Tag - Frank Maddish

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Weather Wars
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Bedtime stories and how they can screw you up
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Early Riser
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The Man of the Hour
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The Last Ditto by Frank Maddish

Weather Wars

After a long and bleak Spring, I’ve just experienced my first clear and sunny day in as many months. The cold draught of the Northern Extractor, the Arctic array that blasts an icy chill down the backs of Northern Europe, failed for approximately twenty four hours.

In that time Britain roasted in the sun, the warm air remained unhindered by a fleet of private and military planes, dumping chemtrails from dusk till dawn. There is a certain temperature when the aluminium/barium chaff broils to gas, riding the currents under the intense glare of direct sunlight, until they almost evaporate. Once the heat’s taken hold there’s no stopping the domino effect, at least not until the Northern Extractor is repaired.

For days the town reeked of brine, far thicker than usual, and unusually the stench seeped miles inland. The sea was evaporating, ever so slightly, but still enough to notice. So odorous was the air, that passers-by hurried along the promenade, wincing and holding their noses. The angle of the sun alone has never bore so deep into the waters, except now its ably assisted by an invisible sibling.

The Black Sun isn’t dark, in fact it has no colour, because it lies outside the visual spectrum of the human eye. Yet it is there, it has arrived, as  it slowly traverses its elliptical orbit in the holographic sky. It may not give off light, but it does give off heat. It’s microwaving the world right now, and incrementally melting everything in sight.

It’s why the governments of every nation persist with their war on weather. For if they lose, the lands will burn and the seas will boil. Although its probably already made the news in Britain, right now an electromagnetic anomaly over Northern France has unleashed a punishing attack of lightning storms. Reported as striking over three hundred times a minute, I can actually see the glow on the horizon from the other side of The Channel. That’s what happens when you pump too many exotic minerals and chemicals into the sky, controlled weather modification or not, it almost always spins out of control.

In Britain’s short-lived heat wave, where the skies remained clear and the sun kept on shining, over a quarter of the country’s energy consumption was provided by solar power. I knew, as soon as I heard that little titbit on the radio, that the chemtrail jets would be back in force, and oh how I was right.

Imagine what would happen to the world’s economy, how far the precious stocks and shares of global movers and shakers would tumble, if every person on the planet could produce enough energy to serve their own needs. Without external influence or outside intervention, free and unhindered, with a potentially unlimited supply. It would mean the end of civilisation as we know it. At least for those who profit from the way things are, rather than the way they should be.

Because society, for all its grandiose claims of freedom and democracy, is a bi-product of exclusivity, and the race’s survival is a mere surplus of its success. For those who steer the fate of humanity, would rather see us all dead than relinquish their power over our lives. As a people, as one whole race, we cower in the sight of self-proclaimed gods, those whose power over nature holds us to ransom. However, deep down, behind the veneer of respectability, beneath the skin of the cultural hive, our species’ greatest fears, are for, and of ourselves.

Only within our most primal instincts can we see the truth, and discover our deepest understanding of a brutal, yet necessary subjugation. For without tyranny, and the abject poverty of existence we share in this unnatural world of ours, we would soon become our own worst enemies. And but for a few broken generations, we’d all be back out there, naked in the rain, and howling at the Moon.

Bedtime stories and how they can screw you up

As a young child my mother used to read my sister and I bedtime stories, but we soon tired of the usual guff. Fantastical accounts full of colourful characters, following their highly predictable journeys, and inevitable encounters with two-dimensional villains. Back then, children’s publishing was for the most part tat, with more pictures than words, simple tales for small folk. So she tried Dickens, and for a while we were satisfied, the plots appeared slightly more involved, and the antagonists somewhat believable. But then, by say three or four years old, we asked if she’d read us the paperback by her bed. It was a horror novel, one of the mainstays. Although I cannot recall which, perhaps something along the lines of James Herbert’s The Rats.

For some strange reason neither of us were scared by what we’d heard, it was as if we’d arrived on Earth fully prepared for the worst. Where nowadays you’ll find news footage far more terrifying than any imagined horrors, for the future isn’t sci-fi, it’s the conjured fears of yesteryear reaching their obvious conclusions.

