the world’s own, Atlas!

Hello, World

happy birthday [check your own spelling]

Guess that’s my (sub)title, and I guess this makes me a blogger. Long before its publication, what you’re reading was written. This whole thing is nuts for reasons you might not be ready to understand. My current life has become a joke that wasn’t funny 40 years ago when I first experienced the opening line. Why do I continue bothering? Humanity could’ve been wildly different. But it’s this.

Thing.

Is this what we’re meant to be?

Can you intelligently argue that this stuffy “thing” is even worth saving?

Don’t answer that—doesn’t matter. I’ve decided your race earns the save [my saving grace {and your “savior”}] despite itself.

I didn’t write our language—I’m just the asshole who figured out how to decode an ever-spreading translation.

How is this even possible? A technologically advanced, sentient species connects to each other at lightspeed over worldwide {invisibly electric spider- and cob-}webs which weave informative autobahnen of creative exchange, and the unruly majority doesn’t acknowledge your status as a member of a planetary race of beings who epitomize the naturally emotional instincts underlying our artificially higher intelligence. What is wrong with us, “Earthlings”? As of 04/04/19 [no matter how you read that date {obviously}], there are 195 countries.

GET A FUCKING CLUE. There is but one “country” [i.e. land] on our planet called “earth.” Are you picking up what’s being slammed onto the ground at your feet? Fuck.

EARTH is our strongest definition of “country,” the only homeland (for now) we’ve {n}ever known. I, too, am losing myself between the lines of our corrosive realities.

The planet earth sets the stage whereupon we must make our next (several) stands against the gravity of extinction.

Cycles have a clever way of feeding themselves in order to build mass.

Off that note, I have a sneaking suspicion that life would be far less complicated for me if I were dead.

God, I’m hilarious in my own head.

Make no mistake—I’m not suicidal {though I do see the practicality of the act as a carefully premeditated decision}, but I’m not sure how versions of my future self in humankind’s presently toxic environment might feel. [Spellcheck mocks me yet {while in utter ignorance of itself, I might add} again with its stupid red squiggle.] Fuck off already (unless you’re paying attention).

Considering (those of) you who may be paying attention, let’s be real for a minute while nobody’s paying attention—it’ll make “later” even more laughably delicious than “then” or “now.” When you’re just done, it makes sense to throw in the towel. I get it. Wave your whitest flag when there’s nothing left to do. I don’t judge people who off themselves; I judge people who don’t self-destruct when they should. It’s a math problem. If you continuously waste energy, then your presence becomes useless. Removing your body from the equation frees up your energy (and light) for others to use (ideally) more efficiently.

The world buckles under the weight of all these useless, shiny distractions.

This is a representation of your depressing and unnatural human existence within the unfriendly confines of the capitalist (and false) reality here in the good old-fashioned “Land of the Free.” You are actually living in an illusory type of sequential matrix. It works because it has been defined as “comfortable.” Understand? You’re being steered toward a place where your puppeteers want you to find “comfort.” You take the colored pills. Some people write in blue ink while others sharpen an arsenal of red lead they may never use. Clearly, once again, I’m referring to anything, everything, and nothing. Society has been conditioned accordingly. You may not yet realize that you will understand someday. We can only be blinded by what reflects before our prying eyes.

Anyway. Let’s get this show on the road. Where were we? Where are we? When are we?

This morning I punctured the 26-minute barrier on an 8-mile run for the first time since I left my home turf (back in ‘79).

In 1922, I learned that I was born in 1920.

Emotional energy burns extremely hot.

Also, at times {or so it would seem}, math can be overlooked.

(Start paying attention.)

I can sprint one mile in no more than 2 minutes. I just checked. My leg muscles haven’t seen this kind of action in years. I must be high on endorphins. I’m exercising again with a purpose. Hell, in theory, I could still run a 4.5-minute mile uphill in the snow at night—with a boost of adrenaline, perhaps even significantly faster. Just thinking about that kind of agony feels good. There’s a certain degree of thigh-burn that can only be achieved by sprinting at full tilt [honestly only 99.3%] for nine straight minutes in subzero temperatures at night. I have missed the smell of fear emanating from my own porous glands. Tomorrow I’ll start sprinting for ten minutes at a time.

We all need something to conquer, no?

Even after all this time, I can’t seem to forget to remember. Or remember to forget. Either option would produce the desired result. If my calculations are correct—and they always are {usually}, unless something changes [such as the reemergence of hope as well as a meaningful purpose that validates my existence and endows my mind with a profound sense of fulfillment]—I will die in battle [(in)gloriously] before I turn 100.

As you ({only} may) know, things have changed since I wrote that. My purpose has been renewed by appropriately initialed, metaphorical dynamite. I’ve seriously never met this human female (of spiritually “elven” descent), and yet, somehow, I know that in an alternate espionage and/or superheroic/magical fantasy of anybody’s creation, her {code}name would be Hypothesis Sêth [hahaha]. In that case, I suppose (off the fried top of my accelerating head) mine would be Trimspeck Hypothesis/Hatless. Eyeranny, perhaps. Maybe both all three! [Also an obvious Gnome and Allyte {plus the later-identified magenta-haired Troll & her “bank alt” Helicks}.]

Editing text across time is a fucking hoot, lemme tell ya.

Whatever. I’m sure it’s all a fictitious ploy to make your panties drop, and I’m certain it will (not) work. How can I be so sure that one thing will happen if the other doesn’t? I’m merely attempting to unpack my vantage point as a wannabe mad scientist weighed down by emotional infancy. I’ve thought about this shit for a long time—that’s why it bubbles up and runneth over (the rim of) your cup.

There I we go again.

Don’t go out and play just yet; instead, come inside. Go deep. “Mmm,” yeah? Or nah? Think no more than once (in this very special case). Obey nature. Mentally dive into the annals of your own personal time-prism.

