A Circular Haunting

Journeys

Remembering the Future, original art by the author, MK, ‘25

He knew the feeling.

The power was out again. He was wrapped in a blanket, shaking.

It was so dark. The Night was everywhere. Nowhere was the source or the direction.

He told himself he was just indulging. There was… Nothing.

That feeling in the gut. There was something chasing him.

It wasn't that he was afraid of its power.

It wasn't that it even really mattered.

When he finally let go and fell he was already laying down.

He isn't interested in the experience of the fall, the transition, only that it happens. It is similar to dropping into the void, what some have referred to as the corridor. It is the fall because this how it feels, something that happens when that which chased him from the world of sharp edges finally caught him.

He doesn't particularly care where he is going either, only when he ends up somewhere that he is really there.

Everything he was went missing. He was now in the darkest space, beautifully, deliciously being. No thought, no speaking to trouble the knowing of the eternal flowing. There are those who assert that thought is the foundation.

Whatever.

They didn't go where he went to become The Other.

He surveys his new space cooly. He takes it in the way a Cat would take in those things that people don't see. It wasn't really a visual image.

The unfinished walls with pillars towered around in a night land unbroken save for disembodied glows blue and golden. It wasn't a war zone, but had tasted death in the future of the eternal flow. He was there with them, and the leader. He could not visually pick out the details of their faces, or if they had hands, but he sensed them, and he belonged with them.

How could he describe how he felt his way, his special sense?

George Lucas, Wilhelm Reich were right. It was the tiny microscopic beings that lived in him. They made this piece of artwork, and he had come to their luminous singing to inhabit, to become it. They were the life giving beings, the living community that arose spontaneously from the Will of the Way.

The tiny, tiny beings were like children who with their laughter made space in the Ether for all that was living to enter.

At times he could look down and see them, blue white luminescence dancing. They were made by the Way, and sustained by it. They wove such beautiful patterns he wondered what happened to the land he had come from that it could be so evil and so ugly. He was glad to be here, to be one with the perception and the feeling.

He did not want to remember the ugly scar he had put on his own arm back there. It followed him everywhere. It was useful, he had to admit, in contrast. They had put something inside him. It was like a poison. He had to open his skin to get that thing out of him. The wound never bled, and it would close itself so that he would have to open it again. He thought, finally, his efforts were successful. He banished the evil, which left him with the mark.

The Bions of Dr. Reich, the Midi-Chlorians of George Lucas weren't at all like the poison, the sickness intrusion. They were living, singing with self ignited colour on a totally different level. He wondered at this perception, that no one who came from the ugly place of hard edges and sickness intrusions ever talked about them, but Dr. Reich did, and so did Mr Lucas.

Nobody remembers this today, but he does.

In those special moments, when the pain of the scars from them bringing him back to life again and again receded, he could look deep into the luminous colour, and see-he could find that transition where life emerged incredible, indescribable multi-dimensional pattern from the mystery beyond any thinking.

The images all move in an endless transforming beam.

{ Just be still with me }

Night Land like no place in the world of hard edges. He and his pack didn't steer to the glows or the colours. They moved on a deeper level, unerringly through the living blackness, where the motion itself was the expression. They gave form to the Flow. They were alive in the gloom. They couldn't be seen. No psychic could pick up their thinking, scanning their manifestation. They were the invisible ripple. He was not sure, if they were even breathing.

Destiny as their paws held their weapons. He had an impression, maybe later, that the selector on the receiver was set to point to all those tiny outlined red boxes.

At the time, he didn't think of Tate, or Lara. It wasn't going to be until much later that he would remember the last time Tate woke up crouched in a closet, clutching his serrated combat knife. And Lara, oh Lara, you are the Red Butterfly now.

The ghosts of those they killed didn't trouble him in the Night Land. He had long ago sent them home over the ocean.

The leader called to his men silently. He had been walking point like he always did. He had the highest concentration of Midi-Chlorians in his blood, so he was the one who went first, talking to the Owls about what they perceived, being, sensing, deep in enemy territory. It seemed only right that if he failed, if he missed something, it was him on the line, and if they riddled him with deadly projectiles, the others could perhaps get away mostly unscathed.

{Just be still with me}

Leader called in the pack. It was battle tactic. It was understood. Someone was not going to be continuing. It was simply the way things were.

In formation they moved upon their objective. The intensity, the ferocity. It was exactly what Dr. Reich called the formula-the building, the intensity, the release.

Unfinished walls of towering indescribable presence ignited by a brilliant light, the explosion, the searing energy flowing through everything.

In the incredible flash of light he was back in the hard edged world where sickness is injected and the ugly laughs with the damned. He didn't ask what happened. He noted the power was on. He noted that he was no longer shaking, and that whatever had chased him was gone.

There was no thinking. There was no wondering. In the silence he was there, breathing. The greying light of false dawn was just kissing the horizon. Owl appeared, staring.

He felt the reticence. It wasn't so much fear as it was that unwillingness to leave the silence. Would he really see something, or would it be just another journey, another motion personally? He didn't know, as the inertia relented.

Yes?

{ I have something you need to see }

They were flying together over the land blasted by the abrahamic hand. Skeletons of chemtrail murdered trees stooped over genetically engineered weeds dripping with nano technology and synthetic biology. The hills opened to the deep scars caused by crazily rushing water when the rains came, no natural vegetation left to drink it in.

Owl brought him to a secret place where the Right Hand of the Creator was having a meeting with all the animal powers. They sat in a loose circle, when the great Cat turned to him in a rough greeting. There were no formalities, no happy exchanges, just a fierce glare and a simple word of warning.

{ Humanity is going to take a hit }

No further explanation will be provided. No discussion. No question. A pure statement of fact from the Right Hand of the Creator.

Just be still with me.