When the Eye Opens, or,
the Post that Will Convince You I'm Insane
if You Bother Reading It, or,
a Reflection on the 02/19/03 Dream & Other Such Things,
by Rewired,
03/18/03,
2:50 AM.
"When I was young, I could remember anything,
Whether it happened or not."
- Mark Twain.
“We dance around in ring and suppose
But the secret sits in the middle
And knows.”
-- Robert Frost, The Secret Sits.
“You can only find truth with logic if you have already found it without it.”
- G. K. Chesterton.
“One has watched life badly if one has not also seen the hand that considerately – kills.”
-- Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil..
“---Bad enough! The same old story! When one has finished building ones’ house, one suddenly realizes that in the process one has learned something that one really needed to know in the worst way – before one began. The eternal distasteful `too late!' The melancholy of everything _finished!_”
-- Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.
"Paul Slazenger says, incidentally, that the human condition can be summed up in just one word, and this is the word: Embarrassment."
- Kurt Vonnegut.
“1. Out of clutter, find simplicity. 2. From discord, find harmony. 3. In the middle of difficulty, lies opportunity.”
- Albert Einstein, The Three Rules of Work
I don't often have dreams about them. Over the past eight years, I can count the number of dreams I've had about them on one hand, and I find that very unusual. You would think that even if this was all in my mind -- perhaps especially if this was all in my mind -- the fear and hatred I have towards these creatures would give them a consistent place in my dream life. Recently I did have a dream about them, however -- or one of them, to be exact -- on this February 19th.
It was just him and me. We were in this round place, and to my mind it seemed as if we were in the center of chaotic, confusing, spinning blur – the eye of a perceptual cyclone. I was waking around nearby him, as if in a daze, as if I was as helpless and vulnerable as a child. I was upset, mad, confused, and scared out of my mind. Occasionally, I would glance his way, as if to ask him why, but no words came out of my mouth. Did he catch my thoughts? If he did, he didn't seem to care. He just stood there, staring blankly and watching as I frantically paced in front of him.
I'm trying to get my mind to stop spinning long enough to think straight. My head is in my hands, and I’m asking him, mind to mind: who are you? That question plagues me, because I still don't know. Is he metaphorical? Are all of them manifestations of my unconscious? I am the ego. Is he my Shadow? Are they all representations of my dark, neglected half? These children, and the child motif that have followed me: am I in the grips of a child archetype? These kids seem to be a mix of us and these creatures: is their creation of these half-breeds all symbolism? These putty babies in jars, the urgency these creatures seem to have about perfecting the mix to achieve the "best of both": is it a modern metaphor for esoteric alchemy? Jung's process of individuation? These new children, these dark "indigos": are they modern manifestations of the alchemical Mercurius? The Philosopher's Child?
These creatures seem to real. I don't see them when I have the out-of-body experiences -- or whatever label one wishes to place on the experiences when I drop into the `alternate' landscapes and `other worlds'. These creatures have touched me, and they seem physical. They've put me on a table, where I lay naked with the chill of the air and the cold of table on my back. They've used their eyes to rape my mind.
Or my mind rapes itself with these lies -- or these metaphors or symbols or archetypes as the case may be. The mind is a powerful thing. It can fool itself. It is an instrument for perceiving reality --- as well as generating what appears to be reality.
But who could tell the difference? How many times have I fallen into serious consideration that ordinary reality and non-ordinary reality are equally fictitious... or, to shamelessly quote Poe, "all that we see or seem/is but a dream within a dream".
He doesn't answer my questions, though. My desires are irrelevant, and he goes on with what he does. What they so often do. I don’t know if he used his eyes to draw me in, but a life-like picture show was going off in my head. It was a scene from above – a bird's-eye view. I was looking down on a city, and two or three bombs went off within moments of each other. The explosions were enormous, and the bellowing, engulfing flames quickly grew up and out, consuming everything.
I felt the pain, the fear, the hurt, and it didn't seem to be mine alone. I couldn't help but wonder how many had died, and how many more would come to. As soon as I saw the explosions I had this deep sense of knowing: this was an act of war. I felt certain, though, that it was not a war between man and these creatures, but man and itself. Specifically, I felt certain that President Bush had gotten what he wanted and we were now at full-fledged war with Iraq.
