Call Number: BF637 .M5 2001. This book didn't just sit on the shelf; it throbbed. The cover of "The Mutable Self: Identity in Shifting Realities" was a swirling, lenticular nightmare of iridescent colours that shifted and flowed like oil on water, or perhaps like a particularly unstable dimension bleeding into view. It felt warm to the touch, unnervingly so, and seemed to hum faintly, a low C-sharp that vibrated right into my bones. The author was listed as "Proteus," a name suggesting shapeshifting shenanigans, published by the "Ephemeral Press." Another clear Backrooms Book, this one promising less mathematical rigor and more philosophical vertigo.
I carried it back to my nook – the pot plant seemed to lean slightly away from the pulsating volume – and opened it carefully. The pages were thin, almost translucent, and the text seemed to shimmer slightly, making it oddly difficult to focus on. The font was a flowing script, full of loops and unnecessary flourishes, like it was trying too hard to be calming.
Proteus began not with an introduction, but with a "Gentle Invitation": "Greetings, fellow traveller on the tides of being! Have you found yourself feeling… less 'you' than usual? Do memories flicker like faulty neon? Does your reflection occasionally offer unsolicited advice in a different accent? Fear not! This is merely the Symphony of Selfhood playing in a new key. Within these pages, we shall explore the glorious, terrifying, and ultimately liberating potential of identity fluidity in realities less… rigid than the one you perhaps recall." Oh boy. This was going to be that kind of book.
Chapter 1: The Illusion of Static Selfhood (Or, 'Why You Were Never Really 'You' Anyway'). Proteus kicked things off by arguing that the Frontroom concept of a stable, enduring self was largely a comforting fiction, a product of predictable environments and reliable memory. "In a world where Tuesday reliably follows Monday," Proteus wrote in that annoyingly breezy script, "where the laws of physics don't take personal days, and where your childhood home doesn't spontaneously swap locations with a patch of screaming void, it is easy to maintain the illusion of a fixed 'I'." But in the Backrooms? Forget it. Here, where external reality is a suggestion and memory can be as reliable as a chocolate teapot, clinging to a static identity is, according to Proteus, "like trying to build a sandcastle in a tsunami – exhausting and ultimately pointless." The chapter included whimsical, slightly unnerving diagrams comparing the 'Frontroom Self' (depicted as a rigid crystal lattice) versus the 'Backrooms Self' (a blob of cheerfully coloured goo adapting to variously shaped containers labelled 'Level 4,' 'Entity Encounter,' 'Sudden Amnesia').
Chapter 2: Fragmentation Station: When 'I Contain Multitudes' Becomes Literal. This chapter addressed the feeling of being multiple people at once. Not multiple personality disorder in the clinical Frontroom sense, but a more pervasive "identity wobble." Proteus described it as "the internal committee meeting getting rowdy." One moment you're cautious and analytical, the next you're overcome with a reckless urge to poke a Hound, then you're suddenly obsessed with cataloguing different shades of yellow wallpaper. Proteus framed this not as breakdown, but as adaptation. "When reality itself is fragmented and contradictory," the text proclaimed, "a fragmented consciousness is merely reflecting its environment! Embrace the inner chaos! Assign roles! Let 'Cautious Craig' handle navigation and 'Impulsive Ingrid' choose the flavour of protein bar!" The book included case studies, like "The Wanderer Who Developed Seven Distinct Personalities, Each Specializing in a Different Backrooms Level," presented not as a tragedy, but as a quirky success story. "Subject Gamma," Proteus wrote enthusiastically, "reports significantly improved survival rates since allowing 'Level 6 Larry' (specializing in navigating dark, complex mazes) and 'Poolroom Penny' (adept at holding her breath and identifying safe water sources) to take the helm in their respective environments!" It sounded utterly exhausting.
Chapter 3: The Amnesia Advantage: Forgetting Your Troubles (and Your Name). Proteus tackled memory loss with unnerving optimism. Forgetting your past? Liberating! No baggage! Forgetting your name? An opportunity to choose a new one every day! Forgetting your loved ones? Well… okay, Proteus conceded that could be "momentarily disquieting," but framed it as "detaching from potentially destabilizing Frontroom emotional anchors." The chapter described communities allegedly formed by amnesiacs who simply accepted their blank slates, operating purely on present instinct and communal support. "The 'Tabula Rasa Collective' of Level 77," Proteus detailed, "functions with remarkable efficiency, unburdened by past traumas or preconceived notions. New arrivals are welcomed, given a number instead of a name, and integrated based on observed skills, not remembered history. Their motto: 'Yesterday is a rumor, tomorrow is a suggestion, today we survive.'" While acknowledging the terror of losing one's history, Proteus argued it could be reframed as "shedding unnecessary weight" for navigating the Backrooms' relentless present tense. There were exercises suggested, like "Intentional Memory Fasting" (actively trying not to recall specifics of your past for a set period) – which sounded suspiciously like just having Backrooms-induced amnesia but calling it wellness.
