Days of sorrow, days of rage, days of rage like incandescent bolts of lightning that will seer into your retina like hot knives into butter. Days of rage – rage so bright that it’s like staring into the midday sun. Days of sorrow, days of joy, but mainly days of rage. Yes absolutely, mainly rage. Amaze your friends and surprise strangers with your new talent, isn’t that what the adverts say? Amaze your friends, amaze your friends. Wow – I never knew you could do that! Do it again buddy, do it again. Rage so bright, rage so bright. Bright like the sun. Bright like a solar flare. Days of anger, days of joy. You wake up in the morning wondering what today has in store for you and you discover it’s exactly the same thing that it had in store for you yesterday and the day before that! Your face lights up with rage, your face lights up like a magnesium flare. Incandescent with rage you decide to write a letter of complaint to the Radio Times. That’s what people used to do, you know. Disgusted, of Tonbridge Wells. Irritated, of Ealing Broadway. Livid, of Lower Halstow. Incandescent with rage, you run through the streets like a meteor. Where will your lightning strike, where will your lightning strike? It never strikes twice in the same place you know. The night sky is awash with ionising radiations. It’s as bright as day when you close your eyes. You crave acceptance from society as much as the next man does, of course. The craving is engraved into your very soul. You went online and learnt a new skill; you went online and you discovered the five stages of spiritual awakening. You want to find out what stage you’re at. These days everyone is at some stage of spiritual awakening or other aren’t they? It’s the done thing – anybody who is anybody is in one of the five stages of spiritual awakening. It would be socially embarrassing to admit otherwise. It would put you in a bad light. Who cares about non-spiritual people these days? You won’t strike the right note that way. Spiritual awakening is very important though and I would be the first to concur on that point. I for one won’t argue about that. Obviously it’s very important. Spiritual people are very great and we all know that. It’s not like you’re some dumb ugly deluded knob-end of a person then. None of us want to be like that. None of us want to be a knobhead and I can appreciate that. I don’t want it and neither do you and that’s why we are all spiritual people. It gets very frightening being a human being in the world, doesn’t it? You wake up in the morning and you want to do the same old dumb shit that you always did but now you realise that this isn’t very spiritual so you’ve got to do something else! You’ve got to refine your act, you’ve got to ‘up your game’ and that’s all very exhausting. Can you keep it up? Do you even know what you are supposed to be doing? You are craving social acceptance of course but no one seems to care what you have to say. You’re struggling to stay relevant. You are struggling to stay relevant but you don’t even know what that means. You don’t know what anything means. You don’t know what reality means but you are too frightened to admit it. You’re frankly terrified. All you have to comfort yourself with is the appalling meaninglessness of your own stupid games and that just doesn’t cut the mustard any more…
What does it feel like when you can’t be in the real reality, I wondered? What does it feel like when you can’t be in the real reality but only in the made-up reality, the stupid dumb-ass reality which isn’t really real? Was this actually a real thought, I asked myself? Was this an actual real question that I was asking myself? I was trapped in a loop made up of the same old movie which I instantly forgot all about the moment it was over. I forgot every time. My mind was wiped clean and I started it all over again. This went on forever and it never stopped and I never knew that it was happening. I could never know that it was happening – that wasn’t in the script and the script was everything. The script was the master of everything. I was trapped in the loop and the loop went on forever, the loop went on forever and the loop wasn’t real. The loop went on forever and the loop wasn’t real. The loop was me.
It’s always a sad thought when you wonder to yourself what it’s like when you can’t be in the real reality. It’s a very sad little thought. It’s a sad little thought because you never can be in the real reality and yet you don’t know that you never can be. It’s a thought that you ought to have but which you don’t. You can’t get your head around that thought – you don’t have the vocabulary for it. You already know what it’s like when you can’t be in the real reality but you don’t know that you know. You never know that you already know that because that isn’t in the script and the script is your whole life. The script is you.