What I find strange about fiction, which after all is pure imagination, is how many writers fixate on the process of killing and dying, but only up to the moment of death. The shocking truth is that few on this Earth have any idea how far the story goes, unless you’re in the habit of talking to the dead. But each and every one of us will upon our demise, witness the gross collectivism of a living past. A race of lost souls traipsing in circles in the mire of an ethereal reality.

A place outside the remit of time and space, where the dimensional rift of the dark universe, the deep waters of consciousness without form, can mutate beyond recognition. A psychic phenomena where mutation remains unbound by the limitations of physicality, unable to fall back on the humanity’s equilibrium.

There is no science or religion beyond mortality, there really is no need to keep up the illusion. For those who subsist in the spectrum of light beyond our narrow perceptual field, have witnessed such horrors and delights, that had they been alive, the mere experience would have sent them to an early grave.

The horror is the awful truth, that the human race is little more than the inkling of an idea, as fragile as a flower, and brief as the setting sun. We are near to nothing in the scale of life, we come and go like insects, buzzing around a veritable Eden. There’s no true horror here on Earth, for we know from past mistakes what’s coming next. Only more pointless suffering, futile sacrifice and torture, and the constant threat of imminent pain, before our inevitable demise before the looming spectre of our own mortality. Don’t worry about death, it’s the process of dying that kills the spirit. The demeaning wretched subsistence of ageing, the gradual degradation of bodily functions, and those last few years spent in dotage, watching the world go by as we reminisce our regrets.

When you get there, to the other side, ignore the tunnel of light. Make your own, it doesn’t take much imagination to conjure up a candle or a torch. Take as long as you need to acclimatise, you have all the time in the universe. When you die, be bold and cross the very limits of human imagination. For without a body or a mind, there is no pain, but your own conjured fears. Because the horror was only ever in your head.

Early Riser

It wasn’t until my father’s death, and a brief reunion with my estranged mother, that the following far-fetched tale was finally corroborated. Until then, I’d always imagined I’d run away from home at maybe four or five years old. My early childhood’s pride and joy was a shiny red go-kart, I rode it everywhere. Which seems rather ironic now, seeing as I’ve never learned to drive. I suppose nothing can compare to that first rush of pedal power.

I’ve often bored my wife to tears with the same old story, explaining how I’d dragged that go-kart out of the shed in the middle of the night, and pedalled a couple of miles to the local library. Apparently, according to the police report, I’d been convinced that their panda car, complete with flashing blue lights, was a bona fide UFO. After one almighty tantrum, they bundled me into their car, threw my go-kart in the boot, and drove me home to my frantic young mother.

It gets worse. On that fateful day, in the midst of mourning for my father, we ended up in somewhat of philosophical impasse. She was never one for death, and so she changed the subject, to share her recollections of my great escape. One of many so it seems. Essentially I’d remembered the getaway correctly, but for one nagging detail. It was true, I had run away, it seems I had wanted to be a spaceman, and for some reason, decided that the local library would serve as a perfect landing spot. However, I’d got my dates wrong, and it turned out all of this had happened when I was just eighteen months old.

My mother is a strict and sober woman, not one known to jest, especially on the day of my father’s burial. She insisted it was the truth, and as the police had recorded the whole event, there really wasn’t much room for argument

I’d made one other error, I’d assumed this was the first time I’d runaway from home, but I was wrong. When I was nine months old I’d crawled through a hole in the fence surrounding our backyard. I’d made it all the way to the end of the block, at least a couple of dozen houses from home. Luck would have it that an elderly couple found me, eating from a bowl of lettuce they’d left out for their tortoise. Eventually, according to my mother, her panicked screams up and down the street caught their ear, and the whole matter of the runaway baby was quickly resolved.

It’s as if I’ve never felt like I belonged here. I still haven’t got over the limitations, gravity, mortality, temporal linearity, and the like. In my more morose years, at the tail end of my youth, and in the depths of a self-imposed despair, I’d tried to cheat fate, but lost hands down. Something I’d learned in a coma, from a doctor in another dimension, you can never jump the queue, still rings true to this day. When I do eventually pop my clogs, when that designated day finally comes around, or night as the case maybe, I’ll take that trip into space, the one I’d wanted so desperately as a child, and see what all the fuss is about.