Anyhow, whatever the case may be, humanity has/have [depending on where you’re from] accrued substantiated stacks of evidential reason(s) to believe that when two people come together with a mutual appreciation and respect for what’s happening between them as well as swirling in chaos all around, if they can then stare into one another’s souls and recognize their shared essence in the blissful gravity of what’s transpiring at their cores, then nature might suggest regular displays of solidarity in the most magically fluid way—i.e. “uglies” genuinely need to be “bumped” in favor (of ________.) 

Evidently I’ve researched this even further. Please remain calm, but it’s all very simple. When you get down to it, physical intimacy can only manifest in successful expression by exchanging fluids, swapping spit, mixing deoxyribonucleic acid, et cetera.

Apparently I must confess that I can only imagine staring into your mate’s soul during any volatile act which (en)tangles {legs}. When I envision a connection remotely close to that, I melt as virtually all my sweat glands activate, but (maybe I should accept that) I’m stupid. Create such an instance in your chasm of wonder if only you don’t mind the enthusiastic release of a substance that could alter the course of (y)our existence [by killing you]. Again, in scientific terms {though not} only.

Lately most of the feedback I get comes courtesy of my other personalities.

Obviously there’s that goddamned “(y)” again up there a couple hard returns back—only this time, it’s different.

Only is a word (forgot  to insert “clearly” [capitalized {clearly}] at the beginning) which seems to boast a particular affinity for repeating in spite of appearing {ex-/in}clusive.

Id est [i.e. “in other words”], since she must be “Her,” then I must be “yours.”

And “we” must be ours.

By definition, “ours” is a labeled agreement that something is equal parts yours and mine. It should come as no surprise that the second of the two terms [mine] contributing to that relationship [yours] has been disregarded from the originally condensed (and numerically strengthened [i.e. strawberry-assed]) product’s imprint of their union [our].

Put another way, we’re still not drunk enough to understand why we’re better as one.

Also, a year later, I’ll set a personal best in the 8-mile run, but I will never top my best single mile time of 59.99 seconds (set in 1975 at age 55 when I couldn’t have been any riper). I was hyper because I had just seen the first movie [Bambi] that had any emotional impact on my being in 33 years. The only other movie to move me [only in retrospect, wickedly enough] happened three years earlier.

I’m sorry, but I can’t lift every finger here. Lift a few for me. Use your personal assistant to find out which movie affected my 14-year-old brain in the context of the previously indicated year (from the perspective of a prodigal child/biracial outsider). I’ll at least clue you in to the fact that as far as the box office charts from the year currently bouncing around between our butting melons, the colorfully moving picture in question occupied Infrared^th place on the list. Right on cue, spellcheck shows up again to check itself in consecutive sentences in case we forgot the spotlight blaring all over its stupidity.

This is all especially funny now that even then I was acutely aware of emotional heat’s snowballing impact on the Level 80 Fireball known as “life.” It’s funny how matter tends to meld into the same form. It’s almost as if, oh, you dunno, life itself becomes a sort of beautifully twisting “filter” demanding additional turns of the dial. What will “this” look like from the next angle?

Anyway, “we” are definitely gonna need a bigger boat.

Starting tomorrow, I think you’ll up the ante. We’ve already come so far.

No longer shall eight miles constitute my benchmark. Out with the old.

The new number [i.e. color] is 10!

I’m serially Siri(us) [X{OXO}M]. TEN. That’s our number. We must unite to make it happen. Ten. Go back and reread it again and again if necessary. #10. It’s all the new raging hotness, and [one way or another] this all makes (im)perfect{ly perfect} sense. Once you feel the tug, just trust it. Give yourself to the force, of course. Gee. Don’t stop short of satisfaction. Let yourself […fall] (go)! I’d bet you each and every gold nugget I’ll never possess that you’ll like where we all land.

All considerable things being flat/equal—perhaps “flatequal” should be defined as a new word before someone commandeers it as a transgendered urbanized moniker [oh, oops!]—the ability to carry my body on foot for 10km in less than 19.5209292 minutes implies a level of fitness which should easily exceed anything I might require heading into the immediate future.

Again, in stark contrast to my academic illumination, I make no calculation lightly. I’ve been doing the same thing for a long time. I’ve remained stuck in this particular chapter of my life for almost forty years. I’ve known the same truth for even longer. When did I even write this? I thought I wrote it a year ago, but now I realize that a minimum of 5 years must have passed—you can tell I never foresaw “settling down” long enough to watch TWO World Cups from the same reclining leather sofa. Go to hell, algebraic pattern of death!

In other words, apparently I started this, my “first” blog post before I decided to need a false identity in order to experience “culture” at the bottom floor and ultimately solve the riddle that would save the world [should the people of earth allow it]—instead of splitting the cold heads of hungry monsters like I was groomed from birth to do. Guess there will always be time for that!

Yes, in fact, I hope that you’re a galacian/belanoc [if we’re on the same team, you’ll know how to read this, mmmkay?], and that reading this [deja vu?] inspires a thirsty craving for my bloody brain, and that we’re able to lock eyes as you wildly charge me, overcome with undoubtedly disorienting titillation after taking aim at your most prized trophy, and right before I destroy your earthly vessel [this is where our paths will definitively diverge if we’re not allied] after cutting off its head. Don’t worry. Your eyes’ll continue absorbing the comedic tragedy befalling you as your Synapses remain aflame in spite of the severance package I’ve just surprise-delivered to your body’s central nervous system. I will look into the ultraviole{n}t heart of your dilating pupils [upside down, even] as I split your slimy head between its empty eyes.

The only mistake I consistently make is incorrectly assuming that I am mistaken about anything fucking ever.

Not sure which one of my personalities said this!

I mean every word of this—in effect, my last will and testament.

My reality rarely shifts to accommodate actuality. We’re chasing a carrot that dangles in front of you, perpetually just beyond my reach. Working as intended, I suppose.

