Now that I sit to write, in order to give all my friends an explanation about my erratic behavior over the last few months, I look back at things and realize it all started as simple as any written line… Life, to me, can’t be that different from a text. It always starts with a single letter – with a small fragment of something… Then, other letters come along and somehow they just clutch themselves together in these chunks of meaning. And you got yourself a comedy; A tragedy; A casual story of love or madness.
Life can’t be that different from a text. Little things that keep coming – changing place and order – composing a story.
Well, mostly a story… Or have you never experienced some moments of plain ………………….? Never felt yourself just ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?? I know I have been through some LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B… Does your life’s story have these parts too? A series of random disconnected pieces, irrelevant or not, that simple won’t fit into any kind of rational meaning – as if they were summoned, or written, by the delirious mind of chaos itself.
It’s difficult to understand life, with all this meaningless noise; Difficult to take action. But to sit down and write about things that happened in the past is slightly easier… To start with, I already know what to look for. You can calmly seek the meaning of what happened, like a hunter would do with his prey. It all depends on how good you track down entities in this forest of symbols… At this point of things, I could pick all this LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B shit, for example, and rearrange it into “LEmURiA, 2012, SIRIuS B”… It would be simply the truth, for that’s exactly what happened to me.
Lemuria does not exist – it’s so simple! This short and straight sentence contains, basically, everything I wanted to say. Unfortunately, I guess it can’t mean much more than LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B to any lasting friend of mine… Besides, it wouldn’t explain my erratic behavior over the last few months.
As I sit in this messy room, with a vodka bottle seeming to be the only useful thing among all the other crap, it amplifies my sadness to realize it’s been now two years since I left my hometown, my family and so many of my dear friends. After sometime, I guess it’s only natural for anyone to miss them… A particular friend, maybe my best friend of all times, is fundamental to this story.
We were always into books, me and my friends. But this guy, shit, he is like my guru! In a time when Charles Bukowski was not yet cult anywhere outside the US, probably, in a small-ass city, Brazil, my friend was already reading his books and passing them to me. Through Bukowski he came out with John Fante. We had already read Kerouac… He gave me my first Aldous Huxley to read… This is a guy who would talk deeply about philosophy where everybody else was reciting: “I only know that I know nothing…” He brought Rubem Fonseca into the game. Umberto Eco. Jorge Luis Borges. Even Ernst Gombrich… My all times favorites writers, he read before I did.
And it was the same with music and movies... He used to write, too. Best poet I ever read. And I must insist that I’m not saying this just because he was my friend. I’ve read enough now to at least try for an objective view of books and texts. I was just lucky enough to be born close to one of these amazing unknown genius; To be his friend. I’ll never forget several things I heard from him. He said once, for example, trying to convince me into going to a party: “There’s no experimental literature, Daniel, without an experimental life”. I lived by this rule... Not because it was my friend saying it; But because it was beautiful…
I repeat: He was the best poet I ever read. And yet, maybe precisely because of that, at the age of 27, he didn’t have a job. He lived with his parents, smoked almost two packs a day – plus loads of marijuana – felt himself to be rejected and half of the people we know still thinks he was crazy.
Now I sit in this claustrophobic room; I have six earphones and I use all of them. Things about this friend of mine keep coming back into my head; His ability to put things together. Things nobody could yet foresee…
A quick example:
When I was a child, nobody gave a fuck about smoking. And then this huge anti-tobacco campaign took over the world... It was such an enormous campaign that nowadays one could actually believe this intolerant view over tobacco is how it has ever been… Well, it isn’t. And at the early years of this campaign, I listened for the first time, from my friend’s mouth, a long, elaborate theory on how the very idea of getting addicted and the fear of leaving the habit was turning people into more fiercely enslaved smokers. “A dumb teenage girl with loads of makeup”, he would say, “with her fashion punk tattoo, takes her first drag, looks at the glowing ambers and thinks to herself: That’s it… I’m a smoker now. It got me! Must draw thin black lines over my eyes now and adopt a light blasé expression from now on... And nobody believes they can quit anymore, even if they aren’t even addicted yet, it’s amazing!”
Shortly before I came to Europe, when it all started, between joints, cigarettes and bottles of beer he was borrowing me the Jacques Bergier’s and Louis Pauwels’s Morning of the Magicians, with all it’s alchemy and mysteries. He was obsessed with Charles Fort, the American researcher of the weird, the hidden and the anomalous phenomena.
You must understand two things, now, so all my efforts of honest explanation won’t fall into the ridiculous of disbelief (so common in our modern society, always prompt to deny everything that can’t be immediately found under the old files titled: “That’s how I already think about it”).
Well, first: I’m talking about a guy who understood Einstein in one month. A guy who told me he bought a book of Shakespeare, to see if it really was any good and, a week later, was making complicated relations about his works, on the phone, while stating he had reason to believe Marlowee, and not Bacon, was, actually, the real identity of William Shakespeare. My friend would dive into things with a strength and speed that’s not normal for most of us.
Second thing you should know: We did not live in Montmartre or some shit like that… In my hometown, if you said: “Nietzsche”, people would reply “God bless you!” And there was my friend, lost in this place, completely clueless and careless about what other people can and cannot understand… I’ve seem him speaking things like: “Hum… And all that Shrek shit is nothing but another phallic reference in children movies… Shrek is nothing but the pretension to do a phallic philosophic masterpiece, presented in the same basic way all philosophy started: The dialog! Shrek is the man, trying to live his live by his own law, a man who senses his own depths and get lost inside it; And Donkey is his penis – annoying and eluding the poor man while, at the same time, serving as a connection between him and the world out there... Eddie Murphy DOES look like a penis, if you come to think of it…”
An important fact about this episode is that my friend wasn’t addressing his theory to a teenage geek boy; He was talking to an old country grandpa, in a bus stop! You could tell the old man didn’t understand even what the fuck was Shrek. He didn’t understand the word “phallic”, neither seemed too eager to get in a conversation with an unconforming punk, probably drugged, can’t-respect-their-elders kid who, probably influenced by communism, was crapping all these things about a penis...
My friend would also, very often, for example, give ultra-condensed-far-away answers to people’s questions. He didn’t use to speak or talk like a normal person. That’s why his poetry is so beautiful. He made a new language, in which he’s able to say more than meaningless robotic crap. And nobody has the smallest notion of what he is talking about, most of the time, so they can’t really tell when he is just kidding from the times he really means something that just seems funny.
As he was a really nice guy and everybody liked him, his idiosyncrasies never really bothered anyone. They would say, laughing, things like: “He is crazy”, and he would say something even crazier, and they would all laugh some more and drink and go to sleep.
