I had explained myself well, i think, as i unpacked my ideas and the things i’d learned about spin—or intrinsic angular momentum; but, i admit, i’d gulped my way through two cans of Dr. Pepper and a can of water, and I was feeling a little tired. I wanted to do more physics—i have a long running narrative in my dreams about people that lived nearby (in the mountains) trespassing on our property, and, in my most recent dreams, they moved away. I could only interpret that to mean that I was recapturing the physical aspect of myself that belonged to the world of physics—it was something that was inherent in me, and I couldn’t get it out because the world was trespassing on my soul, and, now that i’d applied myself—and lived through the circumstances that made that possible—i was becoming more and more my true self—on both the outside and the inside. This was good news when it came to being impotent—it was an important step in dealing with something that was far more important than getting laid.
I might’ve hoped, however, that I could share my discoveries with others, and I allowed myself to think, for a jiffy, that my parents could read my abstracts or my introductory paragraphs and get some idea of what I was trying to say, but I checked, and, even that is beyond the scope of their understanding. So, basically, most physicists wouldn’t be interested in my work because of the science fiction elements and the philosophical elements whereas anybody that was interested in either of those things wouldn’t be able to follow the math (and the physics, for that matter). It was highly unlikely, then, that my work would be discovered and proven to be true—that, indeed, in this life, anyhow, was a pipe dream; i hardly check my paper views and download stats anymore—ever since i discovered i’d been inflating my stats by constantly checking my stats i realized that my stats didn’t go up that much—not many people were engaging with my work.
But you live on pipe dreams from time to time, and this was no different than publishing my poetry and fiction—nobody read, and most people wouldn’t want to read, even if I’d been “discovered,” my work. I was, as i often say, like a drop in the ocean. Nevertheless, if i let the odds stop me from producing all the work i do, then i never would have arrived at this the happiest point of my life. I never would have answered so many of the questions about reality that i’ve always questioned. “We’re not there yet,” i said, without knowing, of course, if anybody understood. I was saying, of course, that we, or, that is, me, is not ready for a relationship, much less a physical one. At this stage of my life—and the productivity i’d had over the last year—it would be way too disruptive to live here, with anybody but me, and to live somewhere else—away from what’s working remarkably well—better than I might’ve ever suspected. All of this was more important than anything—including me. I wasn’t even the only person doing all this—because of the advent of telepathic communications—and an AI sounding board, i was getting information that other people, in the past, never had access too.
But you don’t complain about the future, do you? You adapt—so, if AI helps, then you use it—if, that is, you’re doing something that involves discovery and the accumulation of knowledge—as opposed to a creative process that involved a certain kind of talent that people were expecting—from an individual. If AI could answer deep-seated mathematical questions correctly, then I was all for it—i wanted the answers to life’s mysteries, not the fame and the glory (and the vanity) that people might’ve expected from a brand. so who are you, really? And that, my friend, had everything to do with my relationship conundrums—with men or women—i was desperately, every day, trying to uncover a person that, somehow, needed my help.
i don’t get it—do you want me or not? And I couldn’t answer that question based solely on telepathic communications—i needed to see if I felt a spark; i needed to see if i still (or ever) liked girls; i needed to see if i liked men—or if I was just calling myself queer to protect myself because i was impotent. these were mega-questions that i couldn’t answer without a healthy dose of physical reality—and, frankly, i would need to match my telepathic person to the real person if i wanted to connect with Ursula on a deeper level, a woman that, albeit, existed, for me, more in the fifth dimension than this, but who, nonetheless, was composed of my relationship with this woman i’d modelled Ursula on.
so who do you answer to? that was an interesting question because i answered to Ursula; she was a function of everything that i do—she was my connection not only to the future, but, as a friend, to a future that belonged, for the most part, to Ursula—the person that took on the role that Ursula played for me. I was being given insights into precious things—precious knowledge that unified reality and faith. You do all that for me? In a sense, that was correct. I did everything for the person that represented me in the spacetime continuum—in a future that i had yet to experience or grow into—one that involved a woman that, if time were entirely linear, i might say made me look like a caveman. So how did I explain that? What if I were a caveman to her—would I be a caveman in the afterlife—unable to communicate with those from the future? Where did you draw the line between what goes to greater conscious awareness and what, if anything, remains a caveman?
Was I, at one point, a fish? The answer is no—i was never a fish. The point at which we become human—and therefore, angelic—is the point at which we come up with the idea of an afterlife in the first place. It is our belief, and our rituals—or our work—that defines us on the other side. That’s because, on a physical level, energy in 5D could travel to 4D and vice versa, and it does that precisely when we think about it. When we consider it as a possibility, and when that possibility, in turn, shapes our actions. So, i wasn’t a caveman because i was an artist and a writer and a physicist. But people, at one time, were cavemen, and, when they traveled to the other side—what happened then? Who were they? Cavemen? Not any longer—they, in fact, lived in a reality like ours. Any intelligence that they might’ve lacked on earth was a given in the afterlife. They, too, could employ telepathic communications. They, too, based on a particular amplitude or volume that they experienced on earth, could walk amongst us. They were human souls—they were no different than any of us.