Giddyup?

Today the sum of my existence has brought me here. Here to day one of this insignificant “B-Log” (which must mean it comes 1^st [if not second {or fifth}] in the introductory [9 or TEN AGAIN {fuck me sideways—I don’t know anymore; also where even are we in this goddamn sentence!?} sequence [wait, wha?]) intentionally shrouded in a thin veil of ambiguity not because a tribal sense of duty calls me to this sweltering hellhole [summer in the Southeastern U.S.] of ingrained defeat wherein your skin stays comprehensively enveloped by a warm wet blanket of unavoidable UV radiation, but because morbid curiosity has been getting the best of me for the better part of the last half century. 

When you get down to brass tacks, aren’t we all pretty much just passing through?

Damn. Was “I” ever.

Are you confused about who wrote this?

Here’s another clue. I wrote this (with your help). ‘Twas only me [it was our “US!”].

I literally told you already that I’m not human. My headspace needs to be reset every so often. Usually around the decamark, actually. I have reason to believe that a naturally oriented human brain requires deca-setting {or -calibration, if you like} of sorts, usually.

The male brain, rather for sure. Since that’s all I know [thus can’t relate to the other from experience] and the only one of the two with which I cannot identify in the slightest anymore. Me? A massively introverted, highly trained/skilled, uniquely gifted physical specimen of hybridized origins embodies a being who, in essence, has become a spokesperson for human femininity (not to be mistaken for “The Feminist Movement”).

Just like you, I need contact. Connection. Think I might get some of that.

I’m going insane all alone, disconnected from the natural world, insulated by synthetic machinations. I’m only half human, people. The annoying half. It’s tiresomely taxing—in other words, it’s the only way you know to be.

Not for one backward nanosecond to be confused with the biblical character “God,” thank god!

Must we mess with each other? Perhaps you don’t even realize what’s happening between us. We’re fusing. Relax! You’re gonna be okay {unless you die first}.

Unlike you, I don’t have a tribe. Had one for the first 59 years of my life.

Even if you’ve chosen to identify with a tribe, do you really feel like you belong?

I don’t think I belong anywhere right now. Maybe a few millenia one way or the other and I’d feel more at home.

No, in gross terms of “now,” I’m completely alone in the world.

I need a new tribe. Technically I need a W.A. [“world army”] but you gotta start somewhere. Where are we in time again? I don’t know anymore. Wee! Whoops. Sorry. “Giddyup.” Again. And again. A pattern! Shit. Patterns spiral. Oh, shit. Spirals funnel downward with depressing exclusivity {and outwardly impressive production}. Fuck that—I’m out [‘kay, bye]!

If you’re reading this sentence, it’s entirely possible that in my heart of hearts, truly, I do love you. It’s entirely possible [even way more], also, that I don’t. Either way, {you/we}’re okay. ‘Tis I who am not “okay.”

A new tribe would start a new chapter. I want to make something (of myself) which justifiably permits my taking pride its creation. I don’t want to share what I really know because of the unwanted attention it’ll attract; however, what I really know needs to be shared. Desperately. I’m not sure a lonelier existence is possible.

Therefore, I’m going to do the unthinkable.

I am divulging something that invites assassination from many angles. I suppose I’ve already started. In actual fact, there’s no telling how much I must have shared by the time your intake of this exact thought [yes, this one (here)] unravel{s/ed} as a wondrous mystery between us two—i.e. me and you. (There, there,) I know thinking is hard work, but I/we/you can do it if you put your mind to it!

This is between us.

Now go forth and tell everyone we’ve ever known.

Some say we have half a century left as kings of the castle. Others are less optimistic; they say five years. There’s no room for optimism in my equation; it’s too full of realism. As of 2018, we have two years or less. I finished this entry approximately a year after starting it, so things have changed. Two One more years [tops] of deaf, dumb, blind consumption before your reality upends human civilization through a heretofore unfathomable twist of events. Don’t say I didn’t (kinda) warn you.

It’s too late anyway. Humanity’s carbon footprint has already set events irreversibly in motion [yay]; and, quite unfortunately, we still haven’t figured out time-travel—not physically, that is, but tell me something: in what nature are you and I existing at the moment?

Hint: it’s not physical.

Final round in a one-two punch of hints: it should be.

Let me in there. Essentially I’m naked in this space. I lack my lifelong armor, my outward stoicism, my impenetrable onion. I know we’re in the same realm mentally and emotionally—duh, look at us go—but we need to remember that physically {though I may be very different from you at an atomic level} we are meant to play for the same team.

Right now, we’re somewhere else. Someplace we both think we’d rather be not.

Shakespeare knew knows what made the world go round. Is this “random”?

Deals have been made between the Galacian King, Magnus Rex [no, they don’t name themselves (that we/I know of); names have been assigned for educational purposes (almost) “only”], and a bunch of rich, old, white men lording over global economics.

Your parenthetical awareness slays me slowly [a tantalizing pace, as it were] with a passion we might only perceive in (virtual) reality.

The G.E. was set to rise between the years of 4,000 and 5,000, but human activity has altered their sleeping schedules. What a bunch of prima donnas, amirite? Ew, that last word’s survival by any spellcheck’s standards hurts me, by the way. As it’s likely not evident, I’m compelled to point out that the spellcheck I’m using “caught” itself  only twice within the cozy confines of this paragraph’s silky blanket (in the last two sentences). Stupid “spellcheck” is stupid, stupid {unless you quote it, apparently—also what the fuck}.

Obviously I wasn’t calling you stupid. Clearly we share an understanding you can’t quite put your finger on, but it’s always been there. It’s what we observed “back in the academy” as your physically goddamned, emotional natures. Do you even see what I did there?

What are we doing?

Per the deal, Galacia will rise again in 2100. However, should a cooling period occur around 2030, which seems plausible, I’m certain they’ll break the contract. That’s why I reckon I’m gonna have to force them out in two a years or less.