The Man of the Hour

M.O.T.H by Frank Maddish

man of the hourThe man of the hour, the man of the day and the man of the year, fought amongst themselves over the woman of their dreams.
cometh the hourThe man of the hour quickly caught her attention, but she grew tired of his constant surprises, and the broken promises of a future he could never keep. He had one eye on the clock throughout the hurried seduction, and soon made his excuses and left.
man of the hourThe man of the day was a practical soul, who took one thing at a time, with a very good eye for detail. Their conversations were friendly but not particularly romantic, mainly due to his prior commitments, and work that needed to be done. They arranged to meet tomorrow, but the woman of his dreams doubted very much that he would keep his appointment.
cometh the manThe man of the year was a gregarious sort, loved by one and all. He showed the woman of his dreams his achievements and accolades, official recognition that proved his worth and good standing. Before long the woman of his dreams fell for the man of the year, for he was successful and reliable, and had little competition worth mentioning.
man of the yearAt first, things seemed fine between them, for their forthcoming marriage was on the cards, and they had great plans for the months ahead. However, fate took a drastic turn for the worse, as the woman of his dreams watched the man of the year, grow old and tired before his time. By late Autumn he’d sleep all day and all night, recounting regrets from his deathbed.
cometh the hour, cometh the manSoon the woman of his dreams was left a widow, in mourning for the loss of her man of the year, but at the funeral she was to meet with another. It was the man of her dreams, who was neither alive nor dead, for he had never believed in time. Nevertheless, in due course, they would come to love each other beyond measure, and follow one another in perpetual reverie. Until eventually their love was consummated, and the woman of his dreams gave birth to a myth, a childlike wonder, and a legend in their own lifetime.

The Last Ditto by Frank Maddish

Science fiction writer Frank Maddish's debut novelThe Last Ditto follows the terrifying account of one man’s journey through decades of deep sleep exploration, into the farthest reaches of the subconscious… and beyond.
The Last Ditto is a thrilling fictional study of the darker side of lucid dreaming, a spellbinding voyage to a metaphysical world, placed squarely at the borders of madness and death.

Exploring the psychology of being, with the aid of a whistle-blower from the other side, Frank Maddish delves into the effects of the laws of observation, the power of received truth over the subconscious, and their major contribution to our current worldwide existential crisis.

The Last Ditto is the story of one man, who breaks rank with humanity to seek an alternative to our reality, and find a way to leave this place behind… forever.