I didn’t know for certain whether what I saw was an attack on us against them or vice versa, and it hardly crossed my mind. It was irrelevant. A lone thought dominated my mind: we are killing ourselves. Humanity is committing suicide. One hand of the human super-organism is stabbing the other. And what the fuck for? So the winning hand can hear the sound of "one hand clapping" just before the silence of it's own death?
As I saw the explosions, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that what I was seeing was real. I was angry as hell, cradling a sadness deeper than the deepest well. I felt scared, cold, and naked. All hope was gone. There was nothing now. Nothing but the feeling of stupidity in not having done more to stop this. Feeling the sting of the oh-so-fucking-potent "too late now".
I looked back at him. I don't know if I verbalized my thoughts, but what was going through my head is clear in memory and rich in an emotion I've come familiar with. It came as a sort of question: we're not going to make it, are we? Is that what these little bastards have been waiting for? Is that what they've been trying to tell me? Their logic in this seemed all too clear: why bother obliterating the human race when it's all too clear they're doing a damned good job of it themselves?
I wanted my head to stop spinning, my eyes to stop being so blurry. I wanted to reach out to this little Gray beady and black-eyed shithead a few paces away from me. I wanted to wrap my hands around his oversized cranium, put my thumbs in his eyes, apply pressure. I want, just once, to seem them in pain. I want them to show some emotion, any emotion. I want them to feel powerless. They want so much to understand? Then don't put me in this nearly incapacitated state: bring me to ordinary consciousness. I'll show you. Experience is the best teacher.
None of this comes to be, however, and I just turn to him, shaking, eyes wet with tears. Again, I don't know if I said it or just thought it to him, but it was along these lines: “How can you stand and just watch as this happens, you heartless little fuck?”
He just stood there motionless, emotionless, still staring. Things still spin, things are still blurry, and it took all the Will I had in me to think straight. I couldn't understand why they were doing this to me, why they were showing me this, why they're always fucking with my head.
After I tried to confront him, memory fades. I woke up in my bed, at first only feeling a dark mood that would go on to linger for hours. Then the explosions rushed back into my mind, and as I brushed my teeth I was still certain that we were at war. My mind was still in the dream. Then I began to wonder where I'd seen the explosions -- had it been on television? No, shortly after the September eleventh paranoia I decided it was time to stop reading the papers and watching CNN, as all it ever did was get me pissed off about things I was all together uneducated about and was powerless against anyway. As I thought back in memory, I knew I hadn't seen it on television. It also couldn't have been television because it was too real -- it was as if I was there. It was also far too real to have been my imagination.
As the rest of the dream came back to me, I realized that it was something that the little Gray bastard had put in my head. This is not the first life-like picture show or "vision" I've had concerning fire. The last one, in 1999, was horribly terrifying -- ego-shattering would be putting it mildly -- but that was a totally personal fear. The terror I'd felt that day had stemmed from my fears of my own personal extinction in the face of what seemed to me to be an inevitability. In the dream of the little bastard and the three explosions, I had my safety from above: it was the world that was being obliterated. It was other people that were dying.
I felt partially responsible for what I’d seen, too. I'd wanted so much to stop it, but could do nothing but watch. Another instance where I've got what I call the `superman' delusion, but always find myself face to face with reality -- the kryptonite of us would-be superheroes. It was worse than usual when I watched the explosions. There was that horrid sinking feeling -- a feeling, it seemed, bigger than myself -- that clearly communicated: "it's too late."
After I brushed my teeth, I skipped the usual habit of going straight to the coffee maker and instead flipped on the television. I asked my mother if we were at war. She told me no, but that we're getting close, and Bush is really pushing for it.
My mind kept going back to the eyes that thing had. It's more of a sensation than a memory, and more of what I pulled from the sensation then the sensation itself: there was no emotion there. No empathy. I felt that there was a sincere desire to understand behind these visions -- judging emotional reactions or whatever --
but to them the end justified the means. (And that's not to say their envisioned end is in the human favor). Beyond maintenance of their "subjects" -- products? -- they have no respect for us. None whatsoever. And it's been this way since I was a kid.