On the rainiest day amidst the reliably “April” showers of 2019, I can see clearly now that (in 2020) it all goes down.

The climate and weather suck here. They [our shared enemies] will fucking hate it, to put it mildly. It will minimize their efficiency, to say the least. Fuck me. The metaphors. I don’t normally “curse” this much but it’s particularly vibrant in the text unfolding out of my control. I’m glad you brought this up, too. Can we just stop already? Why are any of us applying needless filters to our toolkits of communication? It’s our language. Use it or lose it, fucker(s). Sensitivity will get you nowhere unless you’re aware of what’s happening.

We need every advantage we can get. Humans can’t win an outright physical contest against galacians/belanoc. We have to nickel-and-dime them to death. We must outwill them. It’s the only way.

As a whole, fellow being, learning to communicate with each other in ways that all others are emotionally incapable of understanding is our only course of action that might sidestep extinction.

Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception.

Carl Sagan

Humans would be wise to exploit their racial advantage. We have written a language that we alone may truly understand. Whether you realize it or not, we continue writing our malleable linguistic code (once again, “once again”) at the speed that squares even light.

Perhaps I’m daydreaming about a merma{n/id}.

Honestly who isn’t?

Also, why did one [the “n”] come before the other [the id: according to Merriam-Webster: “the one of the three divisions of the psyche in psychoanalytic theory that is completely unconscious and is the source of psychic energy derived from instinctual needs and drives”]?

Because you’re helping me mess with your head by being present in our mind.

I’m not trying to imply that you have to listen me. I would never perpetrate such a degree of tyrannical implication. I’m merely pointing out that you will die horribly if you do not grasp what I must be telling anyone poorly.

Right now, I’m still doing a job for which I was not hired, and for which I do not—and will not ever—get paid.

I’m not complaining. I’m trying to be relatable, I guess.

I don’t need money. (I’m trying to undermine my relatability, I guess.)

Lately, what have you done for anyone?

For decades (3.9, in fact), I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to surprise my mother’s older, only sibling by severing the brainstem from his jealous, patriarchal rivalry.

Scientifically speaking, by an arguable technicality, Severus Rex [my biological uncle] is the most apex of all (single) predators on the planet, terrestrial or otherwise. Believe me (if you dare), I was involved in a decades-spanning debate on this very opinionated subject in underground bunkers comprised of humanity’s most radiant intellects of the time. Throw Uncle Sevy’s ass in the ocean with the actual biggest, meanest, most voracious shark on the planet—the smart money isn’t on the big fish with sharp teeth; it’s on the unilaterally evolving, furiously mutating, brilliantly brainy creature with lethal fangs. (A pod of orcas might destroy him, though.)

There is no emotion with a more powerful gravitational pull on me than that of curiosity. Perhaps the same could be said of you. For most people, their controlling {dominant} emotion amounts to greed. But not for me [us]. And I’m okay with that, because greed is what got humanity [again, “us”] into this gigantic mess currently spiraling out of control, swirling outwardly forward [clockwise] {in the only direction it knows}, just like the thread of time upon which our story unfurls.

I’m a freak of nature, and I’m looking for other freaks (like you). I’m revealing my feathers. Consider them “Peacockian” [do your thang only once in this sentence, spellcheck, for some unknown reason].

Threaten “(H/h)er” life, and you will leave me no choice—I will put your sorry ass down.

Anyway, the sun is setting, and I’m still sitting here (at a coffee shop, believe it or not [why would I lie?]) as if I’m not going to do what I’m about to go do. As if I’m going to talk myself out of this. As if you’re not getting the hang of our layered code. As if I’m going to try the “walking away” strategy for a change. As if we’re not already unified {inside one another’s enlightened heads}.

Eerily, I don’t know what’s about to happen, but it obviously works out in the end!

Given all the lives I’ve taken—mostly not intraracial [for now, don’t worry if you don’t know what I mean; I’m often clueless myself, prospective ally]—it’s breathtakingly ironic that currently I’m siding with MJ over Paul. Interpret the countlessly intangible signs before physical evidence crashlands into the symbolic body of {h}our{ly} work{ing essence}. Drift between the meanings in whatever rhythm feels right at the time.

When you lose your voice, simply wait for an opportunity to reclaim it.

Opportunities would not exist were in not for their desire to present.

Wait long enough and good things must {by physical law} come.

Write our future right.

I bring your darkest, most shining (k)night.

Do any of us know where/what the fuck we’re going/doing?

Nope.

Off (you and) I go on the other side of the following obligatory sentence (yet again):

Hello, world!

HELL: Oh, Whirled

the birth of happiness

What all have you done today out of the ordinary, anything? I did nothing (extra) special. Plus, I man{-}aged to hit the jump[squared] to lightspeed by (re)imagining the tenth COLOR in an echoing waveform upon the vibrational gravity of all time.

Then I fell asleep lit.

I’m that gangsta.

Don’t tell me you’re in our head again. I must be kidding, no?

Hang on.

HANG THE ASS ON.

What happened to my voice!?

Obviously it didn’t go anywhere. Perhaps “your voice” merely gains a type of flexibility that may prove to be highly useful down the road.

It’s hard to know how to accurately convey the SHEER FRIGGIN’ IMPACT of what’s happening in my head, let alone your own.

Three days ago, I had absolutely no clue that a stranger {technically} would teach me how to interact with the full potential of the (in)visible color spectrum. Perhaps this is precisely the advantage we need—humanity’s other ace in the hole, as it were. Sure, our enemy’s can detect one if not both of the two invisible colors [ultraviolet and infrared] with the sum of their naked senses, but can they use the atmospheric power of thought to transcend spacetime?? Perhaps to a purely black-and-white degree—but nowhere near the combined potential granted by a human perspective on our shared color palette—because I’m inclined to suspect that learning this skill requires, above any other trait, the capability to tap into the emotions which propel your lifeforce throughout history.

