…and you can’t find a single thing to do without an audience.

I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the enormous shift that took place in your brain last week. You haven’t yet completely killed all of the old habits. What comes to mind is a day in eighth-grade gym class, when you were assigned the project of running one mile with all of the other kids. You would run along, fast as you were, and then pause to jog nonchalantly while you waited for the popular males to catch up with you, and then take off again. This has been how you’ve approached life. Find people who are deemed popular by a handful of folks in whatever immediate environment surrounds you, and then perform just well enough to run slightly faster than them to show off how much better you are, but don’t ever try to find out just how well you could do were you to continually compete against your own personal best.

You have never found your calling in life because with any profession or hobby you take up, you immediately lose interest in it if you decide that you aren’t getting instant validation from those in your immediate surroundings. You need others to let you know that you are in fact, the most wonderful person in the world when it comes to doing whatever you are doing. You’ve never once been capable of picking a single thing to do that you love doing so much that you’d keep doing it were the entire rest of the world to cease paying attention to you forever, and nobody but you and God would be left to know that you were doing it.

This tells you that you either have no such thing as a true calling, or you are simply the most vain and vapid soul that there ever was. Why can’t you pick one thing to do, that no matter how much or how little money and attention you receive for doing it, you still want to keep on doing it because you love it that much?

Always at the back of your mind, no matter what it is you are doing, there is that pressing need to erect a fantasy that contains an audience who approves and validates you.

…the victim of misdirected obsessions.

You were once a young man with an exceptional emotional intelligence of gold that you squandered for the cheap and common metals of the more highly praised intellect. But in this vein you were only one of many. Any fool who took a class on how to string words together, think critically, and present an argument backed by logical conclusions, could display a mind like yours. And many fools with mouths much better-equipped to blast out their words came rushing into your ears for years.

You let your emotions wither and die instead of learning to manipulate them the way you learned to manipulate your mind and the words that represented it.

Not once did you permit yourself to give of yourself, to give others some of the emotional you. You were too afraid that you would gush out weeping and leaping with joy, then thrashing and gnashing with fury, then sinking swiftly into that ever-present quicksand funk.

Emotional men are weak men, men destined to be categorized as effeminate and unstable.

Better to be a bland, gray “safe” man, with neutral displays of feelings. You know you don’t have the ability to be a testosterone-fueled, growling block of impenetrable matter that seems to be the primary, socially-acceptable alternative to being one of those utterly despicable nasally hipsters you see on TV.

Needless to say, you don’t make friends with any men.

Who is like you? What would a tribe of you be, anyway? Men who love motorcycles and mixed martial arts and heavy metal music probably don’t see the difference between you and a nasal-toned, metrosexual hipster. Hipster dudes who hang together in tribes and all appear shockingly similar in spite of their insistence on being individuals–they see you as a bland, corporate follower of rules, a real bourgeois square.

You have to give up a piece of yourself to join a club.

You can’t expect to be completely one self contained unit who never compromises his true sense of self, and be able to negotiate social transactions successfully. You are willing to give up a piece of yourself and hide the rest so that you can keep a job. You are not anything like the person who puts on a face and a voice for a group of folks sharing the same money-making goals as you. This is why you’ve long since left behind the fruitless quest to become friends with the people you work with. It’s not that you have anything against going out and drinking beer with other people–it’s just that when you all take off your work faces, you quickly see that everyone else is a member of some tribe you’d never want to join.

Your obsession is with finding the true nature of your identity, your innermost being, and aligning that with the ultimate Truth of the universe. You have never found this completely in anything. Everything you read and encounter in your experiences falls short, but everything carries pieces of the Truth inside it.

You are often misguided by the human insistence that identity be the product of choice between two dichotomies. On this side there are males, that side females. This side, young people, that side old people. This side, those who will die and go to heaven, that side, the ones who will spend eternity in hell. Humans love dichotomies because that is the way their brains work. Plenty of things in the external universe love to obey “on/off” switch rules, too. But, it could be that Truth and God and the ultimate Universe encompassing all of the higher dimensions and endless alternate realities is a Universe that has ideas of its own–ones incompatible with what our minds could hope to fathom and ones that are only available to us indirectly.

