Liberation

  For as long as he could remember all these thoughts were going through his head, faster than he could possibly recognize them.   The glimpses he managed to see in focus for brief spells were radiant, some shooting sparks, others black and heavy.  He thought of these ideas and thoughts as colors, shapes, and the older he became the more there were, pushing each other around, bumping into each other, some joining into one, others splitting into two or more.

   Gradually, he began to notice that all these ideas in his head were spinning more or less in the same direction like a color wheel, some faster than others, some larger or more colorful, but all going in the same circuit! He thought he may have begun to hear a faint buzzing at this time from inside his ears, which he could tune out easily enough when he had to go out in the world and mingle, but he could tap into it at any time.    He would sit on his bed with his eyes closed and watch the images swirl and listen to the hum they made.    These were truths.   These were the secrets that everyone knew about, but no one would mention out loud.  He had a firm grasp on these ideas.  He felt that he was closer to a becoming by staying in tune with these particular vibrations.   He was, in fact, right.

  By choice, and then habit, he spent less and less time out there, and more time inside his private space.   His thoughts became more powerful.   He could bend spoons, and levitation became easy for him.  He began to be noticed when he left his building.  Police cars followed him.   He drew too much attention out there, and he knew they knew he knew.    He would be detained while going for a walk.  He began to recognize officers and know them by name, and once he learned that they could not tell the truth, he stopped speaking to them or trying to provide answers.    People were stupid, he thought, and those that could recognize the truth would speak that language and make themselves recognized for it.

   The hum was recognized as many many voices, whispering the ideas to him.   The spinning became faster, and the colors and sparks and shapes all began to blend into one big mass, he could watch it as clearly as if it was in a big glass jar in front of him.  It was like a nuclear reaction, or what he imagined the universe looked like before the Big Bang, the pitch of the voices rising higher and higher, slowly over months, he could not turn them off anymore, trips to the store impossible, eye contact too frightening to attempt, he could only stay inside and press the heels of his hands to his closed eyes and try to understand what he was supposed to do with all these secrets.

   Finally, there was a flash as the matter crossed some sort of event horizon and blinded him momentarily.   Then, he was blinded by the silence that followed.  He removed his hands from his eyes.   He listened intently.     There was only one voice now, clear and high.   There was only one thought.  He was a machine with a single purpose.  He was set free.   He was going to go do what he was meant to do.  He was going to go scratch his mark.   He was going to go make a difference.