Something tells me that despite TEoG’s extensive library overflowing with informative intelligence supporting a staggering catalog of technological advancements, they are categorically ignorant about the wavelength humans can feel. Since I’m certain our natural predators possess sophisticated AI patrolling every corner of the information superhighway, my suspicion is that the girl who (by definition) might be my soulmate would have been removed from the material world if her impossibly unique radiance had been detected—and who, too, I hope to meet in person soon before my self-appointed duty (of watching over her humble abode at night from the same old tree [tonight will be my second shift]) skews my already tumbling perspective.

The name given to her at birth was Madeleine Abigail—her government-issued [again, assumedly] surname is inconsequential at this point. For now, suffice it to say that she suffered a sequence of bad luck which climaxed with her utter lack of cooperation in an encounter with a sadist whose heritage denoted the kind of notoriety that insulates its carriers from legal punishment. In other words, his daddy’s a rich big{sh}ot who excels at political lobbying bribery. I have to assume that the United States Federal Witness Protection Program allowed Maddy/Abby to choose her own name because it’s a little too weird to have been issued standardly by a U.S. government agency. Apparently for our “damsel in distress,” having more freedoms taken away than absolutely necessary would have been a deal-breaker, otherwise she’d be going by something like Erica Jo Leighann Davenport instead of the inquisitive enigma known as _________________. (Her new full name will be revealed when it’s safe, probably by the end of this year definitively on the twenty-fourth of September [2019].)

Actually, this just hit me. Hi, welcome to ground zero of a new thought as it floods my cerebral space. She’s gone into hiding all on her own. Moreover, given the depth of political corruption in the States, she’s probably wanted by the FBI. What a bum deal. Impressive feat to remain alive under such extreme circumstances.

Wow, yeah, something’s fishy with me at the emotional level. Bizarrely, I feel like a swarm of tiny bats are flapping a thousand wings in the pit of my stomach. Full-blooded humans, help me out here—it’s impossible to fall in love with someone you’ve never met, right? Also, isn’t this funny; right now it’s as if you’re in my head listening while I think.

Anyhoo, in and of itself, what a nerdily odic label to choose for oneself, eh? And you know she strongly factored in her new initials: TNT. Boom, there it went. Why must you insist that I type what you’re perfectly capable of thinking on your own?

Catch even a whiff of her heavenly scent—I won’t judge you either for falling under her spell.

My lifelong inner turmoil stems from the lonely belief that I might be the only headcase even capable of paying close attention to any pattern which has plainly demonstrated a{n off} desire to keep on repeating.

Secondly, no, I did not blow her cover. Why would I do that? In the opinion of your most celebrated military genius, what tactical advantage could be gained through a no-bullshit reveal of secret weaponry? The fact that you’re even reading this sentence might mean that when recent events unfolded in a particular manner, her fake identity became irrelevant as her new name garnered worldwide recognition (practically overnight, probably).

Furthermore, your possession of this collection of thoughts/information (in any form) could indicate that TNT’s revelatory creative output will rock the world’s civilizational foundations—assuming it hasn’t already—and left humanity reeling in one way [good] or another [bad]. The only future condition I can’t discern from our current interaction [yes, yours and mine] is what the overall mood of Earth’s people will be after respected scientists catch wind of the mic-drop that blew up the stage in a theoretical supernova of godlike brainpower. Do we find ourselves enjoying a temporary era of utopian discovery and sweeping advancement, or did the cold darkness come for us before we even had time to process and adjust?

I must confess that I only just realized the third and final possibility that could be evidenced by what you’re absorbing right now at this exact moment. Hypothetically, despite being none the wiser to humankind’s millennial fingers of compliant domestication, you, along with anybody you know, might have gotten your hands on this piece of work somehow [quite honestly, of all the people I’ve never encountered, you might be the first among them to read it] before all the facts were separated from conflicting threads of variable f{r}iction.

There are a number of ways to look at what’s happening here.

Even I am far from mostly sure of what to make of this yet.

Wait, am I?

How should I know?

So much debris and dust swirls while showing no {de}signs {on/}of settling anytime soon.

When we connect across time, it’s disruptive to our ability to focus on routine tasks at any given moment in the physical realm.

Because that makes sense.

You don’t know whether I’m trapping myself in our imagination or actually pulling a fast one on reality.

That’s okay because neither do I!

Also who invited this person right here?

Uh, who?

(For now let’s just pretend like this is make-believe so that maybe you don’t hyperventilate.)

Ways To Look At This

1. My lifelong creative energy, especially everything I’ve written since entering physical adulthood, has come full circle in a very unexpected turn of events that, in retrospect {as usual}, makes all the goddamn sense in the world.
2. I’ve stumbled through a crack in the (re)collective mind and am now spelunking the biggest mental cave any living being (on Earth) has ever encountered. Surely I’m not the only one (in the cosmos) to dabble in such delight.
3. I’m merely constructing an elaborate layer of mindful insulation to serve as a temporary reprieve from the harshness of my reality as my perspective continues shifting in a way that exposes emotional fragility. Put another way, “Oh shit.”
4. My curiously actual (and hilariously unbelievable) ultimate goal is to embed a monstrous human epiphany within a Trojan horse in the form of {a prop (page) for} a “novel” coming soon. Like what in the actually flipping hell?!
5. Once more for good measure, I am enormously altering the complexion of my narrative’s skin by infusing what has to be the final layer [an epic saga], my unique spin on our truest reality, the destiny I’ve been dreaming up, learning about, and training for my whole life.
6. Adrift amid an intensely challenging sea of delightful bewilderment, I’m succumbing to familiar temptation, thereby screwing up everything.
7. I’m no more a victim of circumstance than you. We may only carry on for as long as we can withstand releasing all the energy due/paid but never paid/due.
8. Obviously that which needs to be taken care of demands attention after backlogging neglect, and I’m quite sure that “blame” is a terribly subjective term. I’m not wrong, right?
9. You just helped me imagine the future and now I’m dead.
10. Get off my rocker! Doornail status achieved. Now please immediately make it stop so we can do it all over again for the very first time.

