The best just got better. How good is that? How good must that be? That must be pretty damn good, huh? That’s got to be good. Or it could be good. It might be good. It probably is quite good. Definitely good, I’d say. ‘I’d say it’s good,’ my mind pipes up from where it lies sprawled out gracelessly upon the sofa. How to describe my mind? He is tall and lanky with a scraggly untidy forked beard, faded blue jeans and a bad attitude. A kind of cocky attitude, you could say. We don’t really get on, my mind and I, as you can probably tell from the less-than-flattering tone of my description. It’s not that I hate him but rather that I can’t help seeing him as being somewhat immature and self-centred. Which aren’t the most attractive of characteristics as we all know. He’s just a bit of a wanker, when all is said and done. He’s a bit of a tosser. A total tosser, in fact. If he ever got off the sofa to do a bit of work that would be something. Not that anyone has ever seen that happen of course! Not that they ever would. ‘Get a fucking job you hippie wanker,’ I growl angrily, ‘do something useful for a fucking change.’ My mind ignores me however and continues watching some shit on the TV. My mind always ignores me – sometimes I wonder if it actually ever hears a word that I say. ‘Get up off the fucking sofa you bastard!’ I shout, losing my rag entirely. Losing my cool. It’s not that I hate him, all the same. I’m just frustrated with his laziness and his continual bad attitude. I think he needs a short sharp shock but I’m not the one to get involved in that. That’s a job for the proper authorities, I say to myself, not a matter to be taken into my own hands. Margaret Thatcher would have sorted the likes of him out, I mutter angrily, unable to let the whole thing go. Nothing wrong with my mind that a good kick in the pants won’t sort out, I think slyly. I smile as I imagine myself doing just that. I imagine the look on his smug self-indulgent face when he catches a damn good kick right in the arse. A good solid kick, catching him squarely in the pants and without him seeing it coming either! My smile grows wider and wider. I can just picture his expression – shock and pain combined! The perfect combination. Shock and sharp pain expertly combined to create the perfect remedy for the unbearable indolence and fecklessness that my wretched mind typifies. ‘How do you like that you, you little shit? I imagine myself asking him. ‘You didn’t see that coming now did you, you dumb fuck?’ That would sort the bastard out. There’s no point in talking to him. Talking doesn’t work with my mind, as I believe I’ve already said. Talking is just a waste of time…
I don’t know if anyone knows what it means to be ‘Living Under The Shadow’ – I don’t know anyone that I can talk to about that. No one knows this thing – and yet I do. I know it, in some kind of a confused and uncertain way, but I am not sure how to go about explaining it. If I had the power, I would put this understanding down on paper; somehow – though – I fear that this task is beyond me. I must try however, I must try. Even if I fail, I must try…
Imagine that there is a man, a Man of Darkness. He is taller than the trees, taller than a mountain and his shadow falls over all of us. We all walk in his shadow – his shadow consumes us all! This ‘shadow’ is his will for us, his control of us; what he wills for us we think we will for ourselves and so we can never step out of his shadow. When we are under his shadow we do his bidding without ever knowing it; when we are under his shadow we do not exist, and yet we think that we do. We have only a shadow existence. His will is our will and his will is that we shall ever be his slaves. His will is that we shall ever be poor shadows…
Generations come and go and all live under the shadow of the Man of Darkness, he who stands taller than the trees, he who stands taller than the tallest mountain range. What we want, what we think, never counted for anything and never will do for as long as we live under his shadow – this shadow that we call the whole world, this shadow that is the only world we will ever know. Our will doesn’t count for anything – it is an infinitely feeble vestigial reflex, that’s all – it’s a ‘non-functional organ’. We should have used it once in a while, but we didn’t. This ‘Man of Darkness’ is the Creator God as far as we are concerned – he has created our world. We don’t realise that this world is merely his shadow. It’s no world at all, but it’s the only world we have. It’s no life at all, but it’s the only life we have. It’s the Shadow Life that he gives to us.
This being the case, it is our lot to fear the light. All creatures of darkness must fear the light, must they not? Must we not? We might hate the shadow world, we might loathe it and fear it for what it is, but we fear the light more. We always fear the light more. We fear to peer out from under the cloak of the Man of Darkness, we won’t stick our heads out for any price! For us, the light is fear itself and we deny it at every turn. The lie we all subscribe to is the Great Lie, the lie that the Shadow itself is light, the lie that the Shadow is all the light we will ever need, the lie that there is nothing worthwhile outside of the Shadow. We blindly subscribe to the lie that the terribly chill shadow is not a shadow, and that we poor controlled creatures are not children of darkness. This lie fuels our most terrible acts – it both fuels these acts and excuses them.