Book Preview

Chapter 1

1. FOG

I’m watching another old TV movie, a digital rip from a battered VHS collection, complete with fuzzy sound and tape warp. This kind is the best for my work, anything too well known, anything that’s been professionally re-mastered, won’t cut it. It won’t do at all, and here’s why.
science fictionWhen I breach, a state of flux that has taken much of my life to accomplish, I am propelled into an abstract field. The very one this Earth is projected upon. For the process to be effective, source materials must be carefully selected. Television static, radio interference, visual encoding errors, broken frames in poorly dubbed movies, and all the inconsequential details that the audience is expected to ignore.
science fictionAny familiarities, be they personal, cultural, or iconic, act as dead weight. Their excessive perceptual mass forms from slowly oscillating light particles, coalescing like cosmic mould, until emotional gravity takes effect. To successfully pierce the flat vision that stands before every human being on the planet, one must adjust one’s peripheral view. The momentous shift in perception can be immediate and overwhelming, for discovering for oneself the most ancient of all lies, is far more than enough for one lifetime.
science fictionI might have found the method far earlier, if I’d known what I was looking for. At first I watched mistakes, peculiarities in human behaviour, poorly predicted outcomes, misprinted data, (particularly hand copied pieces), and failing personal belief systems. I’m not choosy where I find clues, nor even the purpose of each insight. It is a messy process, rather damaging for a young mind no doubt, but I’m an old hand at this now, and I can take it in my stride.
science fictionBack in the day, the merest glimmer of first-hand knowledge, revealed a tapestry of errors in the world around me. Brought to life by childhood dreams, haunted by the spectres of the subconscious, lurking at the furthest reaches of human comprehension. Their trail of stolen memories, scattered like confetti in the dawning sun, left behind for those with the patience to piece together their own minds. A vast majority of our race would rather live with the responsibility, their curiosity outweighed by their instincts to survive. For many can never accept the enormity of the situation, the extreme delicacy of our unique position, and will remain as strangers to all they know, including themselves, until the day they die.
science fictionSome of those strangers I’d studied as a child were supposedly my family, but none of us seemed particularly convinced at the time. Throughout that period I resigned myself to sitting out the whole miserable episode in an astral stupor. Eventually, after years of childlike duality, my consciousness riding it out in a space fifteen feet above my body, off with the faeries as it were, I realised it was time to come back. I dipped my toe in the human melting pot, not too hot, not too cold, and slowly blundered through the social niceties.
science fictionIt took me a while to get the hang of it all. The hackneyed conversations, the meaningless quest for entertainment, but with the aid of narcotics and a newly discovered sex drive, before long I was making friends and enemies, left, right, and centre. In order to maximise the efficiency of each social exchange, I subtly shifted my core into an approximation of a compatible personality. Just a little at a time so few would notice, yet, still convincing enough to ensure my social camouflage didn’t turn back into a pumpkin, at the stroke of midnight.
science fictionIt all ended one night in an empty flat over a chip shop, rented by a Sicilian girlfriend who needed to move on. Sitting at 4am in front of a mirror on a heavy dose of LSD, I witnessed a thousand faces, and every one of them had the same insane grimace. It was at that precise moment I had an awful realisation, that those few kind souls who had bothered to tell me the truth, were right after all.
science fictionI had changed, or rather, I wasn’t me anymore.