But knowing him for so long, and having followed his cultural footsteps, I’m proud to say I could understand most of the things he was talking or writing about.
After some time in Europe, through our e-mails, I started noticing he continued to evolve. And as I wasn’t around anymore – to immediately borrow the books and hear the insights that would allow me to keep up with his development – it was a sad thing to feel I was slipping away from my friends in something deeper than time and space. I was distancing myself from them also in an intellectual way. My friend was reaching for a level of understanding of things that simple didn’t seem to be allowed to me anymore. It was a sad feeling, and I felt small. And I wished I was there with him.
And then came the reptilian shape shifting men and the Illuminati. Smithsonian. The Bilderberg Group. Hidden fossils of giant men... Came the Lemurian mystics. A huge net of alternative interpretations of the world we live in, so commonly known as “Conspiracy theories”. “Well”, he would say, “in a world where the only sure thing about leaders is that they are lying to you, I can’t understand how a conspiracy theory can be seen as any other thing than a treasure. Besides, even the people sincerely honest about their believes, well… Chances are they don’t have any fucking clue what they are talking about anyway…”
Of course he wouldn’t say EXACTLY those words over there… That’s my translation of his speech. HE would say something like: “Paranoia should be welcomed with an open smile, you know? At least it shows you can think, and that you’re not thinking about how to put a price on my ass…”
I realize now I’ve being taking too long to say anything. There is no excuse. I’m sorry… Please, forgive the babbling of a dying man… It’s nothing dramatic, you see? I’ve always had this feeling that I’m dying. Right now, as I am writing this, I’m dying. And if you are reading these things, it means you are dying too. It’s nothing new, really.
And after so much cold, I got a warm feeling with these silly memories… I’m getting somewhere, but I am not in a hurry. I’m sorry, but you are also the reason I take my time and make this longer than it could be. You there, reading. You are probably my friend, and I probably miss you. Even if I do meet you everyday, I know it won’t be forever – I know that it won’t even be for long, and as I shake your hand, or listen to you, I miss you already.
So, please, leave me with my banquet to feast. Have a little patience with your lonely friend who’s tired and felt himself so old already at the age of 23.
If I could, now, I probably would hold you. It’s cheesy, but I’m dying. We are all men, and nothing human can be foreign to us. So please let me hold you all in my mind for a little bit longer, as I progress with the story.
I tried to keep up with Alcides, this friend I’ve being talking about, but it was too difficult. Besides the distance, I also had some kind of suspicious feeling about all this conspiracy theory stuff, mixed with (I’m ashamed to admit) that kind of natural fear a small-city soul can feel towards this type of paranoia. There’s some crap that’s just creepy…
My friend, though, was going deeper than ever. He seemed completely lost among his researches about giant skeletons and lost continents. If it seemed useless and creepy to me, I must admit that most philosophy will seen useless and weird to most people too... Philosophy is the kind of thing that “makes people go crazy…” This kind of prejudice was already lost in my past. I would never think of criticizing my friend’s studies.
And he was my best friend, so I even tried to follow him. But I just don’t have what it takes to keep up with him in real-time. And, as I have already said, he was going deeper and faster as I’d never seen before.
It’s not easy to part from the comfortable company of regular science. Studying alchemy, for example, is way more complicated then studying math. Alchemy, I believe, is the hardest thing in the field of literature.
If you study math, at least you know which books you should be reading. One thing leads to another, and you follow… People do tests all around the world to show that some books and theories are wrong. And they have public debates about it and you just discard most of the crap.
But in the occult, you can’t separate, before reading, the crap from the gold. Almost every crooked writer in the world is talking about some paranormal or occult magic shit. And truth is an ignorant eye will be unable to tell the crooked from the magicians.
I could send you some zen texts, in a milder example, that are extremely profound to me – but look plainly silly for most people. And still, zen is not as misguiding as the occult. The zen guys WANT you to understand. They talk in an elevated language – too elevated for the mundane – about elevated things that are too elevated to be understood through mundane thinking, but they WANT you to understand them.
The alchemists, uheahueahuae, they are trying to hide it from you. They are writing that only for THEMSELVES, you see? They want to leave you out of the game…
And how many alchemists, how many true alchemists, can exist in the world simultaneously? Well, some would say they became immune to age; That they learned how to transmute themselves... All right, even considering that, what about the old alchemists? The ones that started it all, through the ages... The ancient alchemists who gave us the popular image of the white bearded, point-hated nice wizard… How many of them could exist in the world in a certain age?
If they wanted to write only for themselves, the mail would not do… They had to write in code, through the ages… And their code is a fucking unbreakable one. It’s a simple code, but it’s hidden too high – kept safe from children’s hands.
The way to break the alchemist’s code is very easy, actually. You just have to reach for it. It’s simple. You go there, you get there. It’s just like swimming.
The problem, well, is the distance…
You must get wiser. You must learn more about the world, and how to relate things about it. You must discover its secrets… Forget about things you learned in school… “H” is hydrogen, “O” for oxygen… Try to really understand sulfur… Know it by its color, smell and so many other properties… To know lead, gold, stones, stars, plants and to distillate water for thousands of times waiting for the magic mystery of knowing more and more… You push and push and make your mind expand… You make it explode! And if you can get there – or while you can have a glimpse of that, you can understand what they are saying. It’s just like swimming…
Just like swimming from Brazil to Africa, I believe.