If the Man of Darkness were to walk away and leave us then we would have no more shadow to cling to; we would be exposed to the light, the light we have spent our whole lives denying, and so we can imagine no fate worse than this. This is the nature of our terrible dependency – we hate and fear the Man of Darkness, and yet we fear being without him even more. We will always come crawling back to him, our tails between our legs, ready to accept the cruel punishment that he, in his wrath, is going to mete out to us. We will accept this punishment as we always accept it, for we know no other way.
And yet – despite all that we have just said – there is a sense in which our grim master allows us a bit of freedom, a taste of freedom at least. In a certain provisional sort of way we are ‘left in peace to be ourselves’; we do not for the most part feel the weight of the yoke that is upon us – the illusion of freedom (at least) is given to us. The iron fist is sheathed within the velvet glove, only to come out on the rare occasion, only to come out when it is really needed. For this reason we can all say that we are free, and feel moreover that we mean what we say. We can say loudly that we are free, and honestly believe what we say. It is – for the most of the time at least – almost as if we are free and so we need look no further than this. If we were to see the cruel yoke that lies upon us all the days of our lives then we would not be able to find the strength to continue. ‘The crop would fail’ – have you not heard this phrase before? Some poor illusion of free will is needed or else the crop will fail. Or else the crop will surely fail.
When the time comes however for the Man of Darkness, who is taller than all the trees, taller than all the mountains, to reassert himself, then this takes no effort on his part. Whatever poor illusion of free will we have, it is taken away from us so easily, so very easily. It is easier than taking candy from a baby. It is taken away from us easily as it is because it was never there in the first place. I wonder if our dark Master even knows that he is doing anything when he takes our freedom away. Would he not take it as his due? It must be like stretching out one’s arm to pick up a cup – there is no feeling of overcoming any resistance, one simply exerts one’s will and it is done. Us poor hapless human creatures spring up immediately to do his bidding and we don’t even know that he exists…
The Dark Master doesn’t have any consideration or regard for us at all. We exist to enact his will and that is all as far as he’s concerned. Maybe he would be aware of us if we had the strength to actually resist his will but we don’t. Maybe he would be pissed off then; maybe he would be angered and would bring his full force to bear down on us then, to break us asunder. I don’t know – I can only imagine. This much I do know however – that what we want and think and do is just some kind of illusory freedom that has allowed us in order to keep us going – it could all be taken away from us in an instant if he so wished. Our existence is a sham; we don’t exist at all. Just as long as we live in his shadow we have only a make-believe existence, a fantasy existence that can be revoked at the top of a hat. If we truly want existence then we would have to earn it, and who amongst us is ever going to take that on?
My own part, all I feel is fear when I think of earning my freedom. What I feel is fear. All I know is fear. My awareness has shown me something it is true – it has provided with me with a terrifying knowledge of my own weakness. It has provided me with a paralyzing awareness of my own weakness. Now, I truly know just how weak and ineffectual I actually am, and I also know just how dark is the shadow that covers us all. We can’t even get close to imagining just how powerful he is, this Man of Darkness in whose shadow we walk every day. Even to try to explain this to someone would be to be met with instant (and probably hostile) incomprehension – who on earth is even going to listen to you?
When I was but a very small child, no bigger than a gnat, many, many years hence from now, I used to hear tales of the Mumbly-Jumbly Man. Or rather, I will hear them, ‘way back when’ in ‘the past that has yet to happen’ or – as we might also quite legitimately say – ‘way back when’, in ‘that incredibly distant future that has already occurred’. Human reason is easily confused and that in itself is a key part of the right and proper role of the Mumbly-Jumbly Man – to confuse still further the easily confused reason of humankind.
The Mumbly-Jumbly Man is – as the future-legends tell us – the ancient but yet to be enemy of bureaucracy and order, and when he appears life-giving chaos is sure to follow in his footsteps. ‘But what was he like as an actual real person?’ we want to know. What were his hobbies, what were his interests, did he have a good sense of humour – did he have any friends, and if it was the case that he did, what would they have said about him? Where did he go to school? Did he have any moral failings that we ought to know about? Was he a religious man? Did he go to church? Was he a bit of an oddball or was he a team player? Did he like sport? But all of this matters as nothing, of course. All of this matters as nothing.