Chapter 2

2. LORE

The tape is perfect, I have found at least four glitches. One of which appears on the bald, sweaty pate of a bit-part janitor, as he tips his hat to the shabby TV detective. There’s another in the wet mop shine of the chequered tiled floor, feathered with overexposure but fit for purpose. The other two are darker, hidden in the reflection of a locker room mirror, but still distinguishable enough to handle.
science fictionI collect the visual fragments in my mind and draw them together in a freeze-framed sigil. Controlled chaos takes little imagination, but more effort every day. I make adjustments to my psyche, instinctively compensating for the numerous flaws and tears in my perceptual field, all scars from past experiments, my pioneering flights of fancy, and many with near disastrous consequences. As I manipulate the space around me and drag time to a stop, I stare into the mid-distance, and pull the plasma from the screen, to cloud the light before me like a microscopic storm.
science fictionI rarely make it further on from here, and when I do I lose the memory, none the wiser to my achievements or failures. The only proof that I have even left the room and travelled to another place, is missing time, and a nagging feeling that I had something important to say. But no matter what I have won or lost, what sights I have seen or worlds I’ve encountered, everything extraneous to this particular reality, quickly fades into the background.
science fictionI’ve always enjoyed exploring, it beats being explored anyway. I’ve travelled far and wide, without ever leaving my room, but the process can be messy, and I have frequently been followed home. I couldn’t sleep for the commotion in those early days, psychic distortions spilling through the walls and under the door. Then after a while it all simply stopped, and I was left to my own devices. I hadn’t even noticed at first, I was that grateful for the peace and quiet. But as I grew older and made friends, and discovered a life of some description, they found me again, the holes and slices.
science fictionEventually I broke free from my new improved persona, and strayed off the party circuit to stroll through loneliness, night after night in night bus country. I’d trip alone and watch all my faces in the mirror, all those I had known or been, or might become, and knew I had a lot of company to keep.
science fictionAs soon as I had discovered lucidity, I never fully slept again. My dreams are filled with creeps, and lazy ones at that. All utterly dismayed at my complete lack of cooperation, and angered by my lack of admiration for their fly-by-night reality. Much of what’s out there in the immediate metaphysical neighbourhood, is the poorest of the poor, a discarnate plane, filled with frantic desperation and a bloodlust for life.
science fictionThe non-existent existentialists live behind the mirrors, and sup on daydreams like tea. But at night they frenzy in an orgy of THC, and minds like mine are a favourite aperitif for the connoisseur. They love to surf Gamma Waves, peppered with a dash of Epsilon and Theta, it’s like cocaine and meth on steroids to them. If you’re aware of the parallelism, and can stand your ground in astral perplexity, then sooner or later, you’ll find yourself the toast of their painted red town. But that soon wears thin, especially when you begin to realise how ugly they are inside.
In fact it’s worse than that, they’re ugly inside out and outside in, with nothing in between. They live for life and exude death like bad indigestion, and their appetite is insatiable. After a while, you too, will meet your nemeses, a legion of experts, soft killers whose thoughts and unspoken words are so sweet, that some mistake them as saviours.
science fictionThe best way to avoid the majority of creepers and shadows, is not to feed them ammunition. They’re big on facial recognition, the more friends you have, the less chance you can truly control your dreams. Some see it as a lesson in the generosity of spirit, I see it as an all out war on the subconscious senses.
science fictionThis time around I’m avoiding crowds, I have one human, and three feline relationships. I’m keeping all social contact to a bare minimum, at least for the foreseeable future. It seems it’s the only way I can maintain some form of status quo. When I say that, I mean a regular irregularity, a dynamic flux of false variation, an arc of illusory potentiality that can handle the fractal structure of the edge of this reality, and beyond.
science fictionI’ve come to learn that if you want something, you have to get out there and meet people, but the people I need to meet aren’t here, they’re down the wormhole that churns within the core of mind and spirit. It’s the same old tell-tale told time and again, but in the first person, and without the hand-me-down baubles of self-realisation. Advice is subjective at the best of times, no human can truly say they’ve looked back until the fat lady sings, and by then no one is listening. Well, that is, except for me, I listen, and I listen hard.
science fictionIt all needs to be this shape, a beautifully random pattern of absurdist behaviour, or I couldn’t fit through the cracks, the holes, the gaps in the academic propaganda of a once benevolent hive mind. A herd of military animals that insist on rounding up the stragglers, for yet another staged alignment. The lords and masters of a destiny I have no part in, have no interest in the likes of me and my kind.
science fictionWe are hardcore, an aggregate of people, laid down like gravel. It’s all over and the worse thing is we already know it, although, most of us are far beyond the point of caring. The waking day is a weaponized public relations campaign, popularizing gullibility as it feeds us to the grinder. That love, hate, life, death, money, power, spirit grinder.
science fictionWe’ve all paid our taxes, we’re all owed a rebate, I’m just going over their heads, maybe not to the top, but high enough to make a stink. I’m done with playing human, this hamster wheel of life and death is a systematic slaughterhouse for higher consciousness. Every history’s like the last, every journey the same as it’s ever been. Only conjured fiction and empty lies feel as fresh as a new dawn, for an undiscovered hinterland of blind hope.