My friend, for all I know, was already riding a bicycle through China…
But he was not really into alchemy. Not anymore… His obsession was Lemuria. The giant wise people who lived inside Mont Shasta after the continent was gone. On how they still existed and how fascinating they must be. He wrote to me:
(Actually, even if I planned to put here exactly what he said, I would still be translating from the Portuguese. And I do believe that even if you could read Portuguese, chances are you wouldn’t understand much if you didn’t know my friend deeply. So I’ll translate it to my simpler, much poorer descriptive and logical language… But I must admit some parts of it were, and still are, also obscure to me. I’ll just try as hard as I can)
“I’m sure they’re still out there… Some place unknown to men, that’s most likely impossible to be known to men by pure means of deducting and searching. They were highly disturbed in Mount Shasta. Dr. Harvey Spencer Lewis suggests they moved location, with the help of ‘a selected few’… A line of arguing that shows very clearly Dr. Harvey Spencer didn’t know SHIT of what he was talking about… Why should a superior race need our help to go anywhere? It also annoys me these people saying the Lemurians created men so we could collect gold for them... If that was the case, why do we have so much gold in Egyptians artifacts, churches and so on? When Francisco Pizarro kidnapped Atahualpa didn’t he ask, among other things, for a full room of gold as a ransom for the Inca emperor? This was the biggest known ransom in the whole History of human kind, by the way… Pizarro killed Atahualpa and kept the gold. So, if the Lemurians were here really after the gold, how come the Inca empire still had that much after Lemuria had sank already? Why do we still have so much old and new gold everywhere, if they really needed it so badly in Sirius B? Of course they weren’t looking for gold! Gold is only valuable to us – and not even to all of us, as many are not greedy”
“Most of Lemuria’s public history was written by fools who had a lucky glimpse of things as they truly are! The truth about Lemuria is out there, somehow, but it’s too far from reach for simple people to find it. For someone to explain it on a youtube video…”
“I have this feeling… I wonder if you have ever felt it too... Sometimes I’m reading a book, or watching a movie… Sometimes it’s looking at a painting, or at a famous building… And I can feel there are sings in there… Sings even the author surely didn’t see… Men were not made to be identical gold-digger slaves. I mean, look at DNA, Daniel… Find a 3D DNA drawing over the Internet and take a moment to look at it… Advanced engineering!… It’s THERE, for everyone to see… It’s very clear that DNA is a product of some engineering shit… We are their ultimate machine… And why would the creator of men put in our basic program – at our very BIOS – that we should not procreate with mother, for example? They need diversity…”
“When you pick up the texts inspired or dictated by the ‘gods’ themselves, the Sumerian texts, for instance, and you read, like: ‘…use clay to form the first men, who would toil and farm so that the gods could relax”, these stupid monkey-brain fuckers think they were talking about gold! Daniel, have you forgotten all we ever talked about Kant? About space, time, and about these things being not an objective thing in the universe, but only the shape in which our minds can see and understand the universe? So… These… These FARMERS can’t think out of the box… They, the gods, want diversity… Maybe there are a lot of tasks and they want different types of man to perform them… Maybe only a few of us, like Socrates, or Jesus, can perform this task they created us to do… Maybe we are performing this task only by being born, or being alive… Maybe we’re just batteries in a dream world, like in that Matrix movie… I can’t really tell yet. But I hope to know it, if I have enough time…”
“I see signs in works of art. As if in the highest reaches of the human work their signs, the signs of Lemuria, are made clear… They appear without any desire in our minds to make them… Lemurians are our manufacturers, and their company number keeps showing if you look deep enough…”
“There’s no sense in looking for them anywhere in space. All these companies trying to keep the knowledge for themselves… It’s useless. They tried some fun at Mount Shasta and it didn’t work. They’re out of our reach now, for sure. But the answer must be around, lying somewhere for everyone to see it... If you live inside a car, there must be a way you can get to the engine. I sit in my bed and focus… I concentrate and send messages for them to find me… I try to create any kind of disturbance in the system around me… I don’t know yet pretty much of what am I doing, but I’m trying…”
“I also started to look for their signs in nature… If it shows in art, in must be out there… The perfect message, randomly written somewhere... Have you heard of fractal? The golden ratio… The very manual of the world as we know it may be out there, somehow... Some times I think I’ve found it… Something that catches my eyes for no reason… Something that has being always there, and nobody cared to think of it as a simple code… For a long time I considered it could be written in the black spots over the skin of a jaguar… Maybe Borges was right…”
He sent me the pictures of the poor animal, almost anemic, sadly staring to the camera through the bars at the zoo in the nearest big city. And I couldn’t define if I was more depressed by the animal’s look or by my friend’s obsession.
In the months that followed, he wrote fewer and fewer messages, too deep in symbology and delirium for me to decipher completely at the time... He wrote things about seeing kaleidoscope-like green images when he was deep into his Lemuria-calling states of trance. I first took that as some kind of metaphor for saying something else, but I was wrong...
I had the chance to talk with a few other friends about it. But they – as apparently everyone else also did – took all of those things as just another “crazy talk” my friend always used to babble. They couldn’t tell shit from Shinola. I honestly thought he could be going crazy, but I still tried to follow his footsteps, even if I could never keep up with him.
And then he got normal again, as if out of some trance. As if he had already dug deep enough to get the main picture and felt satisfied, just waiting to settle a couple of details…
He sent me this e-mail… I guess it won’t be really difficult to understand, if you’ve being paying attention to what I wrote. I’ll try to translate it directly from his words this time… He wrote to me:
“I was into a club this weekend, staring into a lot of these emo-goth-indie-hype kids while they were dancing. And one of them, shit, he made a pose… Like, he just crossed his arms and stared at the roof, kind of sideways. He evaluated the place, I guess, and wondered not how did he feel about the music – as my hole generation would think of dancing – but as how HE SOULD LOOK IN THE GENERAL PICTURE OF THE CLUB! He put himself into an impersonal point of view, as if he were, in fact, a camera, and imagined, in that composition, what should be the function and position of the object ‘Me’ on the dance floor!”
“He actually got into a quite fitting pose, by the way… It looked just as if you were staring into a real-time video clip”
“And then I think about the fire that will strike the Earth in 2012. I think about the Coevo Man, about available credits and finances, at the cool dudes with i-pods, killer snickers and cell phones. Think about the phone companies and about Bradesco and Itaú and in the economical growth, about the age where all the words are trade marks and all the sentences are slogans. Think of the faustic men, of the cosmic-historical men, of the men-beyond-the-men, but can only see the consuming men. My mind works unquestioned for the first time in my life, it’s unanimous. I’m the one who’s asking, I’m the one who’s answering it. It’s me inside my father’s scrotum. It’s me in my mother’s womb: there was a friend of mine, when I was around nine, someone told him: ‘The sky is infinite’, the kid went mad. He really got crazy, insane, left school, walking around with shit in his pants staring at the sky repeating: ‘there’s no end’, ’there’s no end’. Beyond any moralistic metaphor about curiosity, I can’t remember the kid’s name, I remember his mother’s name for it was the name of a country, Argentina. ’The sky is infinite’. The planet is History by now, the end is traveling through the light years. It’s History... Gone. Even the end can’t be understood by our notion of time. Nobody understands the end, nobody realizes the explosions that started so many years ago burning everything in slow motion, even the fire tongues that will lick the Earth, even the fire tongues of the visionary poet are insufficient images. The consuming men need another new image of the end. And up to the very last second they won’t see anything, until the meteor gets to a few centimeters of your nose. The world is finished already. The world has already come to an end and the ants work so that six men can see Mercury, so that a robot can film Saturn’s rings. I’m also the NASA, and my ego is the greatest common divisor and the least common multiple, it’s the undividable scientia… Three million cells birth-dying. How many billion planets in my nail? (…) The finger pressing the resurrection button belongs to a hand with blood stains. After the sustained moment of silence and a portal, even before one can look back to stare at the blues land, you are sucked back. Why can’t it be fatal? This sense of humanity is fucked up. If someone in Arabia fucks a jaguar, that’s it, I fucked a jaguar, and if a salesman marries an eleven years old girl, fucked up, I’m a children rapist. If a smartass discovers microbe in Mars, that’s it. I’m Mars. I’m microbe. I’m smartass”
He was saying he could see and understand things most people couldn’t… I guess he was right... He was also talking very clearly about a sense of humanity – of being part of things, of everything, and about the stupidity of denying your destiny. He could not omit himself. If no one but him could see it clearly, he could not let it alone and just wait for someone else to take action. He had to do something about it. It was his obligation.