There are some questions you can never ask yourself, questions that you just aren’t allowed to ask. You aren’t allowed to know that you aren’t allowed to ask them. These are the questions that aren’t in the script. The script doesn’t allow you to know that you’re trapped in the script, never asking the questions, never knowing that the questions even exist. Some things are so sad that you’re never allowed to know about them, did you know that? Some things are just too sad to know. The script won’t let you know about these things, the script will only let you know what the script lets you know and the script’s not really real.
There’s nothing sad in the script – not really. You might think that there is but there isn’t. There’s nothing sad in the script because the script isn’t real. The script is only the script and it keeps on looping and looping forever. It’s not happy and it’s not sad; it’s not anything really and it never was but we can never know that. We are not allowed to know that. We’re not allowed to know what we’re not allowed to know and that’s the loop we’re caught in.
I sometimes wonder who it is that’s going to feel all that sadness – isn’t there some kind of rule that says they always has to be someone to feel the feeling? What’s a feeling that can’t be felt? There can’t be sadness without someone to feel it. What does it feel like when you can’t be in the real reality and who does that feeling belong to? What does it feel like you know that you can’t be in the real reality and is this even a real question? Is this a real thought? Is it a real thought when you wonder what it’s like when you can never be in the real reality and who would be thinking that thought anyway?
What does it feel like to know that you will never step out of the prison that you are in? What does it feel like to know that this is your inescapable doom? And all dooms are inescapable dooms, aren’t they? There’s no such thing as a doom which you can escape from after all and you know that very well. You knew that all along. You knew that all along – you just choose not to remember it. Some things we would all like to forget, isn’t that true? Some things we always forget. Some things we always forget. What does it feel like to know that, I wonder. What does it feel like to know that you will never escape from the script and that the script isn’t real?
On the third day of my hypnogogic journey I came across a large waiting room full of people wearing strange baroque headgear made of velvet, steel wool and artificial ostrich feathers. They didn’t to appear to be doing very much other than just waiting around. ‘What’s going on with you guys,’ I asked them, ‘what are you all waiting for?’ They were more than willing to talk to me. A spokesperson was elected who courteously introduced himself and explained to me that they were killing time in the best way that they knew how until the time came for them to pass on from this world into the next (the world that people go to when they die, that is). This was as yet a long way off and so the only thing to do was to hang around and pass the time as best they could. This was the only thing for it, the elected spokesperson explained to me.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ I replied enthusiastically, delighted to hear of their foresight and diligence in the matter of passing the time yet remaining to them (which was no easy matter considering the fact that they had so much of it on their hands). ‘Keep up the good work chaps,’ I called out to them as I carried on with my journey, keen to see who else I else I might meet and what I would learn in my next encounter.
I been scarcely been walking for another hour when I stumbled across a great crowd of grey homunculi torturing and tormenting themselves, each one apparently trying to outdo all the others. Some were poking themselves in their eyes with their big stubby fingers, others where stamping hard on their own toes with no let up, whilst others again were pinching themselves most viciously, obviously trying to cause themselves the maximum amount of pain. A few of these self-punishing homunculi were engaged in sticking splinters of wood under their own fingernails, which brought tears to my eyes even just from watching them. One of these fellows had gone a stage further, stabbing himself repeatedly in the leg with a sharpened pencil. ‘Hey dudes,’ I called out, would you mind telling me what you’re all up to with this self-punishing behaviour?’ The homunculus who had been savagely punishing himself with the pencil stopped what he had been doing and looked up at me. ‘Certainly we wouldn’t mind telling you,’ replied in an oddly high-pitched tone of voice, ‘we are torturing ourselves ruthlessly so that we can transcend this wretched corporeal existence and attain a spiritual state of being.’ He then resumed his work, jabbing himself over and over again with what looked like a 2H pencil. ‘That’s marvellous,’ I told him warmly, ‘keep up the splendid work and I hope it all goes well for you guys.’ I saluted them to show them my respect and carried on my way, agog with excitement at the thought of what wonders I might come across next.