It doesn’t mean that you should ignore it completely, but it certainly means that you shouldn’t try to find the good vs. the evil in everything you encounter. You are full of both, and you know this full well, and doubt that even the most saintly here on earth are much different.

…and it’s time for you to get focused on the things that really matter.

For too many years, you’ve pursued illusions that were supposed to be made real after one more glass of beer, one more cigarette. Brilliance was going to be imparted upon you. You had fantasies of becoming godlike in your knowledge and ability to manipulate space and time with your mind. You strove for an easy method, a less painless one to get the knowledge of books into your head. Maybe some combination of brain-energizing natural supplements from the health food store, coupled with a dash of fifteen minutes’ worth of “power meditation.”

What really matters is nothing less than death itself. It will come your way one day, and that day may be today. That’s right, you may have a nasty botulism growing in you from those raw oysters you ate, or be the unlucky fellow who slips in the bathtub and puts the shower lever through his temple. Get real, my friend. You don’t have any time at all to mess around with goofing off and pretending you’re immortal, or even fooling yourself into thinking you still have twice your life yet to live (which isn’t much).

You have often wondered why the visitors you once had all but stopped coming the night after your little brother died. Were you too scared to face the spirit world now that you knew all-too-well what death was about? Or had the recent loss of your virginity taken away your ability to communicate with the world beyond?

Perhaps the more satisfying answer was that you were simply disgusted with being shown only glimpses and hints of things that existed beyond your physical reach. Truth should be hard, Truth should include hunger and Truth shouldn’t shy away from the agonizing pain of losing someone who shouldn’t have left. All the bullshit, new-agey, mystical garbage just couldn’t add up: you were supposed to be okay with death because nobody ever dies, but this was some hollow comfort in the face of what you were left with–a block of granite in a lonely cemetery far from where you were to live out the rest of your life.

But, this life is so full of bullshit, too. Take football. God, you can’t walk past any two grown men who aren’t having a discussion about football. A game. A game they might have bet money on, but who cares whether they did or not? They talk about football with a passion you might expect to be reserved for a new scientific discovery, or the birth of a newborn child. An artificial, empty, meaningless game consumes them. Because, without it, they would have to face just how empty their lives are, and they’d probably want to unleash their pent up fighting spirit on some poor shrimpy nerd of a guy who doesn’t look or talk like a real man does.

Your best friend from college, who is stuck in a state of perpetual goth/industrial arrested development, despises football and thinks he’s keeping it real. He reports out his obsessions–random, obscure techno-noise experimental bands whose new album releases cause him to sound just like these animated fools getting excited over a new star quarterback. Artificial crap that’s going to be considered quaint and foolish by future generations who want to device their own artificial garbage to amuse themselves.

You certainly don’t need to stop and think about what you do for a living–helping companies generate leads to sell software that helps other companies improve their processes. All a bunch of artificial maneuvering to keep the still-bloated economy from popping again and deflating to be something much worse than it was at the end of 2008. All of you pretending that your leads at the end of the day are helping someone increase their revenue and make more money, and give you more money, and someone is hopefully going to be convinced in a few months to keep you hired so you can keep bullshitting your way through another day.

And, the money itself doesn’t matter, and neither does the peace of mind and satisfaction that comes with not being a moocher off the government. It’s the last hope, the final dream, that you’re laying the foundation for a family–that at least you’ll make something matter with the DNA you pass on, and the knowledge and wisdom you will struggle to impart upon little beings that have their own minds so that they can hopefully not be quite the foolish asshole you were when you were eighteen, and actually open their mathematics books and do their homework so they can make something great of themselves, that they can be the kind of young men your father had hoped you and your little brother would become.