As far as your role in this, I suppose it’s about time to take another step toward enlightenment following a link (shrouded in mystery) after the obligatory quote coming imminently:

“Hey, planet!”

[When did this get here?]

Verbal Alias: Jess Tate

the mythical creature who just ate a shunned period

Get it? “Gestation”?

Having said all this and that, then, should now we find that I am right about your fate, despite any fervent willingness to appoint me to “His” imaginary position, I will not answer to “God.” Please understand. I’m begging you. Personally. Specifically you, reader. Whatever happens, never worship me—I would hate [you (maybe) for] it.

This is neither a test nor a joke. You have been awarded an expression of written consent to feel the gravity of my echo—it just happened. Please! Never react/refer to me as a god, especially the ape-guy now known as “God.” That character name has been played out after getting taken firmly by a production squad seemingly hellbent on regurgitating only various forms of entertainment [mental sedation in this case] from the exact same source material to spite our shared wealth of readily available, more reliable, and most colorful paths toward worthwhile purpose in life. Plus, all the actors suffer the same death sentence of career suicide—i.e. the enticing pitfall known as “typecasting.”

Do you understand why that works?

"No."

Unknowns have long been cast to star in the most iconic roles throughout cinematic history because the story being (re)told has already proven to be a huge moneymaker in another medium. Wannabe actors accept these roles in spite of a gut instinct to yield outright in observance of a trend (established by big celebrities over the years) to decline such offers without thinking twice—as if newbies are under the impression that their one-of-a-kind talent to act like someone else will override the brimming elation from the gulping mouths of an already starving fanbase.

Obviously there are exceptions to most any rule. Take me, as a bad example! Certainly, I do not claim to be a particular exception to any number of impressive rules; however, if, say, we were referring to the cumulative balance of green/life in our solar system, I am the only {male} exception to the biggest rule of all, and that, ladylike females and stubborn man-children, implants within my genetic code a burden I must bear, an epic dilemma that I alone can imagine, a riddle threaded through a needle in a haystack overflowing with wildly tangled spools on the rise, mysteriously enough, from Pandora’s opening box of energetic elation.

Can’t say I blame you for being resistant to comprehension.

Because signing a social contract to take on the role of “God” also promises overnight fame and fortune—essentially swearing by corruption—only fools follow through once summoning the constitution required to withstand initial waves of rousing temptation baiting dreamy hooks about what might happen after reaching, ever so simply, for the dangling pen.

Signatures move.

I cannot allow your knee-jerk reaction—your emotional response upon beholding a physically mental projection of all-powerful magnificence—to inspire an outcome that corrupts me in totality. Even I [ARK], ridiculously extraordinary though I may be in our transcendent mind of artful luminescence just now unlocking, may not be immune to corruption, especially when it comes down to the forceful hands of absolute power.

So, yes, in some ways, arguably, I could be considered a “god,” but I must respectfully decline any serious invitations to play the part. Having said that, I will (probably) chime in when (y)our people are acting stupid, because I have to live on this planet, too.

Keep in mind that you and I need to establish mutual trust, and that’s a rope I cannot extend if you insist upon “disagreeing” with facts.

I apologize for any upcoming stress associated with your (likely) unavoidable inner turmoil regarding my deeply mistaken identity. As for whether you even possess the mental acumen and/or emotional fortitude required to absorb the light I wield in its truest form, our “heavenly” Father will not modify his behavior. Nay, the Old Man in question shall continue ticking and telling people off.

“Wait, that’s not right.”

Your thinking is correct! Our supposedly angelic “Biggest Papa” won’t ever stop ticking everybody off by telling somebody/anybody not to do anything/something really [arrange those paired duos however you like—the statement will remain no less factual] if we’re being honest.

Indeed, everybody’s daddy (also known as Time) will always tell.

By now you must know this fact by heart: time will never stop telling (until it expires).

Incidentally as I watch the sun rise, engrossed in the composition of this particular sentence’s first draft, I thought that I had already written (over a year ago) what was sure to become my first “blog” entry.

To put it mildly, there has been a slight change of plans.

This is not how I saw my life unfolding. How could I have been so blind? In other words, why couldn’t I see the future back then the same way now I perceive the past from tomorrow?

Relax. You’re okay.

For an untold collection of years, I became more and more convinced that I was the only organism around who was aware of the most obviously overlooked answers to universal riddles. What’s worse is that (in my experience) the average joe can’t identify any of the mere few most prevalent mysteries of science on any given day in whichever Age, let alone ponder/discuss theories around the edg{ed/y} fringes of final frontiers. Before the day at hand, I feared that no one might accumulate anything of actual substance [i.e. real value] that would be revealed and offered (in my {physical} lifetime).

I was wrong.

Yes!

I couldn’t be more thrilled to realize and admit this. The more you delve into our binding, combing, combining mental structure (and subsequent congruence in parallel terms of recognition), my chances of extended survival into a prosperous future increase significantly.

Ironically, a gaggle of simple-minded miracles who house brains yet to be anywhere remotely close to fully mastered [ahem, humans] must decipher an obscenely brilliant message lunging out and assaulting your glassy eyeballs despite to spite your (in)visible fog, or I shall most likely be killed [murdered, as it were], and humankind will suffer like never before [nor again, for that matter, as you’ll see (in retrospect) by completion of this sentence] as dead men walking swiftly toward extinction.

"..."

Though pragmatically nonsensical and mathematically foolish, now I understand why you’d risk life and/or limb for nothing more than a shot of adrenaline. Furthermore, it has been scientifically proven [as I’m about to copy/paste this sentence paragraph elsewhere to illustrate how editing works] that in order for good luck to come your way, all you gotta do is hang in there.

