Third Eye Vision

She talks in her sleep.

"I blame this dream on you, first of all. I was living a delightfully normal life until you. I was unaware that I did things like travel in my sleep. I was unaware of secret Jews and Illuminati conspiracies. I was unaware of Alex Jones (whom I'm oddly starting to like. Damn you. Damn you.) But now, I have a delightful life of confusion and bad dreams, coupled with a great fear of the future and a paranoia about technology, the government, small cats, German chupacabras, and people named Dave.

Anyhow. Onto the dream, that I know was inspired by you and only you, because why, otherwise, would I dream this? Because I am a normal person. Normal people don't have odd dreams, do they?

To give a back story-- I've always had an idea for a book, kind of tossing around in the back of the noodle, but I was never really sure of how to accomplish it. Being somewhat of a mental dimwit, I've never really had the capacity to complete the thought of how it should all go about. I've wanted to write the memoirs of someone else, which is odd, because I find people's lives often incredibly boring. But I feel I tell a story pretty well sometimes, and given the right ambition, could make a life sound much more interesting than it probably was. If only I could find the right candidate. Finally, after mulling this over for several months, I decided I could probably just write the fictitious memoirs of someone, or maybe the memoirs of a person with multiple personality disorder, because that's bound to be interesting, right? Wrong. All ideas I had were crap. This is of little consequence, but seems important later on, I think.

So I was in bed, sleeping, when our story began before.

I was sleeping a few nights ago, maybe it was only night before last, when this man strolled into my mind. Like, I was dreaming, then he made the dream fizzle away and he walked into the blackness and stood in my field of vision and introduced himself. It was really confusing, because I knew I was dreaming and wanted to get back to the dream, as it's rare I have sexual dreams and VERY rare in which I actually am able to accomplish anything, because usually I'm completely cockblocked somehow. Anyway, I was anxious to doze back off but this man had completely distracted me and commanded my attention. Fine, dude. What's up.

He was older, wearing a full suit, and a very nice one at that. Mid sixties, somewhere in there, kind of looked like someone's grandpa who'd smoked and drank a lot. He was built a lot like my father, stocky, but he wore the suit well and didn't have worn features like he'd worked a real day in his life. I got the impression he was a businessman of sorts... he wore the suit too well to not be.

He'd completely aroused my attention by this point, and I started to pay a little more attention to details of him. He seemed anxious. He kept looking around, and sort of paced back and forth, even though he was standing on a vast plane of nothingness in my mind's eye. He was speaking rapidly to me, and I wasn't so much wrapped up in WHAT he was saying, but more how he was saying it. It was frantic, like it was something he needed to get off his chest and quick. Guilty thoughts, things that were weighing on his soul.

Finally, after about 30 seconds of just staring at him, I started to slowly tune into what he was saying. He had a slight accent--being an aficionado of accents, having unfortunately dated my fair share of foreign men, I found it odd that I could not identify his--and was talking about murder. Murders. Death. Deaths. So many deaths. So many dead, and wounded, and how they would stop at nothing to achieve an end. I tried to speak out to him. I knew I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't awake, because this was not a state of consciousness I was (or am) aware of, and so I was unable to understand any mode of operation that would permit me to speak. I think he understood that I was trying to communicate, to ask questions. Who was dead? Who was doing these killings? What ends? Why are you telling this to me?

He paused and gave me a critically examining look. He studied me for a moment. It could have been five seconds, it could have been a lifetime. All I know was the depth of his eyes. They were dark and cold and I knew he'd seen much more than I ever wished to. They had the same quality as your eyes-- a deep, endless chasm I'll never understand the full depths of, but yours have kindness behind them, whereas his were lined with sorrow and rage. I thought at that point that he was reading my thoughts, or worse, the thoughts of my soul, and I worried for my safety. Like I said before, this state of being was unknown to me, and I wasn't sure of the tangibility of myself and the man on it. Could he touch me? Hurt me? Did he want to do those things?

He began to speak again, and the connection between his eyes and my mind was broken. I felt less violated. He spoke slower this time, more calculated, calmer, kinder. His words were not frantic. They were simple and they asked for help.

He explained first who he was-- a man with great power and great privilege, but a man who was afraid. Constantly afraid of danger around every corner. Corruption. He spoke initially in generalities, so I could understand the bigger picture. He was a man in a position of power, but he was not elected to it. He was given it. He did not earn it through hard work and self-sacrifice--he'd earned it at the expense of others livelihoods, and often lives. He told me he was one of many, a vast web of men who, like him, had risen to power through corrupt means. He was not ashamed of his position-- quite contrary. He seemed proud of his accomplishments, proud that people feared his presence. He did command a presence, that was certain.