That’s probably all that matters. And, at the end of two decades of this struggle, when they are far from perfect, and nowhere near the supergeniuses you’d longed for them to be, they are at least gainfully employed and don’t completely hate you, so that they’ll make some small efforts to take care of you when you’re nothing but rotting flesh and groans, slipping away into the horrific darkness and ever doubtful that Jesus has forgiven you of all your sins, and that perhaps you were never among the elect to begin with–you were just a passthrough soul, a light made to energize a body long enough to move the DNA along, and now you can sleep forever in the heat of fire and blackness of the Void.

Though that may even be a most exquisite amount of wishful thinking, and certainly there is no guarantee that you have two decades left, or that your swimmers are any good for when the time comes that your wife is ready to stop taking birth control and give family-making a shot.

So, you can’t rely on that.

You have to look elsewhere for the time being at what really matters, and mostly, you should be striving to clear your brain of the lingering stupidity that rocked it for so many years and turned a young man of promise into an old fool of whimpering hopes within the span of two decades. You have to look long and hard at whatever’s left glancing about inside your head, and decide once and for all if your mind is a portal to a higher dimension, a passageway that is accessible to a true, greater reality that is sanctioned by the Lord, and isn’t just some random collection of pseudo-memories that the serpent leaves inside every child’s gray matter in case they grow up to be adults who go looking, using books of magick by Aleister Crowley and witchcraft practitioners’ manuals–and, sure enough, those who seek the Golden Dawn, eventually find someone or something waiting at the other end of the tunnel but who or what did they find–just an illusory paradise provided by Satan–an old Western movie town of false storefronts that will blow over when they die?

Of course, you need to know if you are being lied to when you dive into your brain. You have enough thoughts appear there throughout the day that you’d rather not claim as your own–be they unwanted thought patterns that start at the flick of a “what if?” and get out of hand too rapidly to put them out–or be they true whisperings of demons. You need to know if all your dreams are nothing more than a nightly ritual show of lies, put on by the king of lies.

And, this is probably what rock n’ roll is, too, you know.

And Hollywood and Disney World–men and women who learned the craft of telling lies, putting on a magic show to fool people who craved the experience of being fooled–for the sake of—not having to face boring reality and the duties imposed by knowing the Truth, knowing the Lord, knowing the will of the Father.

A voice inside your head says to you that the only thing you have that makes you different from anyone else is your heart and your faith. Without them, you become just another sad spectacle of a reasonably intelligent, reasonably educated white man in his thirties with a random office job that fails to keep him stimulated and engaged. God knows that there are plenty of you out there–though most of you are likely happily caught up in some kind of hobby or family to keep you occupied and give you a reason to get up in the morning.

Your heart and faith are what you have as weapons against the darkness, and if you let too much more of the darkness in, it will completely use these against you, to turn you into a bitter, judgmental old fool, angry at everyone and everything, including you.

…to find yourself in a completely artificial world.

One day, you will live here with the rest of us when the bomb takes out the rabble. These fools believe in primitive gods, and have never disconnected their archetypal awareness of immortality with the physical universe they inhabit.

To say that the human form is the highest form is utterly ridiculous.

What we’ll have for you is the opportunity to be any sort of three-dimensional form you want to be, and interact with the outside world with all of the advantages and limitations that form offers.

But before you can be snatched out of this time of chaos and death by us, you must do something first: you need to compose in words, symbols and imagery (some music is allowed, too) what makes you, you.

In other words, while our technology is quite capable of downloading your consciousness to our database, and recreating a simulacrum of you inside our artificial world, we still can’t derive the crux of what makes you, you from doing this. The entity that moves about inside our realm, after we do this, is but a zombie, a robot, a non-being sort of being.

So, please help us define you, in words, symbols and imagery (some music is allowed, too), so that we may proceed in helping you immigrate to our world.

We’ve all successfully completed this exercise, so we’re certain that you can, too. It’s not as hard as it looks.

You don’t need to write down everything you like and don’t like, or try to put all your memories into words. Like we said, we can access all those things.

What we need to know is, what elements of being you must be crafted precisely, what algorithm or recipe must be used, so that your consciousness may appear, your identity, your soul–your you–so that it may appear in our artificial world and interface with it as you awake the exact same way that you’re awake right now and know yourself to be you and nobody else?