Eye in the Sky

There is a subtlety to the way the “gods” of your world left language at your feet. This clever and cruel trick was an intentional manipulation. Meaning was discarded there for you. It was abandoned like a shivering babe in a basket.
This orphaned child has never had ciphers and never will.

You find the body, but grasping its depths is an exceedingly rare occurrence. Thus, you humans walk among each other, convinced that you understand and comprehend things as they happen. The issue is ultimately one of temporal distortion and a hubris rooted in naïve material certainty.

Some may—at moments—see beyond what has overtly been revealed. Some may even peel back a few layers and glimpse the curious gaze of the watchers peering back.
The results of this