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
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.