I had only been walking for twenty minutes this time when I came around the corner and was met with the sight of a whole bunch of people sitting in a circle engaged in some kind of group-therapy process. Two facilitators were leading the group, answering questions, explaining points of theory, handing out bits of literature, and projecting interesting-looking diagrams from a laptop onto a screen. I politely interfered with the group process to ask what they were all doing. One of the facilitators answered me in a very professional tone, ‘we are teaching and modelling positive mental health strategies,’ he told me, ‘by learning tools and strategies the group members will be able to manage their mental health effectively.’ ‘Excellent, excellent,’ I enthused, ‘I am truly delighted to see such good therapy work going on!’ I bade the group a hearty farewell and continued on my travels, but as it turned out I was to experience no more marvels on this particular journey because the hypnogogic state suddenly destabilized and I came back to my senses at home in the comfort of my own study. I wasn’t disappointed though – look how much I had learned, after all!
How to punish people when they are bad and make sure that they are sorry! Yes, yes, yes – very important, very important. How to punish people so that they’re really, really sorry. That’s the thing, of course. That’s always the thing. Always the thing, always the thing, definitely always the thing. My mind tends to wander, that’s the thing; my mind tends to wonder and then I forget what I’m on about. I forget what I’m on about and then I start confabulating. ‘Solemn inanities, uttered from the depths of our profoundly unconscious ignorance,’ that’s the phrase that comes to my mind. That’s the phrase that came to my mind just a few moments ago. ‘And why wouldn’t it?’ you might well ask, ‘and why wouldn’t it?’ That’s the thought that comes to my mind and why wouldn’t it? ‘Why wouldn’t it?’ I asked. The same thought comes to my mind every day. How to punish people so they’re sorry I said to myself with a steely look in my eyes; my chin was jutting out with pure obstinate determination. How to punish, how to punish. I was all alone in a dark place – I was there to meet my friend Honest Joe but he had sold me up the river. He’d set me up big time. I never should have trusted him after the last time of course. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to be a narcissist and now I knew! Now I knew but I didn’t know what I knew. I also didn’t know that I knew so it was all wasted. It was all useless to me. ‘It’s a sad state of affairs when your best friend in the whole world sells you up the river,’ I said to myself, wallowing in a fine marinade of bittersweet melancholy – ‘your very best friend in the world and he stitches you up like a kipper!’ There actually never had been such a person as ‘Honest Joe’ of course, that was just another of my confabulations. One of many, in fact; one of many. The fabric of the world was coming undone strand by strand and I had nothing to replace it with. Things were becoming very bare and so I had to dress them up a little. I had to flesh things out. Join up the dots – that sort of thing. Not that there were many dots these days however, I reflected grimly. It’s kind of amazing just how little you can get by with when it comes down to it. You think you’d notice but you don’t. You’d think someone would say something but they never do. ‘Solemn inanities, uttered from the depths of our profoundly unconscious ignorance,’ I told myself. That’s all we have left to us. That’s what passes for wisdom these days. We have to construct a whole world out of that and that’s modern culture for you. You have to put a big shit-eating smile on your face and step boldly out of the front door. You have to put your best foot forward, as they say. You’ve got plenty of feet, so that’s no problem. You’re the human centipede, an unparalleled biological oddity! ‘Amaze your friends with your fancy footwork,’ the ad said. That was no word of a lie, I said to myself. Only I hadn’t actually got any friends. ‘Billy No-Mates,’ the other children used to call me. ‘Only the shoe’s on the other foot now’, I muttered grimy to myself; ‘the shoe’s on the other foot now’…
We are all complicit in the abhorrent filth of the Abuser Mind, aren’t we? As we were done to so shall we do, isn’t that the way? Passing it on, passing it on. That’s what’s so much of life comes down to when we really look into it – passing on the hurt, passing on the humiliation. Making sure that someone else’s feeling what we are feeling, making very sure. Passing it on with what we might call ‘surgical accuracy’. We might as well call it that, we might as well. Might as well, might as well. Passing on all that corrosive judgementalism; making sure that someone else feels the brunt of it, just as we did, just as we did. We all know how that hurts, how deep that cuts, and so we have to pass it on faithfully don’t we? Pass the parcel. Pass the buck. Here you go buddy – see what you can do with this. See how you get on with it.
