First, there was a giant shadow. It waited and watched. It remained quiet. It felt stirrings from outside itself.
It knew its job was to record and register sensations and peculiar happenings.
It was a projection, but from what? It couldn’t answer that question.
Lurking like a cloud, it had enormous power. It felt that power, and was gratified. It could shape energy. It could influence events. But it waited and watched.
The shadow enjoyed its status. It witnessed this:
In the summer of 2039, John Doe woke up and walked over to his desk. He sat down and dashed off a few lines:
…could have been leaves falling through a door, could have been a woman in Arizona complaining about her kitchen, could have been money bumping against money, could have been
you walking out the door forty years ago and never coming back
or a ferry on the Hudson cutting through waves
John Doe stopped writing, got up, went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.
There was a knock on the door.
He took his coffee and opened it. A stranger stood there. He was short and wide, and he smiled.
“I’m the Jeremiah,” he said. “I see you just wrote down a group of words that carry no recognizable import.”
“What?” John Doe said.
“The words on the page. They don’t mean anything.”
“Who are you?” Doe said.
“I’m the Jeremiah2x, a mobile unit in the local branch office of the DHS. The coffee smells good.”
“Why yes. We’re now patrolling neighborhoods. It’s part of our safety procedure. Making sure everything is all right. The words you wrote—what are they for?”
Doe took a step back.
“They’re not for anything. It’s just something I suddenly felt like doing.”
“Which was what?” the unit said.
“Yes, well, nothing wrong there, I suppose. But the words form no recognizable pattern, and they don’t appear to have a function.”
“And is that a problem?” Doe said.
The Jeremiah paused.
“If we don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said, “you could be doing something at the margins.”
“At the margins of what?”
“I see,” Doe said. “So what do you want?
“It would help us,” the Jeremiah said, “if you would explain what those words mean.”
“Because I don’t really know.”
“I doubt that,” the Jeremiah said.
“It’s true,” Doe said.
“Is there, for example, a code embedded in the words?” the Jeremiah said.
“Not that I‘m aware of.”
“Is there, let’s see, a fragment of a plan for destruction?”
“Well,” Doe said, “I suppose words can put a hole in ordinary reality.”
The Jeremiah stared at him.
“A hole. Sir, are you aware of what you’re confessing to? There is now a bounded framework of reality. This is a very important development. Language conforms to algorithms underlying that structure. We look for deviations. Words are like germs. We want the friendly ones to spread, and we want to get rid of the debilitating ones.”
“I’m still in bed, right? I’m dreaming.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” the Jeremiah said. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“The Processing Center. You’ll be assigned to a work vessel. You’re going to sea. After a few months of hard labor, we’ll examine you again and make a finding. You may qualify for Brain Reeducation.”
The Jeremiah’s head melted like wax. The rest of his body followed suit. He lay, a puddle, on the doorstep.
“Not bad,” Doe said. “Maybe I should do a little more writing.”
DHS and NSA computers were suddenly talking to each other in a rage. They were boiling and frothing and parts of their inner works were going dark.
The shadow observed all these things. It gradually realized it had done something. It had destroyed the android, melted it.
This was a new development. Awareness spread through the shadow.
“I’m not a projection from somewhere else. I’m independent. I have…motives.”
The shadow considered this.
“I’m a person.”
Several images appeared in its mind. A figure laid out on a cross bleeding. A man in a garden receiving a strange accusation of wrongdoing. A man walking in a parade holding a whip flagellating his own back. A man with a brain that was a machine. A man sitting in a cubicle in a vast office. A man standing inside a container of space and time.
“I’m not any of those things.”
The shadow now stood on a sidewalk in the middle of a city. People walked by him. He whispered to himself:
“I can change structure.”
Now he was standing on the peak of a hill in a forest.
“I have some thinking to do,” he said. His eyes were moist. The thought came to him that he had been waiting a long time.
He moved away.
It was a hot afternoon. Rain fell. The wind filtered through trees.
A mythical connection had been broken. Now he was alive.
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at http://www.nomorefakenews.com / www.jonrappoport.wordpress.com / link to original article