Chapter 4: Redefining 'I': Consciousness as a Raft on the River of Chaos. This was the philosophical core. If you're not your memories, not your stable personality, not even necessarily your physical body (given phenomena like Skin-Stealers or involuntary transformations), then what are you? Proteus rejected the idea of a core, essential self. Instead, the book proposed the "Flowing Self" – consciousness as an ever-changing pattern, defined only by its present awareness and its capacity to adapt. "You are not the banks of the river," Proteus wrote poetically, "You are the river itself! Flow, wanderer, flow!" It argued that true resilience in the Backrooms came from abandoning the search for a fixed self and embracing continuous transformation. "Identity is not a noun, but a verb! To be is to become!" This section was filled with analogies: the self as a cloud, constantly shifting shape; the self as music, existing only in the playing; the self as a slime mold, intelligently navigating its environment without a central brain. It was dizzying, slightly nauseating, and almost convincing in its relentless positivity.
Chapter 5: Practical Shapeshifting: Exercises for the Aspiring Identity-Naut. True to its self-help veneer, the book offered exercises. These ranged from the mundane ("Daily Self-Check-in: Ask yourself 'Who am I today?' and accept whatever answer arises without judgment") to the utterly bizarre ("Empathy Expansion through Mimicry: Observe an entity – from a safe distance! – and try to embody its movements and apparent motivations. WARNING: Do not attempt with hostile entities. Or particularly gooey ones."). There were guided meditations designed to "dissolve rigid self-concepts" and journaling prompts like "Describe three contradictory beliefs you hold simultaneously and celebrate the paradox." Proteus advocated for "Identity Play," suggesting wanderers adopt temporary personas or skillsets just to see what happens. "Spend a day pretending to be a botanist! You might discover a latent talent for identifying edible Backrooms fungi!" (Or, more likely, poison yourself). The overall message was: be flexible, be weird, don't panic if you wake up convinced you're a sentient doorknob – it'll probably pass.
Closing the gently humming book felt like stepping out of a philosophical hall of mirrors. "The Mutable Self" was fascinating, unsettling, and strangely hopeful in its embrace of total ontological chaos. Proteus's relentless optimism felt slightly unhinged, but the core idea – that rigidity is fragility in a place like this – resonated after experiencing K.M.'s dread and The Cartographers' geometric despair. Maybe being identity-goo was the answer? My own sense of self felt… slightly fuzzier around the edges.
Transition o'clock. The holy trinity: Almond Water, protein bar (flavour: 'possibly berry?'), quiet contemplation. The Library felt reassuringly solid, a counterpoint to Proteus's fluid philosophies. The shelves didn't dissolve, the chair supported me, the light remained constant. Thank goodness for small, stable mercies.
Tidying duty called. Arranging books on Backrooms psychology felt apt. I placed "Coping with Chronic Derealization" next to "Entity Encounters and Induced Phobias: A Survivor's Guide." Nearby, I spotted a slim Frontroom Book: Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People." The juxtaposition was darkly funny. Carnegie's advice on firm handshakes and remembering names seemed adorably naive in a reality where names were optional and shaking hands might mean losing yours to a Grinder. I left it there, a relic of simpler social dynamics.
As I worked, I saw the old man I'd chatted with before. He was meticulously copying something from a heavy tome into a small notebook. We exchanged nods. I considered asking him if he ever felt like he wasn't quite 'himself' anymore, but decided against it. Too much Proteus on the brain. Instead, I just asked what he was researching. "Ah, genealogies," he murmured, tapping the tome. "Trying to trace some of the older wanderer families mentioned in the M.E.G. archives. Fascinating how lineages persist, even here." Lineages. Persistence. A concept suddenly feeling very alien after reading Proteus. We chatted briefly about the Library's archives, the reliability of records in a place where history itself seemed mutable.
Retreating to my reading booth, Proteus's ideas swirled. Was my personality today the same as yesterday's? Were my memories reliable? Did that brief chat with the old man feel different because I was different, or just because I'd read a weird book? It was unnerving. All this focus on the individual self, the internal landscape… perhaps it was time to look outwards again. How do these fragmented, mutable selves interact? How do communities form in a place designed to isolate and terrify? The old man mentioned M.E.G. archives, social structures… That ethnography book The Cartographers referenced, "Societies of the Strange," sounded like the perfect antidote to excessive navel-gazing. Time to delve into the collective madness.