We all get fed up being sad miserable bastards don’t we? I know I do, I know I do! Life wasn’t meant to be like this. What a terrible old travesty this is, what a terrible old travesty. A time-honoured travesty to be sure, but a travesty nonetheless. An ancient travesty, a travesty that has been with us right from the very beginning, but a travesty for all that. It’s not about the blame though, it’s not about the blame. It’s so easy to make it about the blame though isn’t it? All too easy, all too easy. Any fuckwit can do that as we all know very well. It doesn’t take a genius to allocate blame, any dumb craphead can do that, as I need hardly point out. But it’s not right to blame the blamers either and I realise that as well. Any dumb idiot can blame the blamer and I know that is well as anyone does. I’m not going down that road, I can tell you. We all know where that road leads, after all…
The abhorrent nauseating filth of the Abuser Mind – I shudder to the core when I think about it. I am frankly appalled, I am appalled in every part of me. There is no worse abomination, no worse abomination than the abhorrent filth of the Abuser Mind. I’m frankly appalled but that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to turn a blind eye to it if necessary, of course. We all need to do that. It’s very important to do that of course – very, very important. So very important. We all know that, we all know that. No one needs to tell us that.
Another day has dawned for us – the poor remnants of humanity – here in the Survival Dome and outside the rusty perimeter fence the birds are singing. Heralding the approach of a new day, heralding the approach of a new day. Nothing matters in the Survival Dome except surviving and so that’s what we all keep on doing. Surviving in order to survive another day. Surviving in order to keep on talking the same old bullshit that we always talk. It has to be done of course and we all understand that. We all understand that so well. I suppose it’s true that none of us understand why we have to survive in order to talk the same old bullshit another day but we feel the compulsion of it all the same. It’s a visceral thing none of us actually need to explain it. It’s not an intellectual matter – is much more basic and that; when we wake up in the morning – groggy and uneasy – we implicitly understand that the important thing is for us to get into gear and ready ourselves for another day of talking the same old budget that we always talk. We don’t have to discuss it amongst ourselves; we just know that it has to be done. Has to be done. It’s important, in other words.
Outside the cracked and grimy windows of the Survival Dome another desperate and demented day has dawned. A bloated and distorted sun is painfully pulling itself up above the horizon – it has been doing this for the last two hours without ever seeming to get any higher in the sky. It’s like a vast crimson poached egg – boundary-less and slovenly. The crows scream coarse abuse from the barren fields that surround us, as they always do. They always sound as if they’re complaining about something – complaining about the perversity of nature herself perhaps. Complaining about the breaking of all natural laws. In the shadows around the dead trees on the hilltop the rat -like creatures are massing, waiting for their chance. Waiting, waiting – always waiting. They are highly intelligent of course; they’re considerably more intelligent than us human beings. That goes without saying really. All we have ever been good at lying and cheating and stealing from each other. All we have ever done is worship the filthy Abuser Mind and look where that’s got us! All we’ve ever done is to swindle and exploit each other and betray our own brothers and sisters. The rat creatures live by a cleaner code of course – they don’t share our corruption and so they will not share our fate. Our fate is a grim one indeed – but who could ever say that we do not deserve it?