Unaware of how I should ask him to proceed, I decided to do so mentally. It seemed the best and most likely medium of communication, given our present situation. He was, after all, front and center on my brain's stage. He did, and he told me of his work with the government. I wanted to know what branch. CIA? FBI? Justice department? Executive? Military? I canvassed all I could think of. He laughed. Surely a person like myself wouldn't be as naive as that, he told me. Did I really think that those thinly-veiled puppets were any form of government? How could a piece of paper and a set of ideals keep a country together after all this time? I said and thought nothing. I was worried I would say something to sidetrack him, to confuse him, or to agitate him. I wanted to do none of those. All I wanted was for him to continue. I was sure that I would wake from this... dream, I suppose... soon, and I wanted to soak up as much as possible. This man seemed interesting and worth knowing, as far as my intuition was concerned.

He discussed specifically his work on a project. I want to remember the name. Blue. There was mention of the word "blue." Maybe it was in the name, or maybe I was thinking about something else right then that corresponded with blue. Things get confusing here. I'm having a hard time recalling specifics. I remember the way he described it, the way he lovingly caressed his hands together, as if their own touch satisfied him more than any woman ever could. He talked of large visions, and a spectacular show that we would all witness soon. We, as a nation, would be impressed by this spectacle, for it would make us look towards a more hopeful future. He mentioned Obama, and how the only way to proceed through with the plan was to have Obama in office, because they were able to manipulate him. He mentioned a man in Japan. Stupidly, I have forgotten the name. It was a Japanese name. He summoned the characters for me, instead of the name Romanized like I would have preferred. I don't read kanji as well as I used to, and names, specifically, are difficult for me, as they are often intricate and detailed. I was absorbed by the detail of the kanji. I don't know why. Perhaps because Japanese has always impressed me, I don't know. It's unimportant. But as I watched these white characters swirl in the air, he spoke of this Japanese man, and how his discoveries would help further along the project.

I asked, again using my mind, what the point of the project was, and why he was telling me. He talked more specifics now. Three years. It had taken three years to plan the first phase, "the show" as he called it. It had taken three years to perfect it so that without a doubt, the American people would be fooled. He used the word fooled. At this point my eyes narrowed, metaphorically speaking. The eyebrows furrowed. This was starting to sound like (KT) kind of bullshit. Not bullshit, but something that was not up my alley. I'd had the inkling before that I was meddling with something that I ought not to meddle with, but now I was sure. I was poking a sleeping bear. This man had information about things that I wanted no part of. I can't bear the weight of death and destruction on my soul. I wanted out. I told him this-- I told him, I don't want to know about anything you're planning. I don't want to know about the next step. I asked him if there was a reason he was telling me this, because I was WAY uncomfortable, and I really didn't see the direction this was going in.

Then we had to drag YOU into it. Of course you. It all had to come back to you. You were going to ruin the plan, I could already see it. Fred, making some video or doing some post or leading a band of rebels into The Hague carrying flaming torches and automatic weaponry and burning an Israeli flag....the hero of anti-heroes, my sweet Fred, gunned down as a freedom fighter, but painted as a terrorist, a traitor.... it was all laid out perfect for me. I knew what he was going to say before he even said it. He was worried that YOU were going to prevent next stage of the plan. You and a band of rebels, or as he called it, dissenting voices. You and a band of dissenting voices would try to cripple his organization's efforts, and he needed MY help to prevent that.

I told him, as politely as I could, given that thoughts and words are two very different things, that I was not in control of you, and if you were planning to do something like this, then I'm sure there would be very little I could do to stop you, and if it was really something that was going to destroy the world, as he'd kind of alluded that it might be, then I would have to support you.

He got REALLY anxious again, like he had when he first arrived in the middle of my nice dreams. He began pacing again. He feverishly pet his own hands, feeling the smoothness of the backs of his own palms. Palms that I'm sure had been soaked in many people's blood. This man disgusted me. He wanted my help to perpetrate some dirty scheme. Clearly, this man did not know me at all. When someone tells me to do something, often, I will do the opposite, not simply because I am defiant, but because I don't like being told what to do when I know it's wrong. And I knew what this man was saying was wrong. But I was curious. What was it that you were going to prevent? If you succeeded, what would be the outcome? And what would be the outcome if you failed?

And being the bitch I am, I will finish this later."