a week, he received various IV drips and was assured that he was experiencing some form of autopsychic depersonalization. The doctor had ruled out selective amnesia, confirming that there was no dark-haired girl in his memory.
His friends supported him as best they could. Some recited their go-to phrases, while others genuinely tried to understand. A few simply called and stayed silent, and in that silence lay a profound meaning. But the truth was that no words would help. It was obvious to both Constantin and those speaking. Yet all the formalities were observed. A checkbox was ticked.
Days passed, but the burden didn’t go away. It was heavy, and Constantin’s weight was rapidly dropping – not because of a newfound fitness routine or diet, but because he carried that burden with him every day.
He rose each morning with it, dragged it to the dining hall, then rolled it with him to his treatments. He could feel every muscle in his body working, straining to carry the invisible load.
Time stretched monotonously. Waking to the sound of the alarm, he would slightly open his eyes and cautiously look ahead. Against the backdrop of lemon-colored walls, the burden stood out starkly. It was still there. The wheel of Sansara spun furiously, trapping him like a hamster running endlessly in its cage.
Days passed. Constantin grew stronger. His muscles hardened, and the burden no longer felt as heavy. It was as if his entire being had accepted it, making it more compact – like a backpack. He could even stand in line for medication without succumbing to panic, a feat that had once felt impossible. Before, he had to wait until he was certain he would be the last in line.
Days continued to move forward, and so did Constantin. The burden hadn’t disappeared, but he had made peace with it. He had befriended it.
Three weeks had passed. It sounded easier than it felt. For the doctors and his friends, it had been "only" three weeks, but for Constantin, it was "already" three weeks. And therein lay the crux of his catharsis. During this time, he had met many interesting people. He never would have imagined how many talents had fallen victim to their own inspiration. There were artists like him, writers, and musicians. Rumor even had it that some psychologists, at some point, couldn’t cope with the pain they were treating in their patients.
Constantin was informed that one of the best doctors in the clinic, who had agreed to take on his case, was expected to return. So he patiently awaited their introduction.