I am writing after being ordered by the CIA to never write a book.
I have put out four IN THE TEN YEARS SINCE.
In that time I have lived through too many around me dying without my hearing their screams, people I never met and did not know enough to miss. The truth seemed like lies. When they finally told me that the revolution I threw on the world out of nowhere, took off... that the religion they wanted had also taken off, and they were not prepared for both... and the country had fallen apart. They waited for me to lead an army I believed were all in my head, made up for a campaign that I never expected to have the impact .... they brainwashed me and kept me crazed on drugs. Used me. Too many had reason to hate me for decisions I made without thought, on the spur of the moment.
I do not know why I did much of what I did, acted on inspiration at first. Now inspiration has become one of the casualties in this war, along with my comedy, and painting and drawing... never that good at the latter, never cared... just having fun. That is nothing I know now.
I am forever trapped thinking YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BITCH ABOUT. You are still alive. You can still do what you can for a cause that for all you know is long dead. I never thought before that I was writing for my time, my book on revolutionaries and inspirational poetry for them, which I half dreamed would one day help in the revolution.
Knowing all the while the world had gone mad, or mad enough that if you tried to explain what you had seen you would sound insane. It is like the last of the horrible feeling of cognitive dissonance, the horrible mental and emotional recoil I get at certain things I hear. When I heard of the arms cut off, the women led to their death supposedly for nothing... I had never heard of these things happening, did not want to believe them... though I did. By then there was only the mission, an unending fight that had to continue, whether my place in it mattered or not, a mission.
How do people deal with the deaths they cause? I was never suited to be a spy -- a writer. A man alone. I was not a spy in the traditional sense, a member of the elite who used spies... a position much more lofty than I deserved, especially to give one who tells the world not to give him any power.... too late... too late... the chosen... by whom? God now. As anyone can be in this world. They allow themselves to be chosen and they are... that is all it takes. With most.
The king stuff, grampa and ma being in the spy business, the people in my life plants, supposedly preparing me for the life of a leader, a Hal who would shape up and be a great king. Christ they did not expect, or they gave the delusion of being Christ to a lot of people. They gave it to me and I used it as a weapon against them. Nothing is simple. Too few words that I can write on facebook, where I tried to expose what I could.
IT was a waste of time, in a way... I learned a lot. Enough.
In that time I have lived through too many around me dying without my hearing their screams, people I never met and did not know enough to miss. The truth seemed like lies. When they finally told me that the revolution I threw on the world out of nowhere, took off... that the religion they wanted had also taken off, and they were not prepared for both... and the country had fallen apart. They waited for me to lead an army I believed were all in my head, made up for a campaign that I never expected to have the impact .... they brainwashed me and kept me crazed on drugs. Used me. Too many had reason to hate me for decisions I made without thought, on the spur of the moment.
I do not know why I did much of what I did, acted on inspiration at first. Now inspiration has become one of the casualties in this war, along with my comedy, and painting and drawing... never that good at the latter, never cared... just having fun. That is nothing I know now.
I am forever trapped thinking YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BITCH ABOUT. You are still alive. You can still do what you can for a cause that for all you know is long dead. I never thought before that I was writing for my time, my book on revolutionaries and inspirational poetry for them, which I half dreamed would one day help in the revolution.
Knowing all the while the world had gone mad, or mad enough that if you tried to explain what you had seen you would sound insane. It is like the last of the horrible feeling of cognitive dissonance, the horrible mental and emotional recoil I get at certain things I hear. When I heard of the arms cut off, the women led to their death supposedly for nothing... I had never heard of these things happening, did not want to believe them... though I did. By then there was only the mission, an unending fight that had to continue, whether my place in it mattered or not, a mission.
How do people deal with the deaths they cause? I was never suited to be a spy -- a writer. A man alone. I was not a spy in the traditional sense, a member of the elite who used spies... a position much more lofty than I deserved, especially to give one who tells the world not to give him any power.... too late... too late... the chosen... by whom? God now. As anyone can be in this world. They allow themselves to be chosen and they are... that is all it takes. With most.
The king stuff, grampa and ma being in the spy business, the people in my life plants, supposedly preparing me for the life of a leader, a Hal who would shape up and be a great king. Christ they did not expect, or they gave the delusion of being Christ to a lot of people. They gave it to me and I used it as a weapon against them. Nothing is simple. Too few words that I can write on facebook, where I tried to expose what I could.
IT was a waste of time, in a way... I learned a lot. Enough.
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