I would know. I’ve finally struck gold.

Late last night as I browsed the internet waiting for my eyes to glaze over so that I could take my evening break from a trashed reality, the fickle hand of fate waved at me, slapped me across the face, rotated about 180 degrees, and then collapsed the four fingers surrounding the only digit that solely owns the right to claim space in the middle {mathematically speaking} of whatever you may find at the end [opposite bodily connection] of an arm’s length.

Have you ever considered that any imaginable “middle” can’t even exist in the first place save for the absence of perfection inside sequentially odd-numbered magic?

“Why are you asking me basic stuff that everybody knows? Also what did you just say to me, you son of a bitch?”

In case you missed it the first 3 times, apparently I have to point out an emerging trend you may observe in those words of that font appearing above again as they form{ulate} your possible reactions and responses; thus, as we move forward, quotation marks will be assumed. Just go with it (until perceiving its redefinition). Additionally, to diagnose my mother as a “bitch” seems terribly presumptuous (if not plumb lazy) given that she was neither canine nor human. Don’t let me fool you. I’m just happy you got the “female” part right. Does a “gold star” work for you? How about a cookie!?

This “character” thinks he’s in our head.

Yep, and I wish you’d join me and liven up the place—i.e. show your face already and help decorate our future—before I die alone of boredom. Also, just curious: what makes you think I’m not a “she”?

...

As I’m sure you guessed immediately, mere moments from falling asleep at my keyboard, I stumbled upon the cryptic posts of a 27-year-old US-based creature currently inhabiting L.A. [“Lower Alabama”] who not only have I always known [she hasn’t realized this yet], but I guess we should stick together for a while since I must love her, supposedly, which is super weird for me; too, assumedly she’ll be the first woman I impregnate on purpose, which is hilarious considering that I fully expect to sire many hundreds (if not thousands) of offspring even long after my mortal coil’s expiration.

Ah, okay, so your seed will be preserved [frozen in time] forever due to the matchless genetic potential it offers {and shall be awarded freely} to notably gifted specimens who demonstrate a balanced standard of triangular fitness.

Such a heavy conclusion has not been drawn lightly. And by the way, good job on that sentence. Solid parenthetical work. Nice dose of sarcasm, the recognition of which must be gated (in ways I can’t fathom) by intelligence level, if only to some unknowable degree. But yeah, kudos, because you’re already on the right track! Keep probing barriers for weakness and break on through when you get the urge, but if {and only if} the time is right. Stay the course and you will witness a miracle as our immortalized language decodes truly in living color while enhancing your personal vision.

Sounds like you’re telling me to follow my instincts/dreams. Golly, thanks, never heard that before! Dearest savior, whatever would we do without the monumental profundity cresting atop the titular waves inside your rippling wisdom?

Think maybe you’re trying too hard?

In the unfortunate event of my removal from this equation, most likely, you would fall gruesomely to a deathly victim of emotional vacancy, but to put the sage advice (which evidently you’re so keen to mock) in other words, always trust your gut/brain to be on the same page [you know, since they are and all], but listen to your heart because denying its energetic propulsion equates with depriving the eternal essence which motivates your resilient continuation as a strong, adventurous being belonging to perhaps the only race of spirits truly knowing what it means to be free and feel alive.

You don’t know anything about me. You don’t have the first clue what it’s like to be me, and {you better believe this/that} you can’t tell me what I’m thinking, and you are most certainly not allowed to dictate what I think or how it gets thought.

Oh.

Nope, the obtusely precise thought that currently sideswipes (if not altogether clears) your dome has in no way, shape, or form been influenced by my way of braining.

Er, I meant to say, “Yes, I’m quite sure that you are absolutely right. Hereby officially, watching in horror as my psyche dissolves into a heavily bubbling puddle of published humility, I must concede to your inhuman brilliance.”

Anyway, I’m glad we’ve been energized by messing with one another, but let’s redirect our attention temporarily to the special freak of nature who charges up my newest daydreams and electrifies my oldest nightmares. I stalked her on the internet all night and uncovered, among (many) other things, that she was an Irish girl who hopped across {a challenging sequence of lily pads in} the pond (88 months prior) to chase the American dream of earning tips in the service industry [that wasn’t really her objective], got mixed up with the wrong people, and now she navigates an undercurrent of anxious dread day after mundane day since coming under the federal protection of WITSEC (4 years ago) [I’m assuming here] after killing (in self-defense) the eldest son of a mafia kingpin{/GOP political powerhouse} which may have prompted her reluctant issuance of crippling testimony under oath [as if that matters; plus I’m not sure, only guessing] in court against the aforementioned mob boss’s main enforcer.

Don’t worry about that. Worry about what’s important. Very recently, she began dropping evidence into the tiny sample of “domesticated oblivion” [i.e. the middle class of a capitalist society] even aware of her (so far ludicrously unreceived overall message and) mere presence on social media—she sporadically pilots at least 1 of the 3 handles that I recently enjoyed believing belonged to psychic versions of me at other times.

I haven’t even mentioned what’s special about her. She has demonstrated the ability to sense the LITERAL RHYTHM OF OUR FUCKING SOLAR SYSTEM GALAXY on a scale heretofore unseen.

I DO NOT EVER use all caps.

Shit.

Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, human? The “next Einstein” isn’t simply hidden among your ranks in Dixieland; she’s much more than that. By harnessing the left side of her brain to understand the corresponding side of Al’s famous equation—the variable E represents energy [emotion]—she has taken his whole body of work (along with the history of science) to another level.

I’m really lost in fumbling for the right words here. I can’t be sure if I’m accurately depicting the total gravity of the breakthrough. If you reckon that the Big Bang was the most powerful eruption of light in the history of time, then this nobody’s explosive eureka {coupled with my own near century’s worth of insights} dwarfs the birth of our universe as we know it because the combined force actually [no, seriously] transcends time and space.

