Manifestation Maniac
Nonfiction by Meghna Chembil Palat
Time and Change by Rebecca Finkelstein (2024)
Content Warning: Mentions of Death
I try to meditate every weekday night to lessen the burdens of the day because that’s what you do when you carry a heavier load. It’s not something I’m proud of, so I lie down on my stinky mattress in the master bedroom where the empty physical space represents the one inside my soul. The second I make the decision to lie down, a wrinkled nook appears in between my eyebrows as if my body is trying to sabotage me. I was good at self-sabotage long before I knew what it really meant, before I learned how to think for myself.
I play the song “Hypnosis.” Her voice is like delicate magic. Too much of it can never poison you, unlike real magic. I listen to her even if my heart doesn’t want to. Instructing myself to achieve peace of mind like assembling IKEA furniture. I guess you can’t instruct yourself to do something that can’t be taught. Human nature can’t be taught.
Let it go.
I enter a make-belief vision—one that I create in my head so I can disappear the way you’re supposed to when you meditate. Thoughts shouldn’t hoard the mind space. You’re supposed to breathe without hearing the syllables of doubt ringing in your ears. This is how I instruct myself to be in this meditative state of mind. Yet, I hear my own cries of doubt belting from the chamber inside my head, telling me that it’s poison to let your mind pave the way and allow the muscles in your body to dissipate into another dimension where my hands don’t interlock when I’m convincing myself I’m okay, or where my fingers don’t lose feeling as I mindlessly drop even the most weightless objects—a silver spoon, an egg that’s barely been cracked yet—and the feeling that I may die soon.
The birds twinkle on the backing track like a harp. The sound doesn't spill into my psyche. My mind is its own roadblock, so I focus on how the palms of my hands melt into the smooth skin of my abdomen. I don't usually notice the kind of contact I make with myself on a day-to-day basis, but the hypnosis of meditation is one of a kind. At least that's what I’m told. I’ve yet to experience it.
And then the conch shell blows.
It's like an undisturbed wind erupting the energy flow of my thoughts. Her music surpasses science. I expect this to be some sort of awakening, one I've been waiting for longer than I can imagine. As if a simple sound is that powerful—powerful enough to compel someone like me to change. It's a splitting reverberation that lasts only a second. I'm under its spell and then . . . I'm not again.
Let it go.
It's as if this time, it's more convincing. I like repetition, the continuous beat synchronizing with my breath. It's one of the patterns of living, one that I barely notice. I’m dead weight. Dying is not infinite, neither does it feel repetitive, even if it happens to everyone. Growing is not infinite either, but I don’t want to think about that now because it feels too scary, too real, too soon. The only way I can truly relax is if I drop dead to the consistent beat and learn how to feel instead of thinking up a storm.
Meditating is quite like death. When she tells me to let go, I don't think she's talking about the everyday stressors of life. If she was, then my body would melt away, dissipating into the thick air. She's talking about the pains of growing into your own death—of wanting to be here and there at once. At least that's what I want her to be saying. I like creating truth when I’m given puzzle pieces that don’t fit together. I like being in control of forming my own.
Eventually, the music fades. There's a pinch of silence, enough to pierce my ears, as powerful as the conch shell.
Autoplay: Time Flies.
To feel this heavy and this light. I wake up, and yet, somehow, I feel free despite the fact that I wonder about death the way I wonder about when the next bus will arrive, or what I should eat for lunch. It’s constant even when I try to achieve peace—a peace of mind, a peace that I can live, and be kind, and be happy without picking apart the world like I hold it in the palm of my hand.
A second meditation: I’m going to sleep. Like I'm dead.
Meghna Chembil Palat is a South-Asian Canadian writer based in Brampton, Ontario. She is in her third year of the Honours Bachelor of Creative Writing and Publishing at Sheridan College. Her passion for spreading awareness for mental health and domestic violence, stemming from personal experiences, is deeply reflected in her work. Her publications include the poems "Fairy Moon" (Publisher's Desk Magazine), “The Evolutionary Eye” (B222, published in 2023), “Fetus Monster” (The Familiars Magazine, published in 2024), and the short story “Home Sick” (B222, published in 2024). She was also shortlisted for the Sheridan Reads Writing Contest 2023 for her flash fiction piece, “Connection Lost.” Meghna writes short fiction, poetry, and screenplays.