The tale begins as it always begins – the tale begins as it always shall begin. Great evil had settled upon the land and there were no more heroes left anywhere in the world. People had forgotten that there ever was such a thing as heroes. No one could remember their names. Instead of heroes they had superheroes, who weren’t real but only fantasy. When the great evil came therefore, the superheroes proved to be no good; their power was great indeed in the fantasy realm of men and women’s minds, but it counted for nothing when the chips were down. Alas, over the weary millennia, humankind had succumbed to the lure of the fantasy realm where there are splendid superheroes who cannot be defeated, or if they can then they will in time rally around even more splendidly and win victory the second time around, against all the odds.
Against all the odds, against all the odds – we never give up hope because we know all will be saved at the end of the day! The superheroes will win the day – that’s what they are there for, after all. Alas, when great evil came however it came not in the fantasy world of men and women’s dreams, but in the actual reality itself, where no one had thought to look. The enemy – ever cunning – had appeared in the one place no one had ever expected him to – in reality! Ever cunning the enemy, ever cunning the enemy. Taken completely by surprise, humanity succumbed without a fight – no hero appeared at mankind’s hour of need and so the enemy’s victory was complete.
Or will be complete, whichever way round you choose to look at it. A shadow had fallen (will fall) upon the world – and having fallen – it did not/will not ever shift again. Soulless corporations rule the earth. Demons with the fat bland faces of hedge-fund managers sat in the seats of power. ‘But what of the Mumbly-Jumbly Man?’ I hear you ask, ‘What of the MJM? Where was he? What role does he play?’ Alas – the Mumbly-Jumbly Man never once appeared. Of him there was no sign. No one even knew his name. And yet perhaps one day he will return to Earth, just as the ancient future-legends say…
‘Am I really me?’ I wondered. ‘Am I really a person?’ For a second or two I can’t even seem to make sense of the question that I am attempting to ask myself here. I know there is activity going on in my mind but I have no idea as to what it means. I’m trying to get my mind to do something but I’m not sure what it is. I’m making mental activity happen but that activity is meaningless to me. The activity I have caused to occur in my mind alienates me all the more. ‘I’m happy,’ I tell myself, ‘I’m having a good time’… I don’t know what these words mean though. I know it’s important for me to say them but I don’t know what they mean.
I didn’t used to be like this, I know that much! Things used to be different for me, things used to be better than this. Things used to be good. It is no comfort for me to know this of course, no comfort at all. ‘How did things go so wrong?’ I asked myself. ‘However did things go so wrong?’ I used to be a person, I used to have a life, I tell myself. ‘Hands up everyone who used to have a life,’ the group facilitator asks, looking around the room with an engaging smile on his face. At least, I imagine that it’s meant to be engaging. I can only assume that it is.
Hands up everyone who used to have a life, hands up everyone who used to have a life. I don’t trust it though; I keep thinking that this must be some kind of trick. Some kind of cruel trick. I’m the only person in the room – I’m trapped in a bubble made up of my own aggressive projections. I am aggressing myself. I am expressing hostility towards myself but I’m not admitting to it! I have created a hostile environment for myself. ‘Hands up everyone who used to have a life,’ the group facilitator asks, looking around the room. He has an engaging smile on his face. ‘Hands up, hands up, hands up…’ I sit there without moving, staring sullenly into the middle distance. I’m not playing ball.
I used to be happier than this, I realised. I used to have an actual personality. It wasn’t a very nice one, but at least it was something. I used to have friends, even though none of them liked me. I used to hang out with them on occaison. ‘This is body reshaping at its best,’ screamed the advert from the nearby speaker, ‘Why don’t you drop into your local clinic for a quote?’ ‘I’ve gone a bit too far for that now,’ I remarked to myself conversationally, after a moment or two. I’m in a grubby little fast food restaurant, sitting alone at a dingy-looking table. There is no one else here but me. The whole place is an eloquent expression of my own repressed hostility towards myself. The hostility is everywhere. Even the food that I’m sitting here eating is saturated with it. Especially the food that I’m sitting here eating is saturated with it!
Do you know that thing where you know that you’ve got no one to blame for your situation but yourself, and that just makes you hate yourself all the more? No one to blame but yourself, no one to blame but yourself. Your situation is bleak beyond all comparison, and you’ve got no one to blame for it but yourself. No one to blame but yourself and your terrible terrible hostility. Passive though it may be. No one else to blame in the whole wide world but yourself and that’s why you have created the hostile environment for yourself. Because it’s only what you deserve. So you’re sitting there in the hostile environment that you’ve created and the pain and desolation you feel only goes to make you hate yourself all the more. You know the situation I’m talking about, I presume? I mean, we’ve all been there, am I right? Isn’t that the place we all keep coming back to, sooner or later?