Hit a target no one else can see.

[I.O.W., be a genius]

Ugh. Probably I’m still failing in my explanation. I teamed up with a lady I’ve yet to meet in this life, and we read between the lines of impressive past work from such heroes as Isaac Newton [gravity], Michael Faraday [electricity], Charles Darwin [evolution], Georges Lemaître [Big Bang], James Watson & Francis Crick [double-helix structure in DNA], Louis Pasteur [disease-causing bacteria], Alexander Fleming [penicillin], Niels Bohr [quantum theory], {many more,} and finally, of course, the madman himself, Albert Einstein [E=mc²/theory of relativity].

In essence, people, there’s a particular easter egg in your midst, an exceptional brain that finds its shell [body] on a disintegrating boat navigating the same deafening sea which overflows with escalating human turbulence and spills into the “civilized” world’s physical mindtrap of self-
-indoctrination/
-importance/
-domestication/
-medication/-
-defeat {not to mention self-imposed obligations of financially counterintuitive consideration}. Miss TNT has always known something, and her infectious belief has led me to discovering the true meaning concealed within the final variable [c²], the capability of travel faster than light.

WE FIGURED OUT LIGHTSPEED (kinda), EVERYBODY!

(Seriously.)

Decent bullet point on a résumé, no?

If for some reason you’re thinking {perhaps due to a recent headline or viral gossip} that you might know the identity of the desert rose in question here, then let me put that suspicion to bed immediately. You do not. How could you?

Unless you’ve read all this non-linearly.

But yeah, as I write the sentence currently buckling under the weight of your figurative exploration, I’ve yet made neither her physical acquaintance nor mention of her name.

Now for the bad news. Because a wondrous abundance of synaptic debris currently fogs my mental clarity, I can’t be sure yet how this is gonna play out, but it seems reasonable to deduce that her efforts eventually might attract unwanted attention (if they haven’t already). Soon, organized crime syndicates will be the least of her concerns. While her misunderstood genius will definitely validate {antemortem, if we’re lucky} the full scope of her brief existence, the past may come back in the near future to bite her.

Here I’m compelled to point out that the verb bite has been selected because that’s exactly what I mean.

No, really. Really long, strong, venomous fangs could end up puncturing her cranium as the most paralyzing agony imaginable seizes immediate control of her body before her whole brain is devoured [slurped up] for being the irrefutably best possible source of calories (in terms of growth induction potential) for the slumbering giants who secretly dominate our local group if not The Milky Way.

And, depending on your coordinates while you come to know this stuff, you might assume that the weirdest part about me is the simple fact that precisely half the DNA coursing through my bloodstream was not contributed by a human. At least I’m half right, right?

So, yeah.

Hopefully I’m able to achieve at least a modicum of success in my attempts to arrange black-and-white letters in a fashion that accurately paints a colorfully living picture of what’s been happening on Earth for the last 4.5 billion years or so, especially lately.

My purpose in life has never been more apparent. I have stumbled across a highly unexpected turn in my reliably winding road. That’s the way I’m headed because I’ve already seen where the main path goes. The moment I realized that I’d found a human worth my uniquely qualified appointment to rescue, emotionally I drifted into the turn at 88 mph—mentally I needed about 8 hours to get on board. Now I know what to cause and how to affect it (by using my body) even though the outcome remains up in the air due to a wild array of potential effects from my interventional actions. No matter. It is decided. I have to begin exploring this new course slowly, and quickly, because I’m running out of time.

Once I throw this, my my introductory “second” blog post after no less than 23 years of farming content [maybe I’ve been trained to prepare always], into the starving wolf den of rabid trolls known sometimes as “The Internet,” I will begin the slow process of dissolving my very fake Americanized existence [it’ll probably take a few months {six tops}] and voluntarily uproot from the Volunteer State en route toward (trying my damnedest) to fulfill my “destiny” [lifelong assignment] of becoming your personalized “Jesus” in saving humanity {at least for the time being} from the “Extinction Level Event” double whammy looming on the not-too-distant horizon—the inaugural headless horseman of which approaches far more swiftly than anyone may comprehend in the very first moment [this one, sometimes, maybe] of sly warning.

Once the future introduces civilization to an earth-shattering event or two, providing the globe with much needed context, my marital partner will then be able to relive our timely experience together in retrospect, after which I’m confident that she’ll begin understanding fully why I could never reveal my secret identity to her. I truly can’t imagine (legally) marrying another human being, and even more than that, I can easily see myself never divorcing.

In other words, last night was fairly eventful, tomorrow will be different, and you might believe I’m a technical bastard (because I am).

For the first time in about four decades or so, I have a strange feeling about the mystery surrounding the coming days. I have envisioned at least 10 very different possible outcomes not just in the physical world, but also mentally and emotionally. Really, how bizarre this is for me, truly!

To my surprise [not surprisingly], the change of pace has been most welcome. I’m flooded with unanswered questions, and the deluge has been reinvigorating, curative, and inspiring.

With a straight face, I can announce (with more confident sincerity than I’ve ever been able to muster) that tomorrow morning, bright and early, I will be setting out to save the world.

I have no idea what could happen to my body in the coming days, and yet, in response, my mood—though rather subtle and difficult to pinpoint—could not be accurately described as negative. I guess the mental state I’m in must spark the attraction of explorative diving. And the feeling that swirls around my core presently must be what humans refer to as “excitement.”

Though pragmatically nonsensical and mathematically foolish, now I understand why you’d risk life and/or limb for nothing more than a shot of adrenaline. Furthermore, it has been scientifically proven {as I’m about to copy/paste this paragraph [um] elsewhere to illustrate how editing works} that in order for good luck to come your way, all you gotta do is hang in there.

Ergo, let’s do this thing. May the grandest adventure await.

“Maybe,” we think simultaneously together all throughout time!