Chapter 3

3. FLUX

I’m not what you’d call a gadget man, I only use technology when I need to. Although I’m still prone to drowning in the frequency soup of modern life, I try not to let it infect me. Wherever possible, I avoid the temptation to play repeater to the corrupt transmissions of an artificial hegemony.
science fictionThis is not my kingdom and my glory, my borders are far beyond the control net. Though they may be just as dangerous, they’re not so thick with dogma. In life I have the distinct sensation that I’m merely going through the motions, having spent a good chunk of my childhood struggling to be human. I’m self taught mind you, no help there, except for the odd chink in the armour of a blue moon stranger.
science fictionIt took me a while to sort the wheat from the chaff, to understand the priorities of the paradigm, our primordial society, and this atavistic world at large. I took so long to realise that my tutors were attempting to teach me, I missed out on all the parrot fashioned fun. Perhaps it was their delivery, the monotone ambiguity, the rigid reflexes of an institution in decline, or simply dumb luck.
The secret that teachers, parents, and every other adult holds back, though not so much since the technological liberation of a panoply of karma, is the terrible truth that things really are this awful. It’s not the best way to enlighten young minds, but of course, if you have a monopoly to maintain, proliferating desensitisation is never a noble cause, just a necessary one.
science fictionI’ve stared out of more windows than I care to remember. One that I do recall, revealed the freedom of the iron gates, beyond the nightmares of the playground, the killing fields of hope and childish wonder. In class I learned to appear concerned at my own failure to comprehend, and regularly held that expression in repose. With that one talent, I was free to dream and drift away on the meter of the bell, ignoring any risk of ridicule, should a teacher call upon my full and immediate attention.
science fictionRiding the autonomic canter of my tutelage, I’d occasionally pluck out a dulcet turn of phrase, and run rings around it in my mind. I’d spend years avoiding the gaze of teachers, frowning at the most obvious of concepts, and faking admiration for their pets.
science fictionI was no more adept at physical education than academic. A gangly pile of skin and bones, has little defence against the rain and sleet. I was told the exercise would do me good, even if the overweight PE teachers in tracksuits chain-smoked roll-ups, and snapped wet towels at bare arses in the showers. All that cross-country running taught me, was to use less effort wherever possible, and bow out at the very first opportunity.
science fictionSlow days stretched into years, half-asleep and hypnotised by proscribed monologues, anonymously passed through the lips of governmentally approved mouthpieces. No matter how exhausting I found the learned incarceration, I could always rely on the rabble of other sugar rushed, and glassy eyed pupils, to make things worse. Staring at those future bankers, sales executives, care assistants, and shelf stackers screaming and fighting, was as stifling as classroom etiquette.
science fictionBy the time I’d left school, with little to show for it, except for a few embroidered truths and unreliable facts, I learned to hide my lack of sanity, and to some degree, feigned conformity. Then again, my recollections may be little more than the fantasies of a child’s imagination. My past and present collude with each other, to camouflage my disappointment, and my uninspiring prospects for the future. All of which does little more, than dimly highlight the truly ravenous effects of prediction, and the highly addictive synaesthesia of temporal flux.

Chapter4

4. PAL SYSTEM

Most of us are under the delusion that we’re here by chance, fate, or divine intervention. Even science struggles for a theory, a freak simian mutation must be the lamest excuse ever, but it’s understandable considering the context. It can be difficult stepping back from a situation, when everyone around you is busy aping a lower life form. Rage is all the rage, it’s been that way for a long time, or at least as far as society is permitted to recall.
science fictionThe disturbing truth is that something was tampered with long ago, by someone with a terrible sense of humour, the whole caboodle reprogrammed, and even encrypted for purposes unknown. But that’s a different matter, altogether.
science fictionI find that dreams are the best way to learn about oneself, and to some extent, recapture control of a subverted mind. One of my favourite dreams that fell to the cutting room floor, featured the kind charity of a warm and loving family, whom I’ve never met, and most likely never will. Wandering through the familiar streets of a fictional northern mining town, cobbled together from classic soaps and sitcoms, I came across an archetypal stereotype, a fat and jolly salt of the earth.
science fictionHe wore a ten gallon hat he’d picked up on his last vacation, and he drove a beaten up Cadillac he’d salvaged from a local scrap yard. He spoke little, but had a kind face, and a self effacing manner that put me at ease. He asked if I was down on my luck, so I told him that I was lost and looking for a job. He offered me a lift, swerved the open-top heap with a sharp right, down a cul-de-sac of a quaint cottage-style council estate.
science fictionHe led me to a green door, played knock down ginger, and was gone. A woman in a dressing gown with brood in tow, took me in and fed me. Then she trimmed my hair, dressed me in old but clean clothes from her late husband’s wardrobe, and set me on my way with a little change for bus fare, should one pass.
science fictionI awoke abruptly, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I’d been walking in someone else’s shoes, perhaps a dead man. My memories can barely muster a friendly face at the best of times, let alone domestic bliss, and with such convincing detail. I’m more experienced at nightmares, a vast majority of which feature a frantic chase, with no beginning nor end.
science fictionDreams and nightmares share one thing in common, a lack of closure, that awful nagging feeling that the whole charade will be over, before I’ve even had a chance to learn the rules. Worse still, all that wasted effort, for a seemingly pointless exercise in transcendental futility.
science fictionI’ve learned two things from my nocturnal ventures:
science fictionscience fiction1. I regularly get stuck in other people’s dreams. They’re never friends, nor total strangers, but homoeopathically connected through hearsay, like a diluted synchronicity.
science fictionscience fiction2. The speed of life is mirrored by the speed of time, which is a side-effect of the false barometer of the soul, known as the mind.
science fictionI’ve only dreamt of one inhuman life, an energetic being, living in an electric blue frequency of light, peppered with plasma pools, which effervesced in a cobalt cave of fool’s gold stars. A symbolic construct for my benefit, counteracting my limited understanding of a greater reality, than I could possibly comprehend. A place outside of time and space, home to a society of all-knowing and benevolent creatures of silence and solitude. Highly learned beings, some as tall as trees, who sat peacefully, or bathed, or merely glanced and smiled in the direction of yet another wide-eyed intruder. Their voiceless conversations guiding their young, soft soothing thoughts crystallised with experience. A spectacle of sensorial splendour so beautiful, my heart sank as I struggled to form any kind of human comparison.
science fictionI felt ashamed at my limitations, the gross acts of an instinctual individuality, barbed by the longing to hunt and gather information. I left there with the distinct feeling that I, and all my kind, are at best obtuse in a place like that, and at worst, the embodiment of vulgarity.
science fictionAs I slipped back into my body I met a fellow interloper, one of many who I assume have traded sleeping lives with me. Their engram of reassurance was a break from protocol, yet a welcome sign of interdimensional compatibility, and a potential friendship from beyond my imagination.
science fictionThose familiar shadows, neither living, nor dead, that stand sentry in my first and last waking moments, seem as unsure of me as I am of them. They know that I know what’s going on, it’s more than lucidity, I’ve woken up in sleep. Two versions of myself, conscious in the subconscious, hurriedly exchanging cryptic messages in an intergalactic semaphore, confirming the truth that waking life is just another dream. That’s not something you can simply shrug off, in fact quite the reverse, I wear that memory like a crown.

