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Power Surge

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posted on Jun, 16 2008 @ 03:37 PM

I found this on my computer today, where it came from I have no idea. Perhaps it was on the used hard drive I installed a while back. Maybe it was something I recieved from a friend and didn't realize I had downloaded. Maybe I even wrote it myself during a long dark night of drinking wine and listening to heavy metal. Or it could have arrived by some means I'm not yet sure of.

Make of it what you will. I certainly cannot vouch for anything, much less that there might be a grain of truth here.

My name is Michael Antonio Luis, though that in itself means nothing. I am, or was, a resident of Mexico City, but now just another temporary resident in a world gone mad. I'm writing this in the twilight of the Sonoran Desert, before tomorrow leads me to meet my fate, whatever it may be. Call this an accounting, a last will and testiment, or just a mad scream into the dark void. I cannot give a good reason for it, because reasons are not the realm of the truly mad.

If somewhere, somewhen, this is read, then it's worth at least the effort to while away the darkened hours with my last thoughts. You, gentle reader, may know better than myself the whys and wherefores of those things on which I will speak, or perhaps not. There is no certainty left to an unteathered mind, to a corporeal ghost. I will ramble, and trust that a semblence of logic comes across.

I don't know how it all fell down, how the world I knew ended. Not in any full and rich detail, nor would this night last long enough for me to give a greater voice to terror and insanity. I know, or surmise, enough to paint the broad strokes of the picture, and that's all that really matters anyway. More than that might unnerve me for what I plan tomorrow, and might offend the senses of any who read this.

Let me start by stating the obvious, and work from there.

We have all known in some hidden chamber of our souls that this world could not be all there was to sentient creation. Some of us have long embraced the concept, while others rejected and rebelled against the notion. But most people went about their daily lives and never gave it more thought than they did the blades of grass beside a walkway. But destiny is not deterred by any of these notions of men, no more than the tide is changed by a bucket of water. Destiny is funny that way.

The Other came to us, but we never really noticed; even those of us who expected such a thing. Oh, we saw things, here and there, and hearing the reports, thought deep thoughts, or laughed in derision, whatever was our wont. Some among us even tried to make sense of the fleeting glimpses, the furtive contacts, the changing beat of the world's heart. We saw, but we didn't see. Heard, but didn't understand.

We talked of EBEs and Little Grays, of the shape of ships and crafts, of possible means of propulsion and reasons for secrecy. Like blind men seeking to make sense of an elephant by touch, we couldn't know then that there was so much more than our senses could relate to. Though over the years some came close to the truth, it wasn't till the very end loomed before mankind, that we really got the picture right. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway, It wouldn't be called Destiney if knowing made such a thing avoidable.

I suppose it all started with Tesla and Marconni, with Samual Morse and Ben Franklin, though they're not to blame, and that too isn't really important. What matters is that our species tinkers, and the time came when we started tinkering with something we never truly understood. Even from the start we knew we could rearrange and harness and control electricity, but never understand it any more than the storms that our ancient forefathers watched from the mouth of some forgotten cave.

But once hooked on the power that we found in the phenomanon, we couldn't ignore it, we had to follow that electric road as surely as iron filings have to follow the lines of a magnet. We wrapped it about us like a cloak, took it into every corner of our lives. Lived with it in the closeness of a lover. But worse we became dependent on it in much the way an addict depends on the comfort of the needle. And in all it's millions of twinnings through our lives, we never really knew it.

There in the shadowland of collapse and death, some unknown genius finally figured out that electricity is alive. Oh, we had known all along that it was in some way. We had amused ourselves with the story of Dr. Frankenstien because we knew the basic truth. But we told ourselves it was just the medium for life, never guessing that the river itself was alive and not just a conveyance for the swimmers we knew and named.

I could claim to be the brilliant mind that stumbled onto the truth, but what good is there now in claiming a falsehood and stealing from one dead to this world. I was just his friend, a stumbling companion along a darkened path, to whom he poured out the story, as I do now, hoping that it mattered to know the name of death. And yet, despite the bonds of terror, I never thought to ask his name. It doesn't matter, his name was Man.

He asked me, by way of instructing I suppose, how men reacted to illness? Of course we diagnosed an illness and then trated the cause. I myself once had some skin cancers, and took radiation therapy. "And what does cancer do to cause you to kill it so?" he asked. And I said that it tried to pervert the cells to act in a way not in the best interest of my body.

And I saw then, in a flash that was reflected in his dying eyes, the truth. The Electric Universe had been made ill by the meddling of men. Our harnessing and redirecting of electricity was not really any different than the changing of cells to an unintended purpose. We hadn't known, and likely wouldn't have cared if we did, that our changes in the life force of the Cosmos was harmful to the all pervading Other.

