by Victor Freud » Fri Apr 28, 2023 12:38 am
From the outside, the two brothers got to see the murder of crows emerge from the house and take flight over the fields. Samantha would be able to feel the "scarecrow", the natural resistance Victor or anyone's mind had to such probing, though perhaps never before had it been manifested as actual scarecrows stationed out amongst the crops. With their unique vision they could see through the metaphors; the bankers boxes laying outside with their scattered contents being core parts of his self, what made Victor who he was, the contents the various experiences that had shaped him. Already more than half a dozen had been discarded, their contents slowly moving with the rest of the chaff toward the thresher. And the chaff itself, all of the information that a mind takes in day in, day out, but only small portions of it become true memories, and fewer still shape a person. Those useless memories are forgotten to make room for new ones, new crops that weren't being planted - and the reason why was obvious.
Above the farm, in those growing darkening storm clouds, was a myriad of countless lifetimes, all funneling in to the farmhouse. Hundred, perhaps thousands of lifetimes of memories containing vastly different experiences. Even if he were successful in discarding all of the commonalities, all of the shared experiences, all of the memories and skills that weren't somehow useful... Victor's brain could not possibly contain all of the best of the best as it seemingly intended. The harvest was too bountiful, and the cream of the crop too plentiful. His experience in the Astral had dumped 20 Olympic swimming pools over his head and he was trying to catch it all in a bucket; being conscious (and in the process, planting new crops) would only have been throwing additional cups of water at him as he did so. And so in his efforts to try and hold it all, or hold the best of it, he was dumping the bucket out only for it to overflow again and again. How long before his mind reached the point where it began poking holes in the bucket, or cutting the bottom out entirely.
With "Violet"'s aid, the two would be able to see the context of much those fleeting moments swirling around the slowly-spinning funnel, and why he would have been working so hard to keep so much of them. Lifetimes as doctors that had developed cures, great inventors, mathematicians, adventurers, heroes, billionaires, even more mundane professions, and some that were just bizarre. So much knowledge, skills, and experiences that could be used to improve his life, to help others - it should be no wonder why Egon was so frantic to keep so much of it.