What the others know

You don’t know how long it’s taken me to reach the point of saying something.

If I step out of myself, I can do it. There is always that little fear, though, that I might not be able to get back in.

You know that running gag/stereotype about people in tinfoil hats? I’m thinking, at this point, maybe the people in hats, got something. Not that they understood it, necessarily, or knew what to do with it, but still.

So far as I can tell, there’s no real intrinsic way to understand thought insertion. You sense what you sense; and…though there’s nothing that says you have to accept it, on a certain level there has to be some reason why you sense what you do — and not something else.

Recently I read an article on how the same potential security breach was discovered by four different researchers, none of whom were communicating with each other, within a matter of several months. The article attributed this to the fact that attention, globally, must have been focused around the same area of study, and same questions.

You already know what I’m going to say? I commend you, but wait for me to say it.

I’ve been of the opinion that there are intelligences communicating with us. Just because they aren’t in a form we can physically sense, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But while we’re dealing with things on this…”plane”…let’s say, or more practically, in this, “world,” I wonder what else is going on behind the scenes. Things no one wants us to think about.

Well, except astrologers, and the like; and we all know how much faith goes to them.

But seriously speaking, reality doesn’t need your belief in order to exist. It will exist with or without your permission, and with or without your understanding.

I’m not someone who is really hard-core on religious texts. What I cognize doesn’t depend on that. I haven’t delved deeply into even psychoanalysis, which would be considered at this time within the “pop-psychology” category. Am I a paranormal researcher? I wouldn’t stretch it that far.

I’m just a person who understands things they shouldn’t. And even I have partial information. Been hanging around the wrong groups too long, maybe. I can’t tell if the information I’ve got is something that will benefit humanity or bring it crashing down on itself (oh wait, it’s already doing that, why should I be afraid of making it worse).

And no, I don’t know who it was that gifted Einstein with the law of Special Relativity, but that whole thing looks suspicious, to me.

What I can tell you is that we need to do something. Collectively. We need to do something.

My sense is that all of us feel disempowered. Because at core, we’re all the same being, looking at the same reality through different lenses. We think that if we alone do something, we’ll be crushed because no one else will follow through. And maybe we’re right.

But think of it this way: this is your reality. If you don’t fight to save it, how can you expect anyone else to do it for you? If it isn’t important enough to you to save it, what is?

The problem, I think — our biggest problem — is fear. If that weren’t an issue, this wouldn’t have come as far as it has. Fact is, no one alive knows for certain, what happens after people die. But if we did know, that might make the game not worth playing.

And it is a game. It has devolved into one, if it ever was anything else (which I highly doubt: the cycles of life and death do resemble one, to me).

If we’re playing a game, what are the stakes? Who are the players? And can we believe, really, truly, that the side we’re on is intrinsically better than any other option, just because it happens to be ours?

For the latter, I don’t think we can.

I think the point of the game is to realize this…

I think the point of the game is to realize this.



The heat still radiated out from the walls, although the sun had ceased to blaze about an hour ago.  Lee could feel the sweat sticking to her, evaporating all too slowly.

But how are you going to do it? she thought.

It amused her:  she worked surrounded by books, with the ability every day to take home a new writing, and yet something had stopped her from even opening anything that wasn’t based in reality.

Nearly every day, she tried to write, and even then found herself avoiding what she had once been happy to resign herself to, as life’s work.

Somewhere, buried under mountains of excuses, fears, and projections, lay the reason why.  But she didn’t know it, couldn’t see it.  There was too much in the way.

I have to open up if I want to be creativeWithout it, my work will suffer.

How many generations of artists had lived through eras of their work being constricted by the pressures of the market?  For how many years had Lee lived with the spectre of her own…shall we say…mental irregularities?

She hesitated to call herself “insane.”  Insanity was a legal term.  It meant a person couldn’t tell right from wrong.  She wasn’t insane in that sense.  But her fear,

if I let them see who I am, I’ll just show the world I am insane,

that stopped her.  Over the years it was possible to learn how to blend in, how not to frighten people by being too friendly, how to avoid glares as a reward for eye contact.

Even the word for it — schizophrenic

The vast majority of people, even educated people…even her professors — didn’t know what it meant.  They had a tendency to link the term with multiple personalities, which was not even close to what she meant when she used the term in a clinical (not pejorative) sense.

So she just didn’t use it.

Due to complications, she couldn’t even say, though, that when people did use the term wrongly, based in 19th-century dogma, that they used it inaccurately.  No one’s mind is wholeSo why am I so scared of opening the door to…that?

I’ve stood here, watching you, every day…writing these things out.  Have you forgotten your primary purpose?  Since you have gained to fortitude to begin to live, your fear has overwhelmed you.

Because now my employment depends on…

depends on appearing “normal?”  That’s why you chose the field you did.  You know it is normal within the arts and within letters not to be “normal.”

But I don’t know if I’ll stay,

You are not trapped.  Believe me when I say that I hear you where you fear becoming another like the ones you try to separate yourself from.  But you are not them.  You have not reached the point of spewing diatribes from upturned cartons on the sidewalk.  And I know a thinner line than you would like, divides you from those you smell before you see.  But you have care.  They don’t.

Then what separates us?

Lee looked over her shoulder at the dimming twilight.

I’ve never been hospitalized.  I’ve never been homeless.  I have access to medication and mental health facilities.

I don’t want to be hospitalized.  I don’t want to be homeless.  I don’t want to lose access to medication and mental health facilities.

This world was not made for me.

But you live here.  And if you want to be an artist — no.  If you want to make an impact on the world, you have got to face the idea that people will come to know you.  I know you’ve been hurt in the past, but you’re no longer a child.

I only live among children.

Listen to me.  Which part of you/I/us are you talking from, now?


can you live fearlessly?