They're like the living dead. It seems as though they’ve become so accustomed to the cold that they don't even have a working memory of warmth anymore. It’s as if they’ve forgotten how delicate and wonderful a kiss can be; how threatening and unjustified the invasion of one’s privacy can be. It’s as if they don’t understand the torturous feeling of embracement, or the soul-shattering feeling of terror. It’s as if they’ve lost the capacity for compassion. When they look into us with their black-hole eyes, our emotion almost seems to be a drug for them. They want that emotion from us, and sometimes it's as if they need it to go on living.
And as they steal our parts, it seems as though they’re giving us there’s -- or maybe we remind them of their childhood, and that's why they're so attracted to us. I remember, or was made to think that I remembered, the place where they came from. It could be that their past is a lot like our future, and their dream for our future might be our worst nightmare. Or maybe humanity isn’t included in that future. It seems they want to scavenge some raw materials before we drive ourselves off a cliff. Maybe build our replacements. Some of us may already be the replacements, or at least a step in the process.
Their dead world is horror. Their planned future is horror. Our present is horror. Maybe I'm just a pessimist. Maybe I'm upset because I see a potential we’re not exercising, a hope we're turning our backs to -- something I can't define, because I march in the same madness. I may belong to two different mad tunes giving birth to a hell of a third.
We're a planet of ignorant little fools. We’ve locked ourselves in little boxes where we draw the lines between things, and no one and nothing from the outside - no one and nothing unfamiliar - is permitted entrance. Everything within our boxes is familiar and easily measured within a certain set of rules. And those little taps from outside the box? The taps that grow into pounding, as if something from the outside was trying to tear through the wall’s we’ve trapped ourselves in? They can’t be there, we believe in ignorance. We continue to believe that, too, until they tear a hole in our box and crumble it, knocking down our walls and exposing us to a vast, wide-ranging reality that doesn’t seem to work at all in accordance with our reestablished “rules” and preconceptions.
Our emotionally-driven ignorance. Their emotionally-void selfishness. "The worst of both."
An online friend of mine who's seen them has expressed to me that she believed these Gray beings may have emotions after all. I don't believe that due to personal experience, but if so, that makes them all the more malicious. If these were teams of human midgets, no one would have any problem saying they're malicious. Since they're vastly intelligent beings apparently equipped with superior technology and are so very different from us, however, people for some reason tend to call it into question. I don't get that at all. In my eyes, breaking the Natural Law is breaking the Natural Law: it's a pretty fundamental concept, and I've always believed in it, even before I knew it had a name. So I don't give a ragged rat's ass if you're the president. I don't care if you're my boss. I don't care if you're some god or guru or king or queen. I don't care if you're a highly-advanced extraterrestrial: I judge everyone by the same set of rules.
And with all their superior wisdom, don't they know how reality-shattering all this can be? In the very least, the phenomenon has been going on 50 years, when the stories of people being nabbed away from their cars and bedrooms began being reported. Experiences researched within the last 50 years reveal experiences started -- if the participants memories can be trusted, of course -- in the 1920s. Family stories suggest encounters with them as intergenerational, and such stories tend to drop off around 1890. I believe they began what they're doing relatively recently; within the last hundred to one hundred and fifty years, but they may have been here for eons. Aboriginal rock paintings from Australia depict characters that look remarkably like the typical Gray beings -- just like the little shit that put the picture-show in my head of those bombs exploding. So they could've been here for thousands, even billions of years -- but at the very least, half a century. All this time in the presence of humanity, and they don't know the devastating effects they have on our minds -- on our lives?
There is a story about this four-year-old boy: well call him Timmy. Timmy was visited by a Gray being periodically (without eyes, at least as he recalled it) which he for some reason called "the Goblin Man". The Goblin Man used to stand by the side of this young boy's bunk bed and put vivid dreams in this head. One dream was particularly disturbing: in the dream, the boy was in a large group of people, holding the hand of his mother. There was an American Flag somewhere in the setting. Out of nowhere, the Goblin Man comes running down these stone steps, lounges into the crowd and steals the boy from his mother. He looses grip of her hand and watches her as she disappears into a sea of foreign faces. The Goblin Man then swings the boy on his shoulders (yes, he had shoulders for some reason) and gives him a piggy back ride. The Goblin Man can't seem to understand why the boy wont stop his hysterical crying, and keeps trying to tell the boy something he is horribly afraid of hearing. He's telling the boy that his parents aren't his real parents, and that the Goblin man is his "real daddy". Do you know how screwed up that can make such a young child feel?