My friend came to believe, at the end, in some kind of heaven. Heaven on Earth, I mean. He believed these forces were actually bringing the world to a better place... The old lizard men who took control of our nations, according to him, were the real slaves, you see? The old litany of "God writes straight with crooked lines"… In his mind, we were not slaves at all… We were not meant to be mere machines, no! We were, actually, the Lemurians highest, purest and most divine kind of art!
We could even stand behind some glass in an exposition right now, as you read me. The whole History of mankind is, to him, like a symphony. Like a movie, or a play in a theater. A painting… Only these are OUR forms of art. Art has to do with the ability of manipulating matter – manipulating words, or colors, or swords, or even food, for example. We do what we can… The Lemurians could do more than spread some colored sand glued into paint over a white cloth... They could create, for example, us! “Genesis was right”, he would say; “Planet Earth is nothing but an arranged stage for us… Maybe we’re the result of the efforts of their whole people, for many ages… Maybe we’re their propose in life –Who knows? It can very well be that for ages they only lived to create this form of art – our DNA, our History and everything else… Or maybe we’re but a soon-to-be-thrown-in-the-trash sketch over a losers table… Who knows? And all the wars, all the misery and pain the lizard race have caused us – it is all part of the Lemurians beautiful plan... Of their artistic script. A fate controlling us like the gods we create, vengeful and merciful at the same time…”
“That’s the plan”, he would go on. “The reptilians are necessary for the beautiful ending… As the New World Order gets out of its womb, causing a level of destruction unknown to men, after a struggle that lasted thousands of years, we will finally understand – through this most evident collapse of all our material pretensions – that the spiritual side, the artistic side of life, is more fulfilling than the desires of the flesh…”
What the Mayans did with their Long Count calendar, according to him, was not to calculate the ages of time itself, but simply to separate the work in acts! And at this last act, not only will we have amazing tragedies of apocalyptical proportions; We will also have the most beautiful shows of grace and high achievement throughout the human race!
This is such a beautiful way of thinking; to me it’s touching… My friend is a poet and a noble man… He thought everything was full of beauty and believed he should not ignore the calling to be a part of things… Oh, shameful situation… I’m not a poet, neither a noble man…
In my isolated, misfit life I had opportunity to observe everything coldly and grow suspicious of things. Beauty, to me, if I’m to be perfectly honest, is but a psychedelic mushroom growing among the shit.
And I also tend to notice helping hands are often devoid of tenderness... You can touch a wounded man, trying to help, and just hurt him more… And, ah, the backslash… The wounded man, in pain, instinctively tries to protect himself, and hurts the helping hand reaching for him… It’s shameful to admit it, but I do believe sometimes is best not to help at all… Even if you’re the only one able to do it… Some times, SPECIALLY if you’re the only one able to do it…
And, most sad of it all, if I observe things as coldly as I can, it’s not my friend’s way of thinking that meets confirmation on the real world.
You see, though I followed his footsteps and read whatever he recommended, or mentioned is his intricate messages, and though I read and reread everything he wrote so many times, trying to decode all of that delirious poetry, I can’t come to agree with his point of view. I’ve found reason to believe he was tragically wrong…
If the Lemurians are a kind wise people hiding from us, as they made us believe, guiding our destiny with artistic hands, why do these things keep on coming back to my head? If it was an artistic magical secret my friend was revealing through his efforts to understand, then why do these things keep on appearing before me? After my friend disappeared, I did not want to follow his footsteps any longer… I tried just to stop, but it won’t go away…
The greenish kaleidoscope-like images fill me with fear… I don’t want to find the Lemurians. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THEM! I think they’re EVIL!
Nevertheless, if I’m distracted, I discover my self thinking about them… Some part of my brain seems to be trying to contact them, as a joke or something... At least this is the excuse my body gives to myself… “Every joke has a background of reality”… Some would say… Where I come from, they say that “Every joke has a slight background of a joke”
And I discovered myself doing, unintentionally, the same thing my friend believed to be “focusing” to do: Trying to cause a disturbance in my environment, so they will find me.
And why is that picture constantly on my mind? The picture my friend sent me, of the depressed jaguar at the zoo. It kept coming back, and every time it came, it came with more details… I can’t be sure if these details were actually in the picture, of if it’s a shape my reptilian mind created on its own, only based on what I saw in the real picture... I could see more and more details… And now all I got are the spots… I don’t want to decipher them, or anything. I didn’t even would want to think about them anymore! I see patterns now… They are just rearranging themselves as they keep on returning…
I think of hiding paranoia, of aluminium foil paper… How many people have I seen in the movies, putting shit over their heads so “they” could not capture their thoughts? I fear now it’s something much worse than any satellite could be… I feel it’s an internal mechanism I’ve triggered….
But I don’t have enough time. The morning comes already and I need to sleep. My mind is trying to call them again, and who knows what can happen in the wild land of dreams? What matters is that I’m still here right now, and I still have the ability to speak clearly, I guess, and to keep my focus on what really matters. So, please, don’t let my babbling make you lose the main point here.
I’m convinced that all of this conspiracy theory has nothing to do with reality. No relation whatsoever with the real world… But it’s also something not to be underestimated. It holds one with a strong power over his mind. So, as you already have a reasonable fellowman inside here, checking the room and letting you know it’s an insane, useless trip to the downward spiral towards nothing, please, just trust me. Don’t waist your time trying to check any of this information online, or anywhere else. It’s all nonsense… Bullshit… If you start to feel interested in any of these subjects, just admit you’re going down a dangerous, useless road and turn back.
Turn back, right now, and head to your previous, comfortable, safe, harmless life, as there is nothing you can do that will really change anything but your chance of being happy while anyone can still be happy around here.
Turn back now, friend, and care not where I go, or what happens to me. If you ever want to honor my memory one day, don’t look for me or do anything silly like carrying flowers to the places I’ve been… Care not for me in a personal manner, as I, myself, won’t care to do it. If you want to do something for me, please, just repeat to yourself this easy, practical truth about a safe, healthy life that I leave behind:
Lemuria does not exist.
