Unmasking the Seer

Before we called it hyper-arousal or executive dysfunction, the ancient world recognized the mind of the Hedge-Rider, the Sibyl, and the Seer. Force an oracular spirit into a factory of compliance, and physical collapse is inevitable.

As part of my metaphysical doctoral work, I’m drafting a short story that weaves my dissertation’s core thesis into fiction: the alchemical power of unmasking. I’ve decided to open up my notebook and share the story with you here, piece by piece, as it comes to life.

Chapter 1: The Architecture of the Mask

The hinges of my jaw did not belong to me. They were borrowed from a polite ancestor who knew how to smile while her house burned down. For fifty years, I wore her face. It was a fine face; symmetrical, steady, and utterly silent. It was a mask forged in the fires of “Fine, thank you” and “I’m just a little tired”.

But the marrow knows. The marrow is an ancient witch who does not care for tea parties or professional milestones. She lives in the hollows of the femur and soft, jelly-centers of the vertebrae.

And she was hungry.

It began as a hum in my ears, the kind of high-pitched ringing that sounds like a distant choir screaming. The shadows under the rose bush began to knit themselves together. The static behind my eyes spilled onto the grass, thickening into a shape that I knew better than my own reflection.

I sat in my garden, the sun hitting my skin like the weight of a hammer. To most, a summer breeze is a caress; to those of us with skin made of wet tissue paper and nerves like live wires, it is an intrusion. My joints felt like they were held together by prayer and cobwebs. This was the performance; the Herculean effort of sitting upright so nobody would see the collapse.

“You’re vibrating again,” a voice croaked. It wasn’t a neighbor’s voice. It was the sound of dry leaves skittering over pavement, a sound that lived in my own skull.

I didn’t turn my head. To turn a head is to involve the atlas and the axis, and today, they were at war. I didn’t have to look to know the contour of her shadow. Elara was not a guest; she was the truth of me, unedited and unmasked. “I am holding myself together, Elara. There is a difference.”

Elara was not a woman, though she looked like one if you squinted through the haze of a migraine. She was the personification of my own chaotic mind and chronic pain; a crone made of brambles and static who lived in the corner of my vision. She was the version of me that was allowed to be broken, the one who kept the records of the cost.

“The price of the mask has gone up,” Elara said, stepping into the light. She smelled of ozone and wet earth. “You’ve spent fifty years pretending the gravity here is the same for you as it is for them. You’ve run marathons on ankles made of glass. You’ve spoken prose when your soul wanted to scream in staccato. The bill is due.”

With grit and grace, Brandi Lynn ♡

…read Part 2…

Enjoyed this piece? Here are two ways to bring this work into your physical space:

• 📚 Hold the Book: My debut prose-poetry collection, Where the Broken Light Falls, is available now on Amazon. [Order the Book Worldwide Here]

• 🎨 Original Art Drops: I release small-batch, hand-finished art prints and custom sketch bundles directly through my studio. [Explore the Gallery & Studio]

I’m Brandi Lynn. Author, artist, and literacy educator. Welcome to this quiet sanctuary for the outliers, pattern-seekers, and sensory-overloaded. If these words or images found a home in you, I’d love for you to stay.

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For more grit, grace, and visual art find me on Instagram — Sent2MeDesigns (Art) and ByBrandiLynn (Poetry) or at my website ByBrandiLynn.com