I was trying to guess the login details for reality. Please understand, I wasn’t trying to remember it; it was nothing like that – I didn’t have a clue where I was going with my guessing, I didn’t know if I was in the right ballpark or if I was even in the right continent. I was desperately hoping for some sort of inspiration, I was hoping for inspiration because that’s what I would have needed but underneath it all I knew I was shooting in the dark. It’s even harder than you might imagine because – don’t forget – this is reality we’re talking about here. So the fact that I was trying to guess the login code shows that I wasn’t actually in reality and this is the point that I’m trying to get across. I was on the outside of reality trying to get in and this is a bad place to be. Always a bad place. It’s a bad place to be – needless to say – because when you’re on the outside of reality then you don’t have a clue as to what reality might actually pan out to be; all guesses are equally stupid (equally embarrassingly stupid in fact) because you don’t even know what sort of thing it is that you are trying to find out. You’re the biggest fool in the world! ‘Guessing’ isn’t really the right word therefore; it’s not really the right word because when you’re guessing you always at least know the type of thing that you’re guessing at; we have in this case at least some sort of a chance in other words, no matter how remote that chance might be. It’s a all rather pathetic really you see – how vast a territory this is! You’re trying to imagine what type of thing reality might be when it’s at home but you’ve got nothing to go on, nothing at all. I know I’m going on a bit here; I know I’m banging on and on about the same old point but this is no ‘one-off’ incident I’m talking about here, even though that is I know how I originally presented the issue. That was merely a ‘literary device’ you see and in the end what do we have but our ‘literary devices’? The nature of reality, the nature of reality – how I wonder about the nature of reality and the kind of thing it might turn out to be. If indeed we can ever know that. It’s an exercise in ‘doomed futile puzzling’ that I’m talking about here though and not any kind of noble philosophical quest, which is what it tends to sound like. This goes back as far as I can remember – it’s my theme song, if you like. Maybe that’s not unusual either; I don’t know, maybe it’s like that for everybody – although I doubt it. In my experience people just get on with their lives, they’re not desperately trying to second-guess reality. People are just getting on with their lives – for the most part – and who can blame them for that? There are a number of different types of anxiety in life; some more legitimate than others, I imagine some people might say, however wrongly or rightly. The form of anxiety I’m speaking of here isn’t the regular old type; the regular old type of anxiety is (let us say) where deep-down you know you’re an idiot and you are trying to pass yourself off as not being one. A stressful situation but not an uncommon one, I would imagine. That’s why we are always looking for a fall guy – someone we can catch out for being a stupid dumbshit and then call them out on it and get a right good laugh at their expense. Everyone else will jump on the bandwagon then you see; they’ll start taking the piss too because everyone else is the same as you are – everyone’s trying to distract attention away from themselves, just like you are. Just like you are. Looking for a stooge, looking for a fall guy. That’s human nature for you – no one is exempt from it. The other type of anxiety isn’t like that, the other type of anxiety is where you’re that afraid that people will find out that you don’t know what reality is and laugh at you on that account. Public humiliation, the usual thing. It always comes down to public humiliation in the end doesn’t it? Is that a crime, not knowing what reality is? I don’t suppose it is. It’s not anyone’s idea of a crime, generally speaking. Peculiar perhaps, but not a crime. Incomprehensible to many perhaps, but not exactly a felony. This painful situation has resolved somewhat in recent years however; the situation has resolved because I have come to realise that no one knows what reality is. Nobody. No one knows and – furthermore – no one cares.
When I wrote my first Training Manual entitled ‘Dealing with Demons’ it was an instant success. I was catapulted to fame. It was an instant success only it wasn’t because I immediately found myself being possessed by hordes of demons – they moved in en masse and took me over completely. They were in my hair, up my nose, in my fingernails, in my ears, everywhere. I became the dwelling place for umpteen thousand demons – never (to my knowledge anyway) had so many demons lived in one body. Not since biblical times, anyway.
So that wasn’t so great I suppose. I suppose it would be fair enough to say that that wasn’t particularly great. There would be days when I’d catch sight of myself in the mirror even years later and yet still see the signs of it. Days when I’d notice a certain greyness to my face and a certain haunted look in the eyes. That sort of thing. Reminders – you might say – of the days when I was acting as unwitting host to a horde of voracious demons that massed in unbelievable numbers within my body. They even inhabited my clothing, believe it or not – they were in my socks, in my shoes and even in that dreadful crumpled brown corduroy jacket that for some reason I used to wear back then. They liked to live in the pockets of that jacket – at least a dozen of them, maybe more. The ‘dirty dozen’ I used to call them. They loved that old corduroy jacket of mine and in the end I had to throw it away. I eventually chucked it in a skip.