Chapter 5

5. DEFLECTION

I am an interloper, a metaphysical day-walker, who hankers for a nocturnal past. I used to suffer from insomnia, I still do to some degree, but at its peak I’d spin around the clock like a roulette ball, now it’s more like bar billiards.
science fictionI’ve just about got the hang of mornings, that great wall of incongruity that greets me every day. As a coping mechanism, I constantly immerse myself in sound, in the deep end of the auditory pool, to mask out all intrusion, and avoid the mental bends of dream decompression. Like a deep sea diver in a bathysphere, I sink beneath the muffled screeching gulls and screaming kids, past the barking backyard dogs and wailing cats on heat. Far below the heavy drone of black helicopters, and the whining queues of chemtrail jets that criss-cross my coastal sky.
science fictionA view that used to be far more blue, has turned as white as a sheet, even silver, when the sun breaks through the tramlines of barium and aluminium chaff. Whether the weather has been modified to save the world, or kill it, seems pretty academic now, watching the seasons blur into each other, as the sky transforms into a giant TV screen.
science fictionOnce evening falls, the stars hang too low for my liking. Some of them glint so strangely, I can even make out double and triple lights of neon primary colours. Then there are the black triangles, the floating orbs, and tiny shooting stars. The night sky’s far too busy to bother with anymore, it doesn’t make sense to me these days. The wandering seasons and planetary bodies, even the sun doesn’t know its arse from its elbow, and when it does decide to pop up from some random direction, it flickers like a shitty fluorescent tube.
science fictionI’m getting tired of surprises, there are so many glitches I can barely bring myself to glance upwards. The last time I took a peek, I saw the sun rise and set within an hour, it’s almost getting embarrassing how fake the world’s become. The lies have left me feeling numb, and If my thoughts have ever been controlled by a shadow government, I’m sure they’d have lost interest by now, I know I have. What really gets to me is a tediously repetitive sense of déjà vu, somewhat sprinkled with disappointment. Whoever cooked up this world needs to find another job.
science fictionWhen we sleep, our brains are submerged below a tide of cerebrospinal fluid, that looks like the sky when it was still clean. At nightfall, the pinpricks that twinkle-twinkle, are the synapses of the human brain ticking over, dreaming of a new tomorrow. Each dawn, the brain floods with a deep blue neural brainwash, stripping universal truths from the short-term memory, leaving nothing but the subliminal instructions of a nocturnal yesterday, to play for today.

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