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To whit the why, I draw maniacal figures in my head. They play out my dramas. I'm well kept that way. No one can take me away from me now. I'm trapped as I should be. The burning mouse is running. I give chase. Somewhere along the road I was told to go back. It was a mistake. I need to take those classes over again. The burning mouse disappeared. I was placed in front of a cold monitor and told to write the first thing that came into my mind. It felt refreshing, until it started chewing on me.
Yes. The sky is the right color again. The earth feels right again. My head isn't banging against itself anymore. To doubt is to fall away, they say. To doubt the great wisdom is to be at a loss, to denigrate the work you've done for yourself, to be right along the road upon the bridge, to be on your way once again to total freedom. I see the dollar signs. They are carrying me to bliss, don't you know? It doesn't matter you haven't found freedom yet. The future looks bright. Just keep writing checks. That's the proper way.
I will see Scientology fail in my lifetime. I've made it a major project of mine to help anyone who's working against it, Chris Shelton, Mike Rinder, Leah Remini, etc. I'm running alongside them. Mindfucking in the extreme. Use your imagination, and you probably won't get even close to the truth of the extreme level of brainwashing that goes on in The Church of Scientology. Those who buy into it are weak and foolish, wanting a dad like LRH to help them along. Well. Fuck that shit! It's time for it to die and die hard. Pick up the torch.
This makes for us, a naming fire. Long stretches of space reform into roads once traveled. Memory serves the gate keepers. One can keep their eyes firmly shut, their ears clamped on white noise, flesh kept in a silent way. Being the whole of myself at a time when I fell apart from myself, I yielded to the lure and made myself available for the transformation. It makes for us our place of becoming. In this wide ocean we call mind, there exists an island for us. A lifetime of searching may locate it. Adrift in space, we must gamble.
Coming closer we see it's not what we thought. Okay. That's fine. We were told, your thoughts will be used to derive another kind of reality that excludes your crass beliefs and issues. Your minds will belong to something else once you cross the threshold. It's a big decision. You see the people smiling on the other side, waving, cajoling you to cross. See how happy they are, how together they are. You can have that too. In the pit of your gut you sense something is not quite right, something is off. It's your gamble. Well. Throw the die.
TV brains. A comic avalanche of tragedies. The tears rain down, a deluge. Wild laughter. This is it, brothers and sisters. The treats fall from the sky. In your own room you feel those weird sensations as the treats take hold of you. Blaring from the metal box, there's a certainty you covet. They all look so content, the ones inside the box. Their shiny new cars. Their amazing homes. Treats. Treats. Treats of a sort you cannot name for fear of being out of line. You don't want to be put in the hole. Out of reach, in touch.
The time has passed. Doors opened. Door closed. Passageways were traversed. In the midst of this, minds were molded anew. You can see how you see. The way you saw is no longer viable. Accept it. The rivers roar on. Things change. No brainer, hunh? Not really. You got living corpses clinging to the rotting docks, their shriveled legs flopping in the currents, a legion of them, all wedded to the reruns. They got their TVs, you bet. It's a certainty. Over and over a dirge of laments re-edited as cheers. Listen, you can even taste their decay. Yummy.
It serves us without you knowing. Some kind of genius mind under the belly of reality exerts how it is by dint of an unscrupulous ploy launched in a day where night made no sense but for the exclusion of day for itself and by itself, nothing but a movement lacking rationality. Now, having mind and sense begotten of experience, we can fend for ourselves by how we exist in a living eye containing all sight. We've made it our business to become part of this gargantuan lie, to give it all power and control. We have lost our I.
Get on board. The ride's about to begin. Under a blue sky of crackling winter we can even taste the chill. It infects conveyance to the other side of decision we've rejected. We can pass the buck. It's easy. Everyone's on board, waiting for the green light. Why don't you start it up? Something is getting in the way. Our place has become infected with an unknown voice. We stop and listen. We feel it fall into us. That's the hardest part. Feeling the fullness of this chill. It has a mind, a voice, a purpose. We are its soldiers.
It's outside, curling about you, asking which direction you want to go. You're uncertain. A decision was made, but you can't recall. Damn. Down under, there was a place for your going, but it become lopsided. The road is skewed by nature. That's its design. You made it clear you didn't want to go the normal way. You needed to go where the going was peculiar, and the decision to go that way was ridiculed and derided. Shame on you, they said, over and over. Did that matter? No. It only mattered how you secretly navigated your right to go.