Life can’t be that different from a text. Little things that keep coming – changing place and order – composing a story.
Well, mostly a story… Or have you never experienced some moments of plain ………………….? Never felt yourself just ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?? I know I have been through some LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B… Does your life’s story have these parts too? A series of random disconnected pieces, irrelevant or not, that simple won’t fit into any kind of rational meaning – as if they were summoned, or written, by the delirious mind of chaos itself.
It’s difficult to understand life, with all this meaningless noise; Difficult to take action. But to sit down and write about things that happened in the past is slightly easier… To start with, I already know what to look for. You can calmly seek the meaning of what happened, like a hunter would do with his prey. It all depends on how good you track down entities in this forest of symbols… At this point of things, I could pick all this LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B shit, for example, and rearrange it into “LEmURiA, 2012, SIRIuS B”… It would be simply the truth, for that’s exactly what happened to me.
Lemuria does not exist – it’s so simple! This short and straight sentence contains, basically, everything I wanted to say. Unfortunately, I guess it can’t mean much more than LRSU1I0mui2ISREA2B to any lasting friend of mine… Besides, it wouldn’t explain my erratic behavior over the last few months.
As I sit in this messy room, with a vodka bottle seeming to be the only useful thing among all the other crap, it amplifies my sadness to realize it’s been now two years since I left my hometown, my family and so many of my dear friends. After sometime, I guess it’s only natural for anyone to miss them… A particular friend, maybe my best friend of all times, is fundamental to this story.
We were always into books, me and my friends. But this guy, shit, he is like my guru! In a time when Charles Bukowski was not yet cult anywhere outside the US, probably, in a small-ass city, Brazil, my friend was already reading his books and passing them to me. Through Bukowski he came out with John Fante. We had already read Kerouac… He gave me my first Aldous Huxley to read… This is a guy who would talk deeply about philosophy where everybody else was reciting: “I only know that I know nothing…” He brought Rubem Fonseca into the game. Umberto Eco. Jorge Luis Borges. Even Ernst Gombrich… My all times favorites writers, he read before I did.
And it was the same with music and movies... He used to write, too. Best poet I ever read. And I must insist that I’m not saying this just because he was my friend. I’ve read enough now to at least try for an objective view of books and texts. I was just lucky enough to be born close to one of these amazing unknown genius; To be his friend. I’ll never forget several things I heard from him. He said once, for example, trying to convince me into going to a party: “There’s no experimental literature, Daniel, without an experimental life”. I lived by this rule... Not because it was my friend saying it; But because it was beautiful…
I repeat: He was the best poet I ever read. And yet, maybe precisely because of that, at the age of 27, he didn’t have a job. He lived with his parents, smoked almost two packs a day – plus loads of marijuana – felt himself to be rejected and half of the people we know still thinks he was crazy.
Now I sit in this claustrophobic room; I have six earphones and I use all of them. Things about this friend of mine keep coming back into my head; His ability to put things together. Things nobody could yet foresee…
A quick example:
When I was a child, nobody gave a fuck about smoking. And then this huge anti-tobacco campaign took over the world... It was such an enormous campaign that nowadays one could actually believe this intolerant view over tobacco is how it has ever been… Well, it isn’t. And at the early years of this campaign, I listened for the first time, from my friend’s mouth, a long, elaborate theory on how the very idea of getting addicted and the fear of leaving the habit was turning people into more fiercely enslaved smokers. “A dumb teenage girl with loads of makeup”, he would say, “with her fashion punk tattoo, takes her first drag, looks at the glowing ambers and thinks to herself: That’s it… I’m a smoker now. It got me! Must draw thin black lines over my eyes now and adopt a light blasé expression from now on... And nobody believes they can quit anymore, even if they aren’t even addicted yet, it’s amazing!”
Shortly before I came to Europe, when it all started, between joints, cigarettes and bottles of beer he was borrowing me the Jacques Bergier’s and Louis Pauwels’s Morning of the Magicians, with all it’s alchemy and mysteries. He was obsessed with Charles Fort, the American researcher of the weird, the hidden and the anomalous phenomena.
You must understand two things, now, so all my efforts of honest explanation won’t fall into the ridiculous of disbelief (so common in our modern society, always prompt to deny everything that can’t be immediately found under the old files titled: “That’s how I already think about it”).
Well, first: I’m talking about a guy who understood Einstein in one month. A guy who told me he bought a book of Shakespeare, to see if it really was any good and, a week later, was making complicated relations about his works, on the phone, while stating he had reason to believe Marlowee, and not Bacon, was, actually, the real identity of William Shakespeare. My friend would dive into things with a strength and speed that’s not normal for most of us.
Second thing you should know: We did not live in Montmartre or some shit like that… In my hometown, if you said: “Nietzsche”, people would reply “God bless you!” And there was my friend, lost in this place, completely clueless and careless about what other people can and cannot understand… I’ve seem him speaking things like: “Hum… And all that Shrek shit is nothing but another phallic reference in children movies… Shrek is nothing but the pretension to do a phallic philosophic masterpiece, presented in the same basic way all philosophy started: The dialog! Shrek is the man, trying to live his live by his own law, a man who senses his own depths and get lost inside it; And Donkey is his penis – annoying and eluding the poor man while, at the same time, serving as a connection between him and the world out there... Eddie Murphy DOES look like a penis, if you come to think of it…”
An important fact about this episode is that my friend wasn’t addressing his theory to a teenage geek boy; He was talking to an old country grandpa, in a bus stop! You could tell the old man didn’t understand even what the fuck was Shrek. He didn’t understand the word “phallic”, neither seemed too eager to get in a conversation with an unconforming punk, probably drugged, can’t-respect-their-elders kid who, probably influenced by communism, was crapping all these things about a penis...
My friend would also, very often, for example, give ultra-condensed-far-away answers to people’s questions. He didn’t use to speak or talk like a normal person. That’s why his poetry is so beautiful. He made a new language, in which he’s able to say more than meaningless robotic crap. And nobody has the smallest notion of what he is talking about, most of the time, so they can’t really tell when he is just kidding from the times he really means something that just seems funny.
As he was a really nice guy and everybody liked him, his idiosyncrasies never really bothered anyone. They would say, laughing, things like: “He is crazy”, and he would say something even crazier, and they would all laugh some more and drink and go to sleep.
But knowing him for so long, and having followed his cultural footsteps, I’m proud to say I could understand most of the things he was talking or writing about.