Timmy was bawling when that dream ended. He was horrified. After he awoke, he saw the Goblin Man at the side of his bunk bed (apparently hovering) and Timmy took off down the ladder, out the door, to the direct right, into his mother's room. He tried desperately to tell his mother that the Goblin Man was in his room, but she told him that it had just been a bad dream. “Dreams can't hurt you," she told him. He tried desperately to explain to her that though the Goblin Man was in the dream, he wasn't the dream itself. The Goblin Man, he tried to tell her, had GIVEN him bad dream -- he would put things in poor Timmy’s head and told him that he was Timmy’s real daddy. She laughed and asked her son if he honestly thought that was true in a "give me a break" tone of voice.
Around then Timmy suddenly saw the Goblin Man take off out of his room, bolt passed his mother's doorway and towards the room occupied by his two younger, sleeping sisters at the other end of the short hallway. It seemed his mother hadn’t seen the Golbin Man – she hadn’t been looking at the door. She just kept telling Timmy that it was all just a dream, to just ignore it and it would go away, that he didn't have to be afraid: after all, dreams can't hurt you. They won’t come back.
Well, they came back repeatedly, and with more of their `dreams’, more of their mindfucks. When Timmy was 16 and finally has flashbacks of his encounters, he once “woke up”, standing up, as he was putting coffee grounds in the coffee machine. He couldn’t remember what had happened, just that he had been somewhere else during the night, far away, with the “goblins” and that they kept insisting to Timmy that he was “one of them, underneath”.
Kids, adults, teens and other conscious life: let it be known that dreams can hurt you. Welcome to life: a series of parallel nightmares that suffocate your soul. As for me, I feel like I'm stuck in-between two recurring ones: the human nightmare, and an `alien' one. If I'm delusional and in the grips of some Jungian archetype, fine. If I'm insane, fine. Whatever, I’m terrified, and this is what I feel. I'm just trying to find some ground in all of this. Transcend this. Get the hell out of this.
I'm pinching myself. I'm trying to wake myself up. I just can’t help but wonder if I'll be there when the eye opens. Or if I am a figment of someone else’s’ imagination – a figment of my true Self. If so, who am I really? What does my true face look like?
the Post that Will Convince You I'm Insane
if You Bother Reading It, or,
a Reflection on the 02/19/03 Dream & Other Such Things,
by Rewired,
03/18/03,
2:50 AM.
"When I was young, I could remember anything,
Whether it happened or not."
- Mark Twain.
“We dance around in ring and suppose
But the secret sits in the middle
And knows.”
-- Robert Frost, The Secret Sits.
“You can only find truth with logic if you have already found it without it.”
- G. K. Chesterton.
“One has watched life badly if one has not also seen the hand that considerately – kills.”
-- Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil..
“---Bad enough! The same old story! When one has finished building ones’ house, one suddenly realizes that in the process one has learned something that one really needed to know in the worst way – before one began. The eternal distasteful `too late!' The melancholy of everything _finished!_”
-- Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.
"Paul Slazenger says, incidentally, that the human condition can be summed up in just one word, and this is the word: Embarrassment."
- Kurt Vonnegut.
“1. Out of clutter, find simplicity. 2. From discord, find harmony. 3. In the middle of difficulty, lies opportunity.”
- Albert Einstein, The Three Rules of Work
I don't often have dreams about them. Over the past eight years, I can count the number of dreams I've had about them on one hand, and I find that very unusual. You would think that even if this was all in my mind -- perhaps especially if this was all in my mind -- the fear and hatred I have towards these creatures would give them a consistent place in my dream life. Recently I did have a dream about them, however -- or one of them, to be exact -- on this February 19th.
It was just him and me. We were in this round place, and to my mind it seemed as if we were in the center of chaotic, confusing, spinning blur – the eye of a perceptual cyclone. I was waking around nearby him, as if in a daze, as if I was as helpless and vulnerable as a child. I was upset, mad, confused, and scared out of my mind. Occasionally, I would glance his way, as if to ask him why, but no words came out of my mouth. Did he catch my thoughts? If he did, he didn't seem to care. He just stood there, staring blankly and watching as I frantically paced in front of him.
