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Sleeping Pills and diatribes.
Short stories about drugs, monsters, serial killers, and poetry about fear and self loathing.
Linking the Parallels
Consider, if you will, the universe, this universe and multitude of universes, each standing alone in the infinite, empty blackness that is infinity, the wza'yei of spacetime, that which our thoughts exclude, larger than our conceptions. And from there, it is not a great step to imagine that as the dream, the spastic nightmare, the inhalant dream of some great, mad entity. We can speculate on the nature of that entity, but the closest our human minds, with their stupid, ugly, primitive senses and imagination, their petty language that is nothing but a tiny chatter in that dream is able to regard it as would be evil. But to illustrate our lack of perspective, it is evil caused by supreme apathy, that great pandimensional daemoniack is unable to even notice us. We don't truly exist to it.
Alone, our universes stand,but they are bridged. There are many realities. This is just the one that I wake up in most often.
Since our reality is nothing more than a dream, but not our dream, then dreams are logically the bridge between the realities.
At first I had assumed my dreams were surreal collages of my memories and my ideas. Simply my left brain making music from my thoughts. How wrong I am. I know this now.
That note I found the other day, a crumpled piece of paper, from my notebook, but not my handwriting. Far too delicate, precise for my clumsy hands to make. A note.
My handler at control. I'm sure we've all heard or read the story telling us to WAKE UP.
This was that note, as this is my note to you, should you be reading this and been noticing things are not as real as they used to be, reality grown thin.
An infinity of lives. A multitude of possibilities, divergences, superrealities.
This, our supposed conscious world the note told me, was nothing more than the place that our persona's are stored when they're not on duty.
But I was not panic, now that I had started to WAKE UP. They, whoever they were, were mission control, making contact. One of their behind the scenes people, who come in the time when it is not time. I know this time that is not time intimately. For it occurs, in those frantic moments allowed to warp or those ponderous chasms of certain drugs or states of mind brought on by alterations to the body, fevers and boredom and the repeated insomnia. My shore leave. They operate in those times, when the rest of the world is asleep but you and your friends are wide awake. They monitor and slightly push. But you are not to worry about helping them in this reality, for that would drain you in the other realities. Your power, your sense of self, your integral identity disintegrate if you are an agent who spends too long in the field, so to speak. We're always insomniacs, but we are insomniac in somethings dream. So we have our realities assigned where we rest. We do not always remember some missions. The tedious, agency work is forgotten because it simply does not matter if we are messengers and cosmic caretakers. There are those also that are too traumatic, that would fill a mind with damaged thoughts. We forget them. But not always. The odd one slips through. and the important ones.
So I implore you to take note of your missions when you remember them, upon waking. And I ask you this last time, to PLEASE WAKE UP, because if we are all awake before that which surrounds us, that being that exists in and makes up the nothingness around us, then we have some chance to contain it.
If you have found this through innocent browsing, or have not noticed the constructed, nonsense that makes up this world, then I will ask you to please forget it, though it is likely your mind would anyway, negating knowledge it realises it does not need.

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