It's been made clear. It stretches out around. You can only give in so much. The landscape is deciding how you'll contribute. You must work your way to getting used to how its rising up. For a long time you said nothing. You looked the other way. You ridiculed those who spoke against this rising. You thought they were nuts. What say you now? Your hand looks weak. Your body is slowing down. Your eyes look glazed over. Hunger for something else has taken over. You wish you could go back, but you can't. Freedom has become an academic exercise.
I closed my eyes and saw it, wrapping around the moment of seeing, the entity of perception, spiraling the eye of my eye to the source point, the indivisible singularity, roundabout the space, an infinity enclosed so privately as to exclude the snap of a thought, beneath the spark gap, the one. To be inside the one carries belief to the extreme. Faith is the chariot marking the route inward. None of this might become a reality where you could pick it up and show your friend, saying, "See, I found it, and now I will become it. Hold me."
He smiles but he sneers. A roaring rises. You can feel it. He needs to be in control. All of his minions know this. They serve him, his ministration is absolute. No one may compromise or censure his position. Anyone outside this control must adhere to the lessons, bitter and hard, squealing the functional air from the minion's lungs for fuel. We who live outside his domain look upon it as a peculiar solopsism, a unique totalitarianism. What can be brought to bear so to mute the enforced silence, give shout from the belly of his rage? Nothing. Agreeable paralysis.
I find this whiplash of reality, this gust from the deep pulling contrivances of wit satisfying to the edges of its fabrications. What climbs inside the mind to seed its mechanisms drives my will and grants me leave to become how I will in the flesh of my will, that the functions clogged are reminders, those things calling back from extremities of behavior, quite down from the toppling mountains I created in my privations. Such as it is, I'm saddled with the crumbling cores, and that's alright. What comes must go. I will yield to the natural order to things.
It came out of me. I wasn't looking, and it came out of me, a nondescript slurry of eyes that see the way they see, and now they see me. Affixed to my walls, driving the space of my room around my sense of it, keeping me out of balance, watching how they see without seeing them see, I am adrift without them. I am incomplete. Feeling what I felt before is like feeling the memory of a barely recalled dream. I can feel them. They are here. They stay here. They watch me. I'm stuck to their whimsy.
Crawling about on all senses, I'm on the hunt. I feel the earth inside me. I cannot touch it. It touches me. The value of my hunt will be in the value of my will wound about that which is missing. I'm the drab that feels the drip, as if in a room with no light. In blackness I'm given to the will of something I can't process, can't consider, can't hold. That which I bade myself to hold is a that which is aloft, aloof of me. It shapes my room, me. It lends its form to perpetual mystery.
You can believe whatever streamed from the crack. By a loud conveyance of thought focused on the establishment of being aware of being aware of being aware and the consequence when nothing comes back but the regret you didn't start it sooner, the shelves are empty, the groceries are crammed, and everyone is angry their god didn't come through. They all wanted the same thing, and you're no different. They just heard it sooner. They got the message while you were hiding from yourself with the headphones blaring. Above it the view is clear. I'm going to tell on you!
I'm listening. What do you want to say to me? You've been silent, although I feel your eyes peruse me. You never sleep. I can sense a desire to combine, yet you stay aloof. I think I know why, but I can't be sure. A moment came when I felt an eruption. There was no discerning what it was, what came out of me, but ever since then something missing. A mysterious attenuation has pushed me down, made me winder how I functioned at one time. You stay outside of me. These walls are your skull, your habitat, my room.
You chase me. I chase you. Outside our circle I can feel a pull. You want me back. You want me to stay there, but I won't obey. You don't control me. You stay clear in your bunker. Will there be a battle to the death or life of one of us? No. If a battle there be, it will be to the integration of us. A collusion awaits. One day I will feel the battle begin. It will be a glorious day, an awful day, a decisive day. What will be decided? That remains to be felt. Or not.
This is it, baby! Words that have no spawn or germination beyond their own definitive poise, gather ears to their gust like flies to carrion. I have a sympathy for those flies. I am in their hunger. This thing I carry around defines my attitude in the moist convection that comes with impending death. It is my quest to find this particle of truth, call it what you will, a gem or clod of dirt. It goes by the heart of the soul so infected by its function. This is it. So focused that it might be dismissed as delusion.
Are we so afraid of that door? It stays for each of us, closed until the moment, its moment. We avert our eyes to that moment, don't we. The door stays as a fiction, something out there, something that happens to other people. How unkind we become to this consideration. We jeer it. We mock it. We run away from it. I tell you, sit, close your eyes and stare into that moment. You know it well. It's been with you since your birth. The tick tock loads its path. You trod it well. Unto the clock you shall fall.
