I was dreaming, as usual. I was in my own private mind-created dream. In my dream I was standing at the counter of my local burger bar. I was going to order a Super Whopper. I was paying my respects to the King. ‘I’ll have a Super Triple Stack Whopper,’ I say, but the words don’t come out right. They’re all slowed down and echoey, it’s as if the world had suddenly started running at one quarter speed.
‘What must consciousness be like?’ I asked sadly. What must it be like, what must it be like? All I know is this terrible trudging about in the mechanical realm. I’ve got my Velcro boots on and I’m walking on an endless Velcro carpet. Down an endless corridor. All that exists is this terrible plonking of one foot in front of the other and the horrible sticky sound it makes. ‘That other world,’ I said to myself, ‘that inner world of consciousness. What must it be like to live in that world?’ That was a world I knew nothing about, I reflected sadly. All I knew was the harsh mechanical world of force and counter-forces, the world of crushing hammer blows that come out of the blue, the world of unrelenting fear, the world of cruelty and need.
‘You should let the demon gnaw your head off,’ the voice told me, ‘it’s good for them.’ We do owe a debt of allegiance to the demons after all. Let the demon gnaw your head off, let the demon gnaw your head off, let the demon gnaw your head off,’ the voice instructed me, only it wasn’t so much a voice as a reverberation that was happening deep in my bones. I call it ‘the Reverberation Factor’. Even when you deliberately don’t focus on what the voice is telling you can still feel it – it’s a very physical communication. It’s as if your molecules are vibrating in time to the instructions of the voice. The demons demand your obedience – you owe it to them after all. It’s not as if there could be any other purpose to your life.
The dreams are coming thick and fast now; it’s as if I am being continuously pelted with soft clumps of dream-material. Every time one hits me I forget everything and the dream takes me over for a minute or two. Waking up briefly from each dream, I can’t know what was in it. I can’t know what it was that I’d been dreaming about. All that remains is the faint flavour of small, musty spaces and a faint residual sense of frantic, futile activity. My own frantic, futile activity. The futile struggling to be free, perhaps. Free from the claustrophobic clutches of the dream, free from the sense of deeply-ingrained worry that will never let you go. Free from the terrible oppression of all that confused sense of need. Need is all you know in this realm, it occurs to me. Need drives everything, need is all there is. Need and the constant futile struggle to escape that need.
‘What makes up your existence?’ someone might ask me. ‘Need and the constant futile struggle to escape that need.’ I would reply. That’s the curse of the mechanical life, after all; that’s the treadmill we all have to keep treading. It’s all about maintaining productivity, that’s the all-important thing. Producing the product is very important. No one knows what the product is of course – that’s not for us to know. Our lot is simply to keep on trudging and not asking why. Our lot is to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Only I do know what the mysterious product is – don’t ask me how I know but I do. The product is food for the Great Parasite, the Great Parasite to whom we all owe our allegiance.
Walking up to the bar. A bit of a swagger to my step. ‘I’m here to see my mate Ronnie,’ says I. I’m in my own private dream, which is all going on in my head, nowhere else. Nowhere else. All in my head. Everything is going fine, everything is going swimmingly. I was purchasing some of the Product. This was all going to plan; it was all going the way I intended. ‘Can I have a Big Tasty,’ I ask, in a relaxed and casual fashion, as if I’ve been doing this my whole life. ‘I’ll have a Big Tasty please.’ I’ll have a Big Tasty, I’ll have a Big Tasty, I’ll have a Big Tasty… The words are all turning to mush in my mouth however. The words don’t mean anything anymore.