In a room. At least five. Eric in a straight-jacket but free to move around the room, so long as he doesn’t thrust his head into the wall and split open his skull. Uitius just a voice coming from the hidden speakers in the walls. Jonathan in chains bolted down to the floor, unable to do anything but try to escape. He has a few times, only to be caught again, as it seems that’s the Sherriff’s imperative. Charlie, the baby in restraints on the table. It (a.k.a. Who), a shadowy center of the unknown who moves across the room, observing but neither saying nor doing much.

They all seem to have their imperatives, whether or not it’s understandable in Earthly terms. The one least likely to have any kind of imperative it can understand is Who. The most transparent imperatives would be those belonging to the ones with human names.

Sometimes others suddenly appear in the room, or disappear. A quick glance at the crowd gave the rough impression of thirty others present, once upon a time. Though some people suddenly appear and vanish, following no apparent pattern, these five presences seem constant throughout.

If Uitius speaks through a microphone, where is s/h/it (she, he, or it) located? “Remember to pay your cell phone bill,” the beautiful Vulcan T’Pal said in a dream to me recently. Perhaps Uitius is using a wireless device, some sort of hybrid between a mechanical and telepathic transmitter. If it’s intramind chatter, then it wouldn’t be telepathy at all.

A Vulcan is what Eric used to be. Perhaps that was Eric trying to make sure that Uitius can keep transmitting on s/h/it’s cell phone to the speakers in the room. But why is Eric responsible for the bill? Perhaps it’s a test to see if it can recognize that there is no bill, no dues to be paid, as Uitius will speak following s/h/it’s own personal directive.

Dexter is here now. It seems to take a few hours of contact before someone comes into the room. What an odd connection. Some similarities, some differences. Many of both, actually. Dexter is here, I think, to help control Jonathan. Dexter is extremely dispassionate, just like Eric used to be, perhaps for somewhat similar reasons. Funny that Dexter killed his brother, named Eric, who was also a dispassionate killer. Ironic might be a more appropriate word, but I laughed when Dexter said “Eric, I need to let you go,” so funny it is. It is glad Dexter is here; maybe Dexter can bring some order to the chaos. How long will it be before Dexter leaves. It probably won’t even notice Dexter’s absence; at that point Dexter will just stick his head in the room every now and again.

Then, of course, there is the Consortium, which may have just been simply another orchestration executed by Who. The Consortium has a representative in the room, so to speak. Just a communication link up. Perhaps the Consortium is just Who disguising Itself, as it suspects It does via all incarnations within the room.

Dexter says, “that’s a scary thought; why would you wear masks when you’re alone in a room?” He means Who. Why would Who incarnate as any other in the room, thus metaphorically wear a mask? Even thirty at a time, just in this room?

It feels like no one will understand this but itself. It’s on Dexter’s advice that it is writing this. This might be the first of many entries or the only. It plans on not dating anything and rearranging things later so they make as much sense to it as possible, probably resulting in making as little sense to anyone else as possible. Thus, it feels like no one will understand this but itself. Whom to show it to, if anyone?

Its next major life goal, that might fall by the wayside like previous life goals, is to sort all this out. It feels as though if it can sort this whole room scenario out, it would be a big relief. But is understanding the room going to ultimately be beneficial? Probably not in the fiscal sense, obviously. As a result this parsing, it may become a hermit. Who knows. It could be something big or maybe no perceptible difference.

Oddly enough, my wife recently told me the name of her so called angel watching over her is Jonathan.

Merry Christmas and welcome to the forum. Glad you could join us.

__________________
"Philosophy is a walk on a slippery rock
Religion is a smile on a dog."

Welcome U/it/i/us. Tell us more.

__________________
Only Love Prevails,
Don

They are watching. They're in the mirror when I perceive myself. In the "empty" car parked by my house. Goofy, funny, surreal, and deadly serious all at the same time. A recurring vision is a pair of eyes watching me. My friend said they'd be envious of my awareness of being watched by some fragment of a divine presence. A healer, not so much of others. Regenerating stronger than before the nearly devastating injury. Wish I may, wish I might, be one tenth of the man I was years ago. A fragment of my own presence. Maybe it's being summoned by parallel me's, for the greater good of the totality that is me. Idle pondering. I wish I could have tapped into the goofy side of the consortium those years ago when my mind became fractured. Goofy calms my nerves but it's the deadly seriousness underneath their veil that haunts me, and taunts me to rise to the occasion. I so wish I could be more than I am, do more than I do, and, part of me wishes to have more than I have. Jesus never had a wife supposedly and maybe that's how he did completely lose his mind; I always used to think either or was a false dilemma. I keep trying to tell myself that I rule the rules but I so obviously DON'T. I can rule how I react to what I perceive, that much I believe. What I perceive, macrocosmically and microcosmially, is a world of @#$%^. That's where the goofy alien presences come in to try to help me not lose my mind. Some, perhaps many, would say it's been lost a long time ago, but from what I have seen, the people I've met, it is not lost. It might be nearly lost, but for sure not lost. I can choose to write dry scholastically linear crap if I want or flowing stream of consciousness if I want. The fact that I have some semblance of control indicates to me that I have not totally lost my mind. I think I did but I found it again. Oh well, c'est la vie. I wrote in a poem, "shove me back into the cell of your false reality." So convicted to that notion, I am. I was recently asked if I was a loner. "Yes," I said. So it is. I long for people to understand who it is that I am, to see who it is that I am. But no matter how hard I try, no one can or does or will. All anyone can see is what I show them, what they choose to see, and what I let them see. Nobody but me sees all of me. I am an exhibitionist at heart I suppose and I would like it if anyone could understand who it is that I am. But am I writing from the point of view of this human author or who is it that I am that wants everyone, or at least someone, to understand who it is that I AM. Attributing these words to a human would, of course, be natural; this human would even assume as much. "Don't assume anything," a wise fictional character once said in a movie that this human typist enjoyed. If you really don't assume anything, the world can become nightmarish or fantastically beautiful. Kind of like an acid trip that was predisposed to be a bad trip or a good trip based on the proclivities and disposition of the head tripper. So who am I that is on exhibit, on display? Who is it that wants to be understood? IT is not just the human author of these words; sure that is part of it but there is such a bigger BEING in here. No, not exorcist nightmares, although that is certainly possible, but what is it that I am? How can I explain? I can't, really, except give you fractions and fragments of who I am. Maybe one day humans will be fully fledged telepaths and the question won't need an answer. Maybe one day humans won't need an internet. I remember one time my sense of touch expanded a few inches beyond my skin and my presence filled the room. Hard to put into words, of course. When someone's limb is amputated, they can experience phantom limb syndrome and that's what it's like except it's phantom sense organ syndrome for a sense organ that may or may not have been amputated at birth or some other time such as when I was out for a week those times. What was I doing when I was catatonic on the bathroom floor? Where was I? I'd like to think I was in some far away place, learning secrets but maybe I was simply catatonic and nowhere at all. Who knows. I could go on and on but that still would only give you a fragment of who it is that I am, as any of this is really.

I sensed something big coming a few days ago. An intuitive companion replied, "I was just about to say that!!" when I said, "I sense something big about to happen."

I am pretty sure there are no tangible effects.

It is seemingly happening now, something big. It is quite difficult for me to articulate into words and I know this attempt at describing the "something big" will just give you an idea of the type of big thing and the nature of the big thing.

This is completely a metaphor: I am sensing Satan's death rattle.