Nobody likes a telepath. I laugh as I reflect on the undeniable truth of this statement! Of course no one likes a telepath. Of course a telepath is always going to be shunned by normal, decent folk. That’s a truism – people will always shun a telepath. And this isn’t because of any kind of dumb ‘fear of the mutant-‘ type business like we see in the X-Men movies. Oh no. The reason behind it is much more prosaic than that – it’s simply because none of us wants anyone else to be reading our loathsomely scurrilous thoughts. It’s as simple as that – we’d be embarrassed. We’d be more than embarrassed, we’d be humiliated to the core…
I know this and you know this, and there’s no point in saying otherwise. That’s just the way things are. We all – and I am speaking on behalf of more or less the entire human race here – love to hang out with people who aren’t telepaths, people we can’t tell what we’re really thinking. That says it all really doesn’t it? That just about says it all. We love to pretend, essentially, and we most certainly don’t want to be caught out in our pretending! It’s a very uncomfortable thing to be pretending, and believing in one’s own pretending (as we do), and then at the same time be aware that there someone out there knows that we are pretending, knows that we are lying. No one likes that you see, nobody likes that at all.
That makes me think about all that stuff that they used to put on the Internet about how fluoride clogs up the third eye and prevents us from being able to have psychic vision, or whatever we want might to call it. We were all getting so outraged about that, how stupid and malevolent the government is and all sorts of stuff like that. The ridiculous thing about all of this however is that no one actually wants to have their third eye opened anyway! That’s the last thing anyone wants! We’d have to see the truth about ourselves then and that would come as a very big shock. That would come as a very big shock indeed, I can tell you! Fuck that, right? Fuck seeing the truth. Can you think of anyone you know who genuinely wants to have their third eye opened? Sure, we talk about it. We never get tired of talking about it, but that’s because we’re yappers. That’s the only reason we go on so much about it – because we’re yappers!
That’s why we like to talk about spiritual stuff so much. Did you ever hear so much talk? Did you ever hear so much mouthing off? If the amount of spiritual blogs and conscious websites and inspiring quote-sites and YouTube mindfulness and internet gurus and online seminars is anything to go by then we would have to assume that the human race was rapidly approaching enlightenment. But no, it’s not, it’s simply that we love to yap. No other human activity brings us such joy. All those spiritual bloggers aren’t blogging because they love to disseminate spiritual truths; they’re blogging because they love to yap. Or should I say because they love to pretend? Spiritual types are the worst, aren’t they? We love to pretend that we’re so damn spiritual, and that we’re not just gobshytes looking for some kind of crappy temporary advantage in life so we can kid ourselves that we’ve got something going for us and feel good as a result.
Anyway, that’s it. That’s all I have to say. I don’t know what else to say, to be honest. It’s a tale relating to the loneliness of the telepath, who is shunned at every corner. It’s an everyday tale of the unbearable loneliness of the long-distance telepath. A tale of loneliness, a tale of loneliness. I don’t know what else I can say. Just that it’s all about playing the game that we all love to play even though we hate it – even though we hate and despise it and hate and despise ourselves too for playing it when there was never any real need to go down this road! We just did. We just did go down that most loathsome of roads and there’s nothing else anyone can say on the subject. There’s nothing else I can say on the subject anyway! I’m done here…
I found myself wondering earlier today what it would be like to be a Deva in the Deva Realm right at the end of one’s ten thousand year lifespan. Or however long it is. It’s about that long, I think. I’m not so interested in the period leading up to this point – which is when everything is ‘going swimmingly’, as I suppose you could say. That’s when you’re right there in the glory of it and what could be more glorious than being a Deva in the Deva Realm? ‘What indeed?’ you echo – ‘what indeed?’
Talk about kudos! How much kudos is there in being a Deva in the Deva Loka? It doesn’t get any better than that, I don’t think. That is – after all – the whole point of being a god! The whole point of being a god is that it doesn’t get any better than that. You’ve got constant good health, you never get sick, and if you get injured then you regenerate straight away, like a lizard re-growing its tail. You’re good-looking, you have a great physique, you are incredibly charismatic and you have special godlike powers, whatever they might be. You can use your own imagination for that. The kudos involved is absolutely incredible, therefore. Everyone wants to hang out with you – not that you would hang out with just anybody of course! You be selective. You can afford to be.