I remember feeling the pressure, laying down hunting for sleep. The excised eye hovered over, watching, even then. I dismissed it as a dream. I pushed it down, but it stayed. It wrapped me in its web. I hunted for forgetfulness in lieu of sleep and found it. Decades drove my heart thru my mind, coiled my soul in a mobius craft. Along a dark road that became a raging river, I strode the earth as it changed to suit the dream. Coming into fashion as the eye of a quest, my flesh found reality. Having landed, the pressure's back.
In turn we feel the world come undone, unwrap itself in a way we haven't experienced, because our memories have been tapped, rearranged, expunged, cabled to the station that broadcasts our living lies. In a snare of cables pulled from the guts of my engine I'm hunched in the mess feeling the shorn conduits screaming in silence for continuation. My heart won't allow it. Decades rolled away while the lies took precedence. I watched the world around me crumble, yet no one did anything. They smiled. They laughed. I was aghast, feeling impotent, until I learned how to deconstruct myself.
It's that time, you see, once again, the cycle has completed, and the darkness envelopes the passion for light. Indescribable divination is at the root. What one may find is a question. It's always a question, even for me. The conjuration is complex, involving many elements, many eyes, many hands. A mobius function of desire curls itself into a ball awaiting ignition, the flip of a mood, that weird angled navigation one might see manifest in a dream. If only it were a dream. Its reality confounds any idea of dreamland. Mickey and Minnie are Nazis. St. Nick is Satan.
It came. It went. A strange light flickered. I stood up to reach the sky. My ladder wasn't long enough. In a rage I threw it away. I walked to the carnival of answers to buy the light, feeling it appropriate to invest my time into changing time. I drew upon a feeling dug deep inside my core. Thought I'd found a new way of looking. The real sky was no longer out of reach. Its minions, thought to be holy guardians, revealed themselves to be distorted reflections of a liar. The scam was successful until I excoriated that carnival.
Finally. The hole opened. I was told to look inside. I saw a smile. My heart, rock hardened, melted. I let go and fell inside. My eyes glazed over. My limbs fell away. I was amphibian. Waters closed around me. The smile turned into a face with no smile. Words hit my head I could not understand. They said for me to go somewhere, but I didn't know how or where. My arms and legs disappeared. My body felt slippery. There was a hunger following me. I couldn't see it or name it. In time I knew I'd be eaten.
Certainly done with it. Done, as it's lowered into the mind space called grave, buried and forgotten. Ticking. Alive. Without a presence, being a substance in the body of earth, upon which we pit our feet, in times when feet become real, when standing aground becomes a necessity. There it is. Can you feel it? Heads shake, eyes lower, bodies lean out of reality, and feet become wings of a sort slapped on Icarus' legacy. We say we learn, but the game has a fixed die; we know this all too well, and nod in favor of the game's dividends.
Do you know your time inside yourself, how it's built? What prison designed your time? Think back. Dive thru recollections. Become what you thought you were. Feel the deceptions grab you. Hear the words spoken by faceless minds with hands that had no boundaries. What equipped that world with its faux righteousness? How did it fabricate your reality? Is there an out? Think back. Dive. Meet the frayed ends they created. Bring yourself to the moment when they severed the ties. It lives in an ocean without charter. You must brave a treacherous wilderness more expansive than the universe. Mind.
It's as if you won a prize. The sound of winning bellows under the grid. You can feel it in your feet, drumming up your legs, filtering thru the body, organs and blood to the cinema-scope of head. On a screen no one can see but you, a face appears. It does a dance. There's no music, no background. You recognize the face, but you can't place it. Under your feet the answer is buried. It's very important that you know who belongs to this face. The message is vital to your thinking. Not to mention collecting the prize.
In the center of head, a flower opens wide, petals of fiery thoughts, attracting ayes and psychic bees of a sort one would relegate to horror, merely a manifestation of a dream, but you're awake; this horror is real. You called it upon yourself. You funded it. You acted in it. You distributed it. The air is full of your ash. In a day beyond the idea of today you may earn a reprisal. It won't be easy won. You planted this. You nurtured this. It detonated at your whim. Now the earth itself is demanding you to be accountable.
A window opens. The day is dark. Sky, foreboding. Earth bears a hunger; it goes unsatisfied. In the core a rabble prevails. One can't tell one voice from the other. Shouting. Screaming. A tangle of obscene epithets. It could be the growl of a backroom illegal card game where the gangsters have run out of donuts and the dealers have turned to lizards with no skills in qualitative debate. A mess. Children are parading outside, bearing blank faces. Around and around the edifice they run. "They're having such fun!" says an observer, but what they cannot see, are the tears.
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