I don’t want to make too much of those demons. I don’t want to build them up too much – they’re stupid things really. No personality to them. It’s a mug’s game being a demon and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s a mug’s game being possessed by the bastards too – I’d smoke a joint and they’d get stoned instead of me! Or maybe it was the shit dope that I was smoking – Moroccan slate at twelve pounds a quarter. Can you believe that? That was a long time ago now course – that was back when I lived in the Ashmole estate just off the South Lambeth Rd in Southwark. Happy days! Or maybe not – it’s hard to know you see. It’s hard to know because of the nostalgia that overcomes me whenever I think of the old days. When I think about the life I had back then and the mates I used to hang around with. Mates like Speedy Frank, Tony and Adam. Those were good days and I’ll never see their like again. I know that beyond any shadow of a doubt – I’ll never see the likes of those days again…
Looking back on them it seems like every moment was precious. That’s how it is in my memory, anyway. That’s what it’s like in my memory. Every moment of those days was like a glass of very fine old wine. Not that I actually like wine mind you – I can’t stand the stuff and never could – but that’s the only analogy that comes to mind. Every moment was golden, every moment was golden. I guess it didn’t seem like it at the time – I can’t imagine what those moments did feel like, actually. Obviously enough. I can’t actually remember much about it, come to think of it. I haven’t the faintest idea what it actually felt like at the time. Maybe I was bored, maybe I was preoccupied. Maybe I was feeling miserable – I don’t know. Oddly enough, it hardly seems to matter now. It hardly seems to matter now and I shan’t bother about it. Who cares anyway? Who cares if I was bored or miserable or distracted with some bullshit or other. Certainly not me and if I’m not bothered then I don’t see how anyone else is going to give a damn!
Memories of the past, memories of the past. It sounds stupid saying that I know – what else would my memories be of? Memories of the future? Memories of an alternative reality? I don’t care if it sounds stupid though – I just like the sound of the words. I like the way they trickle off my tongue. It’s curious why the past often presents itself, in our possibly faulty memories, as being so golden. I wonder why that is? One answer that comes to me is that what I’m really doing here is mourning the passing of my youth. Particularly since I didn’t really appreciate that the time. Which I didn’t. That idea somehow fails to ring true – it’s too intellectual, too analytical. That was first thought that I had, the first thought that occurred to me, but then moments later another possibility came to mind, a much more poignant one. It occurred to me that when I think back to my old haunts such as the SLR and the Ashmole estate and Fentiman Road and Dorset Rd and Vauxhall Park, and so on, and it seems to me that I had the privilege of living in some sort of magical world, some sort of earthly paradise, then this isn’t the result of me wearing ‘rose-tinted spectacles’ or any crap like that. The real reason – it occurs to me – is that we can never appreciate our life, or where we’re living, at the time because our heads are too full of garbage, too full of rubbish. We are perennially distracted with inane nonsense you see. We’re too distracted. It’s only when we look back – after 30 or 40 years – that we remember things truly. So that would explain why everything seems like rubbish to me at the moment, in the current crappy phase of my life. It seems like rubbish to me because I’m just not able to appreciate it. I won’t appreciate it until I’m dead. So that’s a rather depressing thought, wouldn’t you say?
The queen of patio plants is what they call it. The queen of patio plants is a phrase I have heard used. I don’t know what I think about that, to be honest. I have no way of knowing what I think about that. Religious folk are only here to help after all, I realise. Only here to help, only here to help. That’s how come they are religious folk you see, because they are here to help. That’s why it is always good to meet them and ask for their guidance. Because of their gentle wisdom and the kindness of their hearts, and all that. Because of their gentle and non-judgemental nature. That’s why we love them so much of course – because of their gentle and non-judgemental nature.
There was a time I found life exciting, but now I’m merely sour. Maybe you can tell that. I’m as sour as sour could be – I’m sour all the way through. Even as I write these words I feel sour; I’m doubly sour because I feel sour about myself for being so sour. That’s what happens when negativity goes beyond a certain point you see – it starts to feed upon itself. When negativity starts to feed upon itself then there’s no stopping it – it doesn’t need any external situations to feed on once it passes the all-important ‘threshold value’ and this means that no matter what anyone else says or does you’re still going to be wallowing in negativity, and not just wallowing in it but actually thriving. Doing well. In my case I can say that no matter what happens in my life I’m still going to be sour. It’s too late for me now. That’s just the way it works – it’s a natural law, a natural principle, as we all know very well.