I'm trying to get my mind to stop spinning long enough to think straight. My head is in my hands, and I’m asking him, mind to mind: who are you? That question plagues me, because I still don't know. Is he metaphorical? Are all of them manifestations of my unconscious? I am the ego. Is he my Shadow? Are they all representations of my dark, neglected half? These children, and the child motif that have followed me: am I in the grips of a child archetype? These kids seem to be a mix of us and these creatures: is their creation of these half-breeds all symbolism? These putty babies in jars, the urgency these creatures seem to have about perfecting the mix to achieve the "best of both": is it a modern metaphor for esoteric alchemy? Jung's process of individuation? These new children, these dark "indigos": are they modern manifestations of the alchemical Mercurius? The Philosopher's Child?
These creatures seem to real. I don't see them when I have the out-of-body experiences -- or whatever label one wishes to place on the experiences when I drop into the `alternate' landscapes and `other worlds'. These creatures have touched me, and they seem physical. They've put me on a table, where I lay naked with the chill of the air and the cold of table on my back. They've used their eyes to rape my mind.
Or my mind rapes itself with these lies -- or these metaphors or symbols or archetypes as the case may be. The mind is a powerful thing. It can fool itself. It is an instrument for perceiving reality --- as well as generating what appears to be reality.
But who could tell the difference? How many times have I fallen into serious consideration that ordinary reality and non-ordinary reality are equally fictitious... or, to shamelessly quote Poe, "all that we see or seem/is but a dream within a dream".
He doesn't answer my questions, though. My desires are irrelevant, and he goes on with what he does. What they so often do. I don’t know if he used his eyes to draw me in, but a life-like picture show was going off in my head. It was a scene from above – a bird's-eye view. I was looking down on a city, and two or three bombs went off within moments of each other. The explosions were enormous, and the bellowing, engulfing flames quickly grew up and out, consuming everything.
I felt the pain, the fear, the hurt, and it didn't seem to be mine alone. I couldn't help but wonder how many had died, and how many more would come to. As soon as I saw the explosions I had this deep sense of knowing: this was an act of war. I felt certain, though, that it was not a war between man and these creatures, but man and itself. Specifically, I felt certain that President Bush had gotten what he wanted and we were now at full-fledged war with Iraq.
I didn’t know for certain whether what I saw was an attack on us against them or vice versa, and it hardly crossed my mind. It was irrelevant. A lone thought dominated my mind: we are killing ourselves. Humanity is committing suicide. One hand of the human super-organism is stabbing the other. And what the fuck for? So the winning hand can hear the sound of "one hand clapping" just before the silence of it's own death?
As I saw the explosions, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that what I was seeing was real. I was angry as hell, cradling a sadness deeper than the deepest well. I felt scared, cold, and naked. All hope was gone. There was nothing now. Nothing but the feeling of stupidity in not having done more to stop this. Feeling the sting of the oh-so-fucking-potent "too late now".
I looked back at him. I don't know if I verbalized my thoughts, but what was going through my head is clear in memory and rich in an emotion I've come familiar with. It came as a sort of question: we're not going to make it, are we? Is that what these little bastards have been waiting for? Is that what they've been trying to tell me? Their logic in this seemed all too clear: why bother obliterating the human race when it's all too clear they're doing a damned good job of it themselves?
I wanted my head to stop spinning, my eyes to stop being so blurry. I wanted to reach out to this little Gray beady and black-eyed shithead a few paces away from me. I wanted to wrap my hands around his oversized cranium, put my thumbs in his eyes, apply pressure. I want, just once, to seem them in pain. I want them to show some emotion, any emotion. I want them to feel powerless. They want so much to understand? Then don't put me in this nearly incapacitated state: bring me to ordinary consciousness. I'll show you. Experience is the best teacher.
None of this comes to be, however, and I just turn to him, shaking, eyes wet with tears. Again, I don't know if I said it or just thought it to him, but it was along these lines: “How can you stand and just watch as this happens, you heartless little fuck?”
He just stood there motionless, emotionless, still staring. Things still spin, things are still blurry, and it took all the Will I had in me to think straight. I couldn't understand why they were doing this to me, why they were showing me this, why they're always fucking with my head.
