Author: Krishna Padmasola e-mail: krishna@scri.fsu.edu Credit: The idea for writing this story came after reading the 1992 Scientific American special issue on Mind and Brain. Case No. 234FA ``It was a diminutive winged creature, a little bird with crimson headdress, its brown feathered body quivering with the restless energy derived from the accelerated metabolic rate so characteristic of its species. Displaying excellent navigational skills, it would suddenly dive into the thicket to feast on some insect which betrayed its own presence and relieve it of its burden of existence, and emerge again from the world of inconstant shadows into the brilliant sunlit garden. However, the feast is soon forgotten, and the search for new source of food begins all over again; this time perhaps it is a flower in bloom, its scent hinting at the presence of nectar, advertising its need for pollination. It was fascinating to watch the exquisite little bundle of life, and I could see every detail of its feathered body, I could feel its heartbeat, I followed the rythmic motion of its wings flapping in synchrony, its tail serving to steer and balance at the same time. There was no message in its existence, and as I realized the senselessness of the demand for the meaning of life by ossified minds, I felt a strange kinship towards my avian friend...'' Three days ago, a patient was admitted to the ward. Evidently he was suffering from severe depression. He used to be a dancer in a Broadway show, before he was fired six months ago for being rude and giving unsolicited advice to the director. As is usually the case, the onset of mania was quite sudden and apparently without any obvious reason. At home he mistreated his wife, and made life difficult for her with his tense and irritable demeanor. Then he left to live with his father, who also suffered from similar symptoms, though not quite that degree. There, however, his condition steadily deteriorated , and finally he accepted hospitalization. Although he received a dose of tranquilizer, he spent the night disrupting the ward, and in the morning, signed out against medical advice. That was two days ago.... Yesterday we learnt that he had committed suicide. Interestingly, the cause of death was unknown. One would have thought that he had passed away in his sleep had it not been for the note found in his clenched hands, in which he stated that he was committing suicide of his own free will. The description of the bird in the garden was one of the many remarkable entries we found in his diary, each of them revealing an intensity of perception and heightened awareness which a prejudiced mind would have thought him incapable of possessing. It has been observed that manic-depressives are talented or even endowed with genius. Perhaps, as some suggest, the extreme swings of mood and the accompanying changes of outlook may give rise to creativity. The same emotional fluctuations often lead manic-depressives to exhibit suicidal tendencies, and their spark of creativity is prematurely extinguished , perhaps an indication of the inherent instability of creativity itself. If I were allowed to speculate, I might say that creativity is a local revolution against mental entropy; but that is the philosopher's job, and henceforth I shall withhold myself from trespassing into the realm of his investigations. How did he come by his death? That is an interesting question, but his diary is mute upon that point, understandably so. Perhaps if the fleeting images of his thoughts in the moments prior to his death were captured by an invisible scribe , they might read like this... `` I am on the shore of a mighty ocean, a silent observer, dwarfed by its magnificence to an insignificant speck . The waves are rushing to pounce upon the beach, then receding to muster all their strength and prepare for a fresh assault with renewed determination. But deep below the raging surface, there is an undercurrent, signifying confidence and purpose. This, I recognize to be my mind, my conciousness witnessing the various activities going on in it. I am now lying down, with the suicide note in my hand, and have willed myself to death. The waves are subsiding gradually , and now the surface is disturbed only by tiny ripples. I feel my breath to be a tenuous thread connecting me with life. Deep down, on the ocean floor, a dormant volcano is about to wake up, and if it did, its tremors would create a tidal wave of uncontrollable fury. This is my innermost survival instinct rebelling against the sentence I have placed upon myself, but it vanished as soon as I recognised its identity. Now the ocean is completely stagnant, its surface mirroring the blue sky above. Suddenly, there are clouds floating across the sky, their reflections skimming the ocean surface. These are the images of various people, cherished, forgotten or vanished memories , the faces, sights, sounds and smells that I had hoarded in my unconcious. They are of no value to me anymore. Of what use are dead memories to a dead man? My breath has stopped and the heart has followed suit. Now there is just the calm ocean, and a clear blue sky , both merging together in the horizon. There is no more division between the mind and the conciousness; they are one. Only I exist. ''