And the Other reacted. It sent packets of inquiry to gather information, to do what amounted to a biopsy. It naturally didn't interact with us on a level we understood, for it's paradigm and ours were too dissililar. What we saw wasn't it's reality, and likely our own wasn't seen by the Other. What we called intruders into our worldview was only our limited response to a complete unknowable. The coming and goings of information that we interpreted on the physical level had nothing to do with reality on the Macro Level of the Other.

And what else would a Cosmic Electric being use to cure the human illness that was corrupting it's life force but electricity? It seemd like these manifestations had been with us for a very long time, but time is a human concept, and centuries but the blink of a star in the eye of the Universe. We rode the electric path, and when the moment came, and the Electric universe was ready. It cured us with an overload of the raw power we loved and never understood.

Like cancer cells beneath a human laser, we fried by the millions, by the billions. Our world sizzled and cracked, and our seas turned to steam and fell as scalding rain. Ruin came in a million volts through a billion paths, and the cleansing was almost instantly total. Just like the cancer cells I used for comparison, some escaped, through sheer luck. But these pitiful few were not enough to survive alone, and in small huddle clumps. Man was finished here, and the universe could forget it ever happened.

But like all of life, I don't want to give up, to end. And if I'm to be even the shadow of a hero in this story of annihilation, I must screw up tight all my courage, and make one last attempt to outwit death and destruction. You see, it has come to me that what goes in, must come out, as surely as my grandfather knew that what goes up, must come down.

Somewhere, there's a hole where a mass of this energy exited our world. Maybe even more than one. I've followed what I can term no better than the flow of power, seen in the warping and twisting of what remains of my surroundings, and now it has become a great riverbed, sinking into the canyon of the Tarahumara people. Somewhere in the blasted wasteland it went elsewhere, for it no longer resides here on this poor ravished planet.

I hope to find that exit, and to cast myself into whatever waits beyond, for this place is no longer my home. I cannot know if there is a rift in the fabric of time, or a portal to another facet of what quantum physics called the multiverse, or just the mouth of death itself. But whatever awaits the morning's tortured light is now my destiny.

Perhaps somewhere I will tell my tale of woe and warning, even if it's to the multitudes of Hell.

posted on Jun, 16 2008 @ 06:23 PM
reply to post by NGC2736

I do love guessing games! Here, the prologue has more intrigue than the story. Where did it come from?

My guesses:
1. It's is NOT a drunken stupor writing; though, it is a melancholy writing. If it had been written in a drunken stupor, it certainly was 'cleaned up' at a later date when you were sober.
2. An ATS member might have sent it to you for 'permission' to post it. I think the predictions thread says you have to ask permission of a moderator to post a prediction. (I read those rules too late.) It's not prophetic though, has no signs of being a premonition nor an offhand prediction.
3. It seems to be a very sad and depressed writer.
4. The writer has a decent command of the English language and probably had a thorough education in "English" class at least through 10th grade. I guess the writer is male, unmarried, American and MIGHT be older than 30.
5. I doubt it was on your harddrive when you bought it. This writer is clearly an ATS reader. Unless you bought the computer from an ATS member!

You could do a search by date on your computer and the results might help you remember where this came from.

posted on Jun, 16 2008 @ 08:31 PM
reply to post by NGC2736

How depressing.

But is this a story, or a real incident. Was this "on" your computer, or did you find it in an e-mail?

If I were to risk the possibility of sounding stupid, and were to assume wrongly that this were a real testament, does that negate the answer I leave, or the credibility I brought here with me?

I will hazard into that territory nonetheless, and pretend for a moment that, maybe, perhaps, this was a real story, or witness statement if you will.
What bothers me is that so many were wiped out, by electricity coursing through our planet, then how did this person find a working laptop to write it?
Maybe that was his last mission? Maybe he threw this into the void before his own body, sending it spiraling through the space/time continuum, only to have it land in your computer, and he in another dimension altogether?

If this were true, and not the premise to the new "Star Trek" movie, then I would venture to guess that we are about to discover a power source that will destroy the Earth in its own over-zealous nature.

Or maybe I'm the one who's drunk on wine, and I am imagining this whole thing... Cheers.. Jason

posted on Jun, 23 2008 @ 11:43 AM
I must be truthful here. This is only fiction from a slightly odd mind. The premis was to get people to think. Just because we can do something, like the whole CERN thing with the tiny balck hole expected, doesn't mean we should. Unexpected outcomes more often result than the expected.

But then again, maybe our erstwhile hero really just invaded my brain for a few minutes while I threw this together.

I thank everyone for their time in reading this little story, for with all it's flaws, it is about the real problem of thinking we know beforehand the dangers our tiny human minds drum up when we play with fire.

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