After I tried to confront him, memory fades. I woke up in my bed, at first only feeling a dark mood that would go on to linger for hours. Then the explosions rushed back into my mind, and as I brushed my teeth I was still certain that we were at war. My mind was still in the dream. Then I began to wonder where I'd seen the explosions -- had it been on television? No, shortly after the September eleventh paranoia I decided it was time to stop reading the papers and watching CNN, as all it ever did was get me pissed off about things I was all together uneducated about and was powerless against anyway. As I thought back in memory, I knew I hadn't seen it on television. It also couldn't have been television because it was too real -- it was as if I was there. It was also far too real to have been my imagination.
As the rest of the dream came back to me, I realized that it was something that the little Gray bastard had put in my head. This is not the first life-like picture show or "vision" I've had concerning fire. The last one, in 1999, was horribly terrifying -- ego-shattering would be putting it mildly -- but that was a totally personal fear. The terror I'd felt that day had stemmed from my fears of my own personal extinction in the face of what seemed to me to be an inevitability. In the dream of the little bastard and the three explosions, I had my safety from above: it was the world that was being obliterated. It was other people that were dying.
I felt partially responsible for what I’d seen, too. I'd wanted so much to stop it, but could do nothing but watch. Another instance where I've got what I call the `superman' delusion, but always find myself face to face with reality -- the kryptonite of us would-be superheroes. It was worse than usual when I watched the explosions. There was that horrid sinking feeling -- a feeling, it seemed, bigger than myself -- that clearly communicated: "it's too late."
After I brushed my teeth, I skipped the usual habit of going straight to the coffee maker and instead flipped on the television. I asked my mother if we were at war. She told me no, but that we're getting close, and Bush is really pushing for it.
My mind kept going back to the eyes that thing had. It's more of a sensation than a memory, and more of what I pulled from the sensation then the sensation itself: there was no emotion there. No empathy. I felt that there was a sincere desire to understand behind these visions -- judging emotional reactions or whatever --
but to them the end justified the means. (And that's not to say their envisioned end is in the human favor). Beyond maintenance of their "subjects" -- products? -- they have no respect for us. None whatsoever. And it's been this way since I was a kid.
They're like the living dead. It seems as though they’ve become so accustomed to the cold that they don't even have a working memory of warmth anymore. It’s as if they’ve forgotten how delicate and wonderful a kiss can be; how threatening and unjustified the invasion of one’s privacy can be. It’s as if they don’t understand the torturous feeling of embracement, or the soul-shattering feeling of terror. It’s as if they’ve lost the capacity for compassion. When they look into us with their black-hole eyes, our emotion almost seems to be a drug for them. They want that emotion from us, and sometimes it's as if they need it to go on living.
And as they steal our parts, it seems as though they’re giving us there’s -- or maybe we remind them of their childhood, and that's why they're so attracted to us. I remember, or was made to think that I remembered, the place where they came from. It could be that their past is a lot like our future, and their dream for our future might be our worst nightmare. Or maybe humanity isn’t included in that future. It seems they want to scavenge some raw materials before we drive ourselves off a cliff. Maybe build our replacements. Some of us may already be the replacements, or at least a step in the process.
Their dead world is horror. Their planned future is horror. Our present is horror. Maybe I'm just a pessimist. Maybe I'm upset because I see a potential we’re not exercising, a hope we're turning our backs to -- something I can't define, because I march in the same madness. I may belong to two different mad tunes giving birth to a hell of a third.
We're a planet of ignorant little fools. We’ve locked ourselves in little boxes where we draw the lines between things, and no one and nothing from the outside - no one and nothing unfamiliar - is permitted entrance. Everything within our boxes is familiar and easily measured within a certain set of rules. And those little taps from outside the box? The taps that grow into pounding, as if something from the outside was trying to tear through the wall’s we’ve trapped ourselves in? They can’t be there, we believe in ignorance. We continue to believe that, too, until they tear a hole in our box and crumble it, knocking down our walls and exposing us to a vast, wide-ranging reality that doesn’t seem to work at all in accordance with our reestablished “rules” and preconceptions.
Our emotionally-driven ignorance. Their emotionally-void selfishness. "The worst of both."
An online friend of mine who's seen them has expressed to me that she believed these Gray beings may have emotions after all. I don't believe that due to personal experience, but if so, that makes them all the more malicious. If these were teams of human midgets, no one would have any problem saying they're malicious. Since they're vastly intelligent beings apparently equipped with superior technology and are so very different from us, however, people for some reason tend to call it into question. I don't get that at all. In my eyes, breaking the Natural Law is breaking the Natural Law: it's a pretty fundamental concept, and I've always believed in it, even before I knew it had a name. So I don't give a ragged rat's ass if you're the president. I don't care if you're my boss. I don't care if you're some god or guru or king or queen. I don't care if you're a highly-advanced extraterrestrial: I judge everyone by the same set of rules.