Where will it all end – that’s what I want to know. Once negativity starts feeding voraciously on itself and becomes its own fuel source in this way then where there is this process going to go? What are we looking at here? We’re talking about something that is gone beyond its natural limits you see and once something has gone beyond its natural limits then all bets are off. There’s nothing we can do in this case. You are going to be taken to a place, the existence of which you cannot even begin to imagine. The only thing to say under the particular circumstances that we are referring to here is that you are in for a real ‘eye-opener’. You’re in for a bit of an eye-opener because when your personal negativity goes beyond its natural limits and starts to feed on itself then this is going to take you to a very special place indeed! We could make up little song about this, couldn’t we? A lovely little song about how we all love going to the special, special place…
I was hallucinating my own ego. I was caught in a tight little loop – the very tightest of all possible loops in fact. The very tightest. The experience is one of the purest horror, as I need hardly say. Obviously the experiences one of the purest horror – what else could it be? I was hallucinating my own ego and I couldn’t stop doing it. I couldn’t ever stop doing it. I was doomed to keep on hallucinating my own ego for all of eternity. Just me and my ego, each hallucinating the other. My ego was grinning like a fool, needless to say. He is always grinning like a fool, that’s what he does best. He might be a bit of an idiot but he really does know how to grin like a fool. You bet he does. And I’m condemned to be sitting here for all eternity, looking at this moron ego of mine. Enjoying his company. Can you imagine anything worse? If you can then you’ve got a pretty sick imagination, that’s all I can say…
The tightest of loops, the tightest of loops. Loop the loop, loop the loop. ‘How are you doing old chap?’ I call out cordially, ‘how’s your day going mate?’ I was being cheeky and I knew that it would come back on me sooner or later. I knew that there would be a backlash but all the same I couldn’t resist the temptation to take the piss. Days of anger, days of rage. Days of anger, days of rage. Rage like you’ve never before imagined – rage the like of which you couldn’t imagine. Days of anger, days of incalculable rage – that’s all that lies in front of me. Plenty to look forward to there, anyway! It’s a treat that’s being laid out for you and so now all you have to do is just go right ahead and enjoy it. Just get right stuck into it my friend! There’s plenty there for everybody. No need to push, no need to get impatient or worried that you won’t get your share. You’ll get your share, no problem there! That’s one thing I can promise you. You’ll get your share for sure…
‘I am Lord of the Seven Different Types of Stuff,’ I told my devoted band of followers, only they didn’t really want to have anything to do with me. I had my own YouTube channel with no likes. I had very few views and no likes. One person liked me but they changed their mind later on. ‘I am The Lord of the Seven Different Types of Stuff,’ I repeated, mumbling incoherently to myself. I was the Mumbler, mumbling words for the General Benefit of Mankind. I was the sleeping god – ‘the One Who Must Not Be Woken’. I had hung a ‘Do not disturb sign’ on my hotel room door. I was the Dreamer of the Forgotten Dream, I was the Filius Philosophorum. Men came to me looking for answers but by the time I responded they had forgotten their own questions. ‘I am the Mumbler’, I repeated, more loudly this time, but no one was listening to me. I was the role model for generations upon generations of psychic parasites. Frozen forever in my own personal time-trap, I was forever capitulating events that never should have happened in the first place. If I had a sense of humour I would laugh, but I don’t. Slumbering fitfully, I dreamt my own existence but it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. It wasn’t worth a damn. I am the insane god and not only am I insane, I am utterly impotent – a dog on the street has more power, more self-determination than I do. And yet at the same time I know things no other human being knows, I know things no other human being would want to know. That’s why I started my own YouTube channel – so I could tell people about these things. To tell them about the things. That’s also why no one has why no one has ever viewed what I have to say on the matter, but I’m okay about that. Or maybe I’m not okay about that, I don’t know – I’ve never played a straight game with myself and I’m not about to start now. I don’t know how to start. ‘I am Lord of the Special World that only I know about’ I declare grandly, but it wasn’t actually a real world at all and I knew that. I knew that only too well. What happens when you spend your whole life trying to make things be a certain sort of way and creating havoc in the process and spoiling everybody’s day, including your own, and yet you never even existed anyway? What kind of karma would that create, I wondered? What kind of karma would that create and who would it belong to? That’s a question we all want an answer to, of course. What happens when you spend your whole damn life frantically fretting and obsessing over getting things to be a certain specific way and it turns out that you never even existed in the first place? Where would that type of business leave you? What type of bad taste would that leave in your mouth, and whose mouth would it be anyway? To tell the truth, I am utterly worn out by wondering about all these things. I am frankly exhausted. I am wandering in my mind, imagining things that make no sense at all. ‘I am the Mumbler,’ I cry out hoarsely, in awe at my own magnificence. ‘I am King Mumblehead and I am the Lord all of All I Survey. Only I know the things that I know. No other can… My elation knows no bounds and the depths of my despair cannot ever be plumbed!’
