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No, no and no! This is not, I repeat, not from the strains of over-working.
Please, doctor, you of all people should see that I am indeed too excited and on the verge on a breakdown, but
again I must implore you to believe that under no circumstances have they been resulting from years and years of
scientific labor of what every man and woman seem to hold me responsible for and congratulate me due to that. Yes?
But of course it was my hand that wrote those wonderful books about advanced physics and atomic energy, not to
mention other, countless and innumerous nuggets of scientific work. But you see - it was not me who did all that!
What? My genius? I would laugh at your opinion if it wouldn't be so darn close to truth, or the perversion of it.
But to explain the peculiar circumstances that have led me to the point that I have been dragged to, I must revisit
my past through the doors of memories, visit the halls of remembrance and read from the back shelves of the forgotten
library in my mind that is the subconscious. Without further ado let us forget this horrid condition that I have
become entrapped in, or should I say, bound to by straps, and move back a decade and a half.
I was taken into the university of what I had already heard only great and sound rumors about. Its name is not
important, for its infamousness would surely discredit my narrative. Sufficient to say that my parents could barely
afford it, and so I felt that I would do justice to their belief in me by trying to get a degree in the path of
astronomy and mathematics.
During my studies I often met with various students who delved in the hazy questionable arts of the occult. Now,
I must mention, that I had had several dealings with it before already, which were not all that pleasant. In the
village I had been born there came western travelers and eastern merchants to visit the stones in the untouched
oak-forests. My grandfather once told me that the three giant rocks were just rubble that was brought along with
the mercilessly advancing wall of ice, a glacier, from the period of the scarcely studied Ice Age.
Still, the local gypsies liked to pull into their small camps and settlements as many gullible and overexcited
amateur occultists, crystal gazers and others as such, so to profit from their travels and belongings. They read
their feeble incantations and held their made-up rites in the vicinity of the stones, for the gypsies had spread
the rumors of seeing strange fires on top of the stones and in the very skies that covered them sometimes; and
every now and then guttural cries were heard emitting from the direction of the stones.
Grandfather used to tell me that the horses the gypsies raised and sold to foreigners used to escape from their
pastures and ran into the deeper and dimmer parts of the old oak forest, where wild wolves larger than calf's still
found sanctuary from the advancing fields that my kin was enlarging at the expense of chopping down the forest
and the oaks our pagan forefathers had held sacred in their forgotten worshippings. Then, as I slept with my window
open upstairs, I tried to imagine a horse being attacked by a pack of wolves, which would put an end to the horse's
shortly experienced freedom. I couldn't sleep, for often there really were cries - sounding as the horse was in
mortal pain and eternal agony of existence for so low and deep was the series of cries. It sounded like the horse
was the one attacking the almost man-sized wolves not the other way around. My imagination was driven to the edge
those nights, laying in my bed, filling up my mind with grotesque pictures of some behemothic, malevolently and
elementally malign sounding horse with demonic proportions. The sound of the parents locking their doors and windows
downstairs during those vigilant nights didn't do any good in dispersing my doubtful ponderings either.
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