For the most part you’d be hanging out with other Devas, I guess. All of them as charismatic and good-looking as you. All of them with awesome godlike powers. But all of that isn’t what I am wanting to talk about – that stuff’s irrelevant to the point of my discussion. When I’m interested in is the period right at the end of your ten thousand year lifespan when you start to develop a kind of unpleasant body odour that lets all the other Devas know that you are approaching the final phase of your life cycle. The Devas are all in denial of death you see, so of course no one wants to know you then. Your friends all find ways of melting off into the background when you appear on the scene. Somehow they all have something else they need to be doing. Something else, that is, that doesn’t involve hanging out with you!
So that’s it really. I was imagining what it would be like to be a Deva in the final phase of the God-Realm existence. It’s like having a really bad body-odour problem and everyone being too embarrassed to tell you straight to your face that there’s an issue there. So they just avoid you instead. It’s like that, only it’s about a billion times worse. After all, if you had BO then when you finally cop on to it then you can go and have yourself a shower and that will be the end of the problem. What we’re looking at here isn’t a problem that can be solved quite simply as that I’m afraid. What we’re looking at here is a problem that can’t be solved at all.
People hate that, don’t they? People hate any mention of a problem that can’t be solved, no matter how long you rack your brains over it. No matter how much you put yourself out over it. ‘There’s always a solution, you’ve just got to think of it.’ is what people like to say. People always like to say that they are ‘solution-focused’! Poor sad bastards. When these positive-thinking heroes say ‘there’s always a solution’ the solution they’re really thinking about is the solution of ‘not facing the truth’. That’s the solution they are all getting so excited about! That’s the solution that’s giving them wet dreams! There’s always a solution buddy, you just keep telling yourself that. Only when you find yourself in the situation that I’m talking about here there isn’t. That’s what makes this particular situation so interesting – how bad do you think that would feel? I’d say that would feel pretty damn awful, wouldn’t you? I kind of identify with this poignant situation. I can relate it to me – the only difference, I suppose, being that I never had any of the good stuff that comes before it. I never actually had any kudos and so I guess that makes it easier for me…
I was struggling for identity but I was struggling too hard. I was struggling for identity but I was struggling far too hard. I was fighting for what wasn’t mine. I’ve said all this before, haven’t I? I was struggling to maintain my dignity in an uncomfortable situation. I had been caught out lying and it wasn’t the first time! I was up before the tribunal and it wasn’t going well. I was in the land of the shape-shifters and I had lost my grip. I was wandering in my mind. Wondering like a lost fool. I taken leave of my senses but before very long they had all came home to roost. In my head, I was running through all my possibilities but there were none left to me. Can you imagine the predicament I found myself in? I had all the answers but none of the questions, I knew exactly what to do but I didn’t know when to do it! I paced up and down the corridor trying desperately to remember what door I just come out of. This was no ordinary corridor however, as I’m sure you can appreciate. I was in an immersive environment. I kept losing myself – I kept losing myself in the in the immersive environment. I was lost without a trace. ‘Who am I really?’ I asked myself. My co-workers were all against me – I could tell by the way they looked at each other with unreadable expressions on their faces every time I walked into the room. Everyone was avoiding me – I had probably done something wrong, but it didn’t know what it was. I had let myself down, I had made the wrong decision. I carried on restlessly pacing the corridor, I didn’t know which door to go in – a mistake could be fatal at this stage. Some worlds are just not supportive of human life, some worlds have toxic atmospheres. Some worlds contain dangerous predators – they hunt by telepathy, like all the most advanced predators do. They can track you by your thoughts, and you are not able to stop thinking. You don’t know how. Nobody had ever told you. Some worlds are terribly, terribly hostile. You wouldn’t last more than a few hours at the best. Maybe only minutes. I arrived late for the meeting, out of breath and full of fears that I was unable to articulate to myself. The predators trap their prey by creating intensely immersive environments – the very moment you step into them you are lost! I was as helpless as a baby, wide open to any attack. They play on your emotions; they feed on your fear. They get fat on your confusion. Who is feeding on my fear, I wondered? Who is profiting from my confusion? Who is the secret controller? ‘Who am I really?’ I asked myself. Who was I before I became lost in this immersive environment? Probably I’d done something very wrong, I realised. Probably I had made some bad choices but I couldn’t remember what they were.