And with all their superior wisdom, don't they know how reality-shattering all this can be? In the very least, the phenomenon has been going on 50 years, when the stories of people being nabbed away from their cars and bedrooms began being reported. Experiences researched within the last 50 years reveal experiences started -- if the participants memories can be trusted, of course -- in the 1920s. Family stories suggest encounters with them as intergenerational, and such stories tend to drop off around 1890. I believe they began what they're doing relatively recently; within the last hundred to one hundred and fifty years, but they may have been here for eons. Aboriginal rock paintings from Australia depict characters that look remarkably like the typical Gray beings -- just like the little shit that put the picture-show in my head of those bombs exploding. So they could've been here for thousands, even billions of years -- but at the very least, half a century. All this time in the presence of humanity, and they don't know the devastating effects they have on our minds -- on our lives?
There is a story about this four-year-old boy: well call him Timmy. Timmy was visited by a Gray being periodically (without eyes, at least as he recalled it) which he for some reason called "the Goblin Man". The Goblin Man used to stand by the side of this young boy's bunk bed and put vivid dreams in this head. One dream was particularly disturbing: in the dream, the boy was in a large group of people, holding the hand of his mother. There was an American Flag somewhere in the setting. Out of nowhere, the Goblin Man comes running down these stone steps, lounges into the crowd and steals the boy from his mother. He looses grip of her hand and watches her as she disappears into a sea of foreign faces. The Goblin Man then swings the boy on his shoulders (yes, he had shoulders for some reason) and gives him a piggy back ride. The Goblin Man can't seem to understand why the boy wont stop his hysterical crying, and keeps trying to tell the boy something he is horribly afraid of hearing. He's telling the boy that his parents aren't his real parents, and that the Goblin man is his "real daddy". Do you know how screwed up that can make such a young child feel?
Timmy was bawling when that dream ended. He was horrified. After he awoke, he saw the Goblin Man at the side of his bunk bed (apparently hovering) and Timmy took off down the ladder, out the door, to the direct right, into his mother's room. He tried desperately to tell his mother that the Goblin Man was in his room, but she told him that it had just been a bad dream. “Dreams can't hurt you," she told him. He tried desperately to explain to her that though the Goblin Man was in the dream, he wasn't the dream itself. The Goblin Man, he tried to tell her, had GIVEN him bad dream -- he would put things in poor Timmy’s head and told him that he was Timmy’s real daddy. She laughed and asked her son if he honestly thought that was true in a "give me a break" tone of voice.
Around then Timmy suddenly saw the Goblin Man take off out of his room, bolt passed his mother's doorway and towards the room occupied by his two younger, sleeping sisters at the other end of the short hallway. It seemed his mother hadn’t seen the Golbin Man – she hadn’t been looking at the door. She just kept telling Timmy that it was all just a dream, to just ignore it and it would go away, that he didn't have to be afraid: after all, dreams can't hurt you. They won’t come back.
Well, they came back repeatedly, and with more of their `dreams’, more of their mindfucks. When Timmy was 16 and finally has flashbacks of his encounters, he once “woke up”, standing up, as he was putting coffee grounds in the coffee machine. He couldn’t remember what had happened, just that he had been somewhere else during the night, far away, with the “goblins” and that they kept insisting to Timmy that he was “one of them, underneath”.
Kids, adults, teens and other conscious life: let it be known that dreams can hurt you. Welcome to life: a series of parallel nightmares that suffocate your soul. As for me, I feel like I'm stuck in-between two recurring ones: the human nightmare, and an `alien' one. If I'm delusional and in the grips of some Jungian archetype, fine. If I'm insane, fine. Whatever, I’m terrified, and this is what I feel. I'm just trying to find some ground in all of this. Transcend this. Get the hell out of this.
I'm pinching myself. I'm trying to wake myself up. I just can’t help but wonder if I'll be there when the eye opens. Or if I am a figment of someone else’s’ imagination – a figment of my true Self. If so, who am I really? What does my true face look like?
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