After some time in Europe, through our e-mails, I started noticing he continued to evolve. And as I wasn’t around anymore – to immediately borrow the books and hear the insights that would allow me to keep up with his development – it was a sad thing to feel I was slipping away from my friends in something deeper than time and space. I was distancing myself from them also in an intellectual way. My friend was reaching for a level of understanding of things that simple didn’t seem to be allowed to me anymore. It was a sad feeling, and I felt small. And I wished I was there with him.
And then came the reptilian shape shifting men and the Illuminati. Smithsonian. The Bilderberg Group. Hidden fossils of giant men... Came the Lemurian mystics. A huge net of alternative interpretations of the world we live in, so commonly known as “Conspiracy theories”. “Well”, he would say, “in a world where the only sure thing about leaders is that they are lying to you, I can’t understand how a conspiracy theory can be seen as any other thing than a treasure. Besides, even the people sincerely honest about their believes, well… Chances are they don’t have any fucking clue what they are talking about anyway…”
Of course he wouldn’t say EXACTLY those words over there… That’s my translation of his speech. HE would say something like: “Paranoia should be welcomed with an open smile, you know? At least it shows you can think, and that you’re not thinking about how to put a price on my ass…”
I realize now I’ve being taking too long to say anything. There is no excuse. I’m sorry… Please, forgive the babbling of a dying man… It’s nothing dramatic, you see? I’ve always had this feeling that I’m dying. Right now, as I am writing this, I’m dying. And if you are reading these things, it means you are dying too. It’s nothing new, really.
And after so much cold, I got a warm feeling with these silly memories… I’m getting somewhere, but I am not in a hurry. I’m sorry, but you are also the reason I take my time and make this longer than it could be. You there, reading. You are probably my friend, and I probably miss you. Even if I do meet you everyday, I know it won’t be forever – I know that it won’t even be for long, and as I shake your hand, or listen to you, I miss you already.
So, please, leave me with my banquet to feast. Have a little patience with your lonely friend who’s tired and felt himself so old already at the age of 23.
If I could, now, I probably would hold you. It’s cheesy, but I’m dying. We are all men, and nothing human can be foreign to us. So please let me hold you all in my mind for a little bit longer, as I progress with the story.
I tried to keep up with Alcides, this friend I’ve being talking about, but it was too difficult. Besides the distance, I also had some kind of suspicious feeling about all this conspiracy theory stuff, mixed with (I’m ashamed to admit) that kind of natural fear a small-city soul can feel towards this type of paranoia. There’s some crap that’s just creepy…
My friend, though, was going deeper than ever. He seemed completely lost among his researches about giant skeletons and lost continents. If it seemed useless and creepy to me, I must admit that most philosophy will seen useless and weird to most people too... Philosophy is the kind of thing that “makes people go crazy…” This kind of prejudice was already lost in my past. I would never think of criticizing my friend’s studies.
And he was my best friend, so I even tried to follow him. But I just don’t have what it takes to keep up with him in real-time. And, as I have already said, he was going deeper and faster as I’d never seen before.
It’s not easy to part from the comfortable company of regular science. Studying alchemy, for example, is way more complicated then studying math. Alchemy, I believe, is the hardest thing in the field of literature.
If you study math, at least you know which books you should be reading. One thing leads to another, and you follow… People do tests all around the world to show that some books and theories are wrong. And they have public debates about it and you just discard most of the crap.
But in the occult, you can’t separate, before reading, the crap from the gold. Almost every crooked writer in the world is talking about some paranormal or occult magic shit. And truth is an ignorant eye will be unable to tell the crooked from the magicians.
I could send you some zen texts, in a milder example, that are extremely profound to me – but look plainly silly for most people. And still, zen is not as misguiding as the occult. The zen guys WANT you to understand. They talk in an elevated language – too elevated for the mundane – about elevated things that are too elevated to be understood through mundane thinking, but they WANT you to understand them.
The alchemists, uheahueahuae, they are trying to hide it from you. They are writing that only for THEMSELVES, you see? They want to leave you out of the game…
And how many alchemists, how many true alchemists, can exist in the world simultaneously? Well, some would say they became immune to age; That they learned how to transmute themselves... All right, even considering that, what about the old alchemists? The ones that started it all, through the ages... The ancient alchemists who gave us the popular image of the white bearded, point-hated nice wizard… How many of them could exist in the world in a certain age?
If they wanted to write only for themselves, the mail would not do… They had to write in code, through the ages… And their code is a fucking unbreakable one. It’s a simple code, but it’s hidden too high – kept safe from children’s hands.
The way to break the alchemist’s code is very easy, actually. You just have to reach for it. It’s simple. You go there, you get there. It’s just like swimming.
The problem, well, is the distance…
You must get wiser. You must learn more about the world, and how to relate things about it. You must discover its secrets… Forget about things you learned in school… “H” is hydrogen, “O” for oxygen… Try to really understand sulfur… Know it by its color, smell and so many other properties… To know lead, gold, stones, stars, plants and to distillate water for thousands of times waiting for the magic mystery of knowing more and more… You push and push and make your mind expand… You make it explode! And if you can get there – or while you can have a glimpse of that, you can understand what they are saying. It’s just like swimming…
Just like swimming from Brazil to Africa, I believe.
My friend, for all I know, was already riding a bicycle through China…
But he was not really into alchemy. Not anymore… His obsession was Lemuria. The giant wise people who lived inside Mont Shasta after the continent was gone. On how they still existed and how fascinating they must be. He wrote to me:
(Actually, even if I planned to put here exactly what he said, I would still be translating from the Portuguese. And I do believe that even if you could read Portuguese, chances are you wouldn’t understand much if you didn’t know my friend deeply. So I’ll translate it to my simpler, much poorer descriptive and logical language… But I must admit some parts of it were, and still are, also obscure to me. I’ll just try as hard as I can)
“I’m sure they’re still out there… Some place unknown to men, that’s most likely impossible to be known to men by pure means of deducting and searching. They were highly disturbed in Mount Shasta. Dr. Harvey Spencer Lewis suggests they moved location, with the help of ‘a selected few’… A line of arguing that shows very clearly Dr. Harvey Spencer didn’t know SHIT of what he was talking about… Why should a superior race need our help to go anywhere? It also annoys me these people saying the Lemurians created men so we could collect gold for them... If that was the case, why do we have so much gold in Egyptians artifacts, churches and so on? When Francisco Pizarro kidnapped Atahualpa didn’t he ask, among other things, for a full room of gold as a ransom for the Inca emperor? This was the biggest known ransom in the whole History of human kind, by the way… Pizarro killed Atahualpa and kept the gold. So, if the Lemurians were here really after the gold, how come the Inca empire still had that much after Lemuria had sank already? Why do we still have so much old and new gold everywhere, if they really needed it so badly in Sirius B? Of course they weren’t looking for gold! Gold is only valuable to us – and not even to all of us, as many are not greedy”
“Most of Lemuria’s public history was written by fools who had a lucky glimpse of things as they truly are! The truth about Lemuria is out there, somehow, but it’s too far from reach for simple people to find it. For someone to explain it on a youtube video…”
“I have this feeling… I wonder if you have ever felt it too... Sometimes I’m reading a book, or watching a movie… Sometimes it’s looking at a painting, or at a famous building… And I can feel there are sings in there… Sings even the author surely didn’t see… Men were not made to be identical gold-digger slaves. I mean, look at DNA, Daniel… Find a 3D DNA drawing over the Internet and take a moment to look at it… Advanced engineering!… It’s THERE, for everyone to see… It’s very clear that DNA is a product of some engineering shit… We are their ultimate machine… And why would the creator of men put in our basic program – at our very BIOS – that we should not procreate with mother, for example? They need diversity…”
“When you pick up the texts inspired or dictated by the ‘gods’ themselves, the Sumerian texts, for instance, and you read, like: ‘…use clay to form the first men, who would toil and farm so that the gods could relax”, these stupid monkey-brain fuckers think they were talking about gold! Daniel, have you forgotten all we ever talked about Kant? About space, time, and about these things being not an objective thing in the universe, but only the shape in which our minds can see and understand the universe? So… These… These FARMERS can’t think out of the box… They, the gods, want diversity… Maybe there are a lot of tasks and they want different types of man to perform them… Maybe only a few of us, like Socrates, or Jesus, can perform this task they created us to do… Maybe we are performing this task only by being born, or being alive… Maybe we’re just batteries in a dream world, like in that Matrix movie… I can’t really tell yet. But I hope to know it, if I have enough time…”
“I see signs in works of art. As if in the highest reaches of the human work their signs, the signs of Lemuria, are made clear… They appear without any desire in our minds to make them… Lemurians are our manufacturers, and their company number keeps showing if you look deep enough…”
“There’s no sense in looking for them anywhere in space. All these companies trying to keep the knowledge for themselves… It’s useless. They tried some fun at Mount Shasta and it didn’t work. They’re out of our reach now, for sure. But the answer must be around, lying somewhere for everyone to see it... If you live inside a car, there must be a way you can get to the engine. I sit in my bed and focus… I concentrate and send messages for them to find me… I try to create any kind of disturbance in the system around me… I don’t know yet pretty much of what am I doing, but I’m trying…”
“I also started to look for their signs in nature… If it shows in art, in must be out there… The perfect message, randomly written somewhere... Have you heard of fractal? The golden ratio… The very manual of the world as we know it may be out there, somehow... Some times I think I’ve found it… Something that catches my eyes for no reason… Something that has being always there, and nobody cared to think of it as a simple code… For a long time I considered it could be written in the black spots over the skin of a jaguar… Maybe Borges was right…”
He sent me the pictures of the poor animal, almost anemic, sadly staring to the camera through the bars at the zoo in the nearest big city. And I couldn’t define if I was more depressed by the animal’s look or by my friend’s obsession.
In the months that followed, he wrote fewer and fewer messages, too deep in symbology and delirium for me to decipher completely at the time... He wrote things about seeing kaleidoscope-like green images when he was deep into his Lemuria-calling states of trance. I first took that as some kind of metaphor for saying something else, but I was wrong...
I had the chance to talk with a few other friends about it. But they – as apparently everyone else also did – took all of those things as just another “crazy talk” my friend always used to babble. They couldn’t tell shit from Shinola. I honestly thought he could be going crazy, but I still tried to follow his footsteps, even if I could never keep up with him.
And then he got normal again, as if out of some trance. As if he had already dug deep enough to get the main picture and felt satisfied, just waiting to settle a couple of details…
He sent me this e-mail… I guess it won’t be really difficult to understand, if you’ve being paying attention to what I wrote. I’ll try to translate it directly from his words this time… He wrote to me:
“I was into a club this weekend, staring into a lot of these emo-goth-indie-hype kids while they were dancing. And one of them, shit, he made a pose… Like, he just crossed his arms and stared at the roof, kind of sideways. He evaluated the place, I guess, and wondered not how did he feel about the music – as my hole generation would think of dancing – but as how HE SOULD LOOK IN THE GENERAL PICTURE OF THE CLUB! He put himself into an impersonal point of view, as if he were, in fact, a camera, and imagined, in that composition, what should be the function and position of the object ‘Me’ on the dance floor!”
“He actually got into a quite fitting pose, by the way… It looked just as if you were staring into a real-time video clip”
“And then I think about the fire that will strike the Earth in 2012. I think about the Coevo Man, about available credits and finances, at the cool dudes with i-pods, killer snickers and cell phones. Think about the phone companies and about Bradesco and Itaú and in the economical growth, about the age where all the words are trade marks and all the sentences are slogans. Think of the faustic men, of the cosmic-historical men, of the men-beyond-the-men, but can only see the consuming men. My mind works unquestioned for the first time in my life, it’s unanimous. I’m the one who’s asking, I’m the one who’s answering it. It’s me inside my father’s scrotum. It’s me in my mother’s womb: there was a friend of mine, when I was around nine, someone told him: ‘The sky is infinite’, the kid went mad. He really got crazy, insane, left school, walking around with shit in his pants staring at the sky repeating: ‘there’s no end’, ’there’s no end’. Beyond any moralistic metaphor about curiosity, I can’t remember the kid’s name, I remember his mother’s name for it was the name of a country, Argentina. ’The sky is infinite’. The planet is History by now, the end is traveling through the light years. It’s History... Gone. Even the end can’t be understood by our notion of time. Nobody understands the end, nobody realizes the explosions that started so many years ago burning everything in slow motion, even the fire tongues that will lick the Earth, even the fire tongues of the visionary poet are insufficient images. The consuming men need another new image of the end. And up to the very last second they won’t see anything, until the meteor gets to a few centimeters of your nose. The world is finished already. The world has already come to an end and the ants work so that six men can see Mercury, so that a robot can film Saturn’s rings. I’m also the NASA, and my ego is the greatest common divisor and the least common multiple, it’s the undividable scientia… Three million cells birth-dying. How many billion planets in my nail? (…) The finger pressing the resurrection button belongs to a hand with blood stains. After the sustained moment of silence and a portal, even before one can look back to stare at the blues land, you are sucked back. Why can’t it be fatal? This sense of humanity is fucked up. If someone in Arabia fucks a jaguar, that’s it, I fucked a jaguar, and if a salesman marries an eleven years old girl, fucked up, I’m a children rapist. If a smartass discovers microbe in Mars, that’s it. I’m Mars. I’m microbe. I’m smartass”
He was saying he could see and understand things most people couldn’t… I guess he was right... He was also talking very clearly about a sense of humanity – of being part of things, of everything, and about the stupidity of denying your destiny. He could not omit himself. If no one but him could see it clearly, he could not let it alone and just wait for someone else to take action. He had to do something about it. It was his obligation.
My friend came to believe, at the end, in some kind of heaven. Heaven on Earth, I mean. He believed these forces were actually bringing the world to a better place... The old lizard men who took control of our nations, according to him, were the real slaves, you see? The old litany of "God writes straight with crooked lines"… In his mind, we were not slaves at all… We were not meant to be mere machines, no! We were, actually, the Lemurians highest, purest and most divine kind of art!
We could even stand behind some glass in an exposition right now, as you read me. The whole History of mankind is, to him, like a symphony. Like a movie, or a play in a theater. A painting… Only these are OUR forms of art. Art has to do with the ability of manipulating matter – manipulating words, or colors, or swords, or even food, for example. We do what we can… The Lemurians could do more than spread some colored sand glued into paint over a white cloth... They could create, for example, us! “Genesis was right”, he would say; “Planet Earth is nothing but an arranged stage for us… Maybe we’re the result of the efforts of their whole people, for many ages… Maybe we’re their propose in life –Who knows? It can very well be that for ages they only lived to create this form of art – our DNA, our History and everything else… Or maybe we’re but a soon-to-be-thrown-in-the-trash sketch over a losers table… Who knows? And all the wars, all the misery and pain the lizard race have caused us – it is all part of the Lemurians beautiful plan... Of their artistic script. A fate controlling us like the gods we create, vengeful and merciful at the same time…”
“That’s the plan”, he would go on. “The reptilians are necessary for the beautiful ending… As the New World Order gets out of its womb, causing a level of destruction unknown to men, after a struggle that lasted thousands of years, we will finally understand – through this most evident collapse of all our material pretensions – that the spiritual side, the artistic side of life, is more fulfilling than the desires of the flesh…”
What the Mayans did with their Long Count calendar, according to him, was not to calculate the ages of time itself, but simply to separate the work in acts! And at this last act, not only will we have amazing tragedies of apocalyptical proportions; We will also have the most beautiful shows of grace and high achievement throughout the human race!
This is such a beautiful way of thinking; to me it’s touching… My friend is a poet and a noble man… He thought everything was full of beauty and believed he should not ignore the calling to be a part of things… Oh, shameful situation… I’m not a poet, neither a noble man…
In my isolated, misfit life I had opportunity to observe everything coldly and grow suspicious of things. Beauty, to me, if I’m to be perfectly honest, is but a psychedelic mushroom growing among the shit.
And I also tend to notice helping hands are often devoid of tenderness... You can touch a wounded man, trying to help, and just hurt him more… And, ah, the backslash… The wounded man, in pain, instinctively tries to protect himself, and hurts the helping hand reaching for him… It’s shameful to admit it, but I do believe sometimes is best not to help at all… Even if you’re the only one able to do it… Some times, SPECIALLY if you’re the only one able to do it…
And, most sad of it all, if I observe things as coldly as I can, it’s not my friend’s way of thinking that meets confirmation on the real world.
You see, though I followed his footsteps and read whatever he recommended, or mentioned is his intricate messages, and though I read and reread everything he wrote so many times, trying to decode all of that delirious poetry, I can’t come to agree with his point of view. I’ve found reason to believe he was tragically wrong…
If the Lemurians are a kind wise people hiding from us, as they made us believe, guiding our destiny with artistic hands, why do these things keep on coming back to my head? If it was an artistic magical secret my friend was revealing through his efforts to understand, then why do these things keep on appearing before me? After my friend disappeared, I did not want to follow his footsteps any longer… I tried just to stop, but it won’t go away…
The greenish kaleidoscope-like images fill me with fear… I don’t want to find the Lemurians. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THEM! I think they’re EVIL!
Nevertheless, if I’m distracted, I discover my self thinking about them… Some part of my brain seems to be trying to contact them, as a joke or something... At least this is the excuse my body gives to myself… “Every joke has a background of reality”… Some would say… Where I come from, they say that “Every joke has a slight background of a joke”
And I discovered myself doing, unintentionally, the same thing my friend believed to be “focusing” to do: Trying to cause a disturbance in my environment, so they will find me.
And why is that picture constantly on my mind? The picture my friend sent me, of the depressed jaguar at the zoo. It kept coming back, and every time it came, it came with more details… I can’t be sure if these details were actually in the picture, of if it’s a shape my reptilian mind created on its own, only based on what I saw in the real picture... I could see more and more details… And now all I got are the spots… I don’t want to decipher them, or anything. I didn’t even would want to think about them anymore! I see patterns now… They are just rearranging themselves as they keep on returning…
I think of hiding paranoia, of aluminium foil paper… How many people have I seen in the movies, putting shit over their heads so “they” could not capture their thoughts? I fear now it’s something much worse than any satellite could be… I feel it’s an internal mechanism I’ve triggered….
But I don’t have enough time. The morning comes already and I need to sleep. My mind is trying to call them again, and who knows what can happen in the wild land of dreams? What matters is that I’m still here right now, and I still have the ability to speak clearly, I guess, and to keep my focus on what really matters. So, please, don’t let my babbling make you lose the main point here.
I’m convinced that all of this conspiracy theory has nothing to do with reality. No relation whatsoever with the real world… But it’s also something not to be underestimated. It holds one with a strong power over his mind. So, as you already have a reasonable fellowman inside here, checking the room and letting you know it’s an insane, useless trip to the downward spiral towards nothing, please, just trust me. Don’t waist your time trying to check any of this information online, or anywhere else. It’s all nonsense… Bullshit… If you start to feel interested in any of these subjects, just admit you’re going down a dangerous, useless road and turn back.
Turn back, right now, and head to your previous, comfortable, safe, harmless life, as there is nothing you can do that will really change anything but your chance of being happy while anyone can still be happy around here.
Turn back now, friend, and care not where I go, or what happens to me. If you ever want to honor my memory one day, don’t look for me or do anything silly like carrying flowers to the places I’ve been… Care not for me in a personal manner, as I, myself, won’t care to do it. If you want to do something for me, please, just repeat to yourself this easy, practical truth about a safe, healthy life that I leave behind:
Lemuria does not exist.