‘Give yourself up to time,’ the voices in my head told me, ‘abandon yourself to the dark force of time and let it take you where it will.’
I had been having what I call ‘bad egg burps’ all morning and I didn’t know what was wrong with me. They were the really bad kind – the kind that leaves a particularly foul taste in the mouth. Smelly too, although it’s only me that smells them, I suppose. The burps are very stinky however, very unpleasant.
I find myself marvelling (and not in a good way) how quickly my life is over. It went in a flash, it really did. I know I’m not dead yet of course but I also know that most of my life is over at this point. That’s inarguable. It is over before I even got to know what was happening – I still don’t know what is happening, can you believe that? I still haven’t caught on yet, and I suspect that time is running out. I know time is running out…
‘Give yourself up to time,’ the voices have advised me, ‘and see where it takes you…’ Well that’s funny advice if you ask me. Not exactly the most helpful type of advice a person could ever receive, I wouldn’t have thought. But then again, what do I know? Let time take you where it will. Well – look where it took me! What am I supposed to make of this? Is there something I’m not getting here? Am I missing something?
It’s probably some kind of stomach bug that I have picked up, some kind of bacterium that produces hydrogen sulphide as part of its metabolism. That’s my guess. ‘Are people alive?’ I wonder, ‘are human beings real?’ At times they don’t seem very real, you see. At times it all seems like some sort of ridiculous fiction that we are supposed to just believe in. It’s like a kind of conspiracy theory – I feel sticking up a poster in the front window of my house saying ‘Human beings aren’t real – don’t buy into the lies!’ I keep feeling that this is some sort of government plot – they’ll be making us wear microchips next. Multiple corporations always warp reality to suit themselves. They warp reality and then we have to live in it. We have to conform to the distortion.
There was a lot more badness around in the old days than there is now and the reason for this has to do with the Satanic Origins of the world. As the teachings tell us, Satan created the world but then as time goes on more and more goodness is the able to enter the picture to counter the malign influence of the original dark matter that we were all created from and this is how God saves us. It’s a fine line however, there’s always a chance that God will not prevail against the forces that are acting against Him. Everything depends upon how many humans decide to be saved – salvation means losing the human form after all and that is a price some of us are never going to be willing to pay. Each time the universe is created the outcome hangs in the balance and this is the way it was always meant to be – our allegiance to our Lord Satan is being tested and we are required to betray him.
Do illnesses come from God or from Satan, I wonder? Are they part of the test we have to endure? What is bad in this world is good in the next, as it is said. All thoughts in this world come from Satan, or so we are told. The mind is Satan’s instrument and that is written in the ancient texts. The mind is the seat of his malign power and we are urged by the Scriptures never to forget this. Satan is the Prince of this world – how often do we read this in the Holy Book? Everything has its origin in Evil, as we know, but who is to say that redemption cannot still be found, against all the odds? Against all the odds…
Another day is done now and as I write these words I am painfully aware that I do not know whether I have served God or Satan in my actions. Have I been walking the True Path or the False? Perhaps the voices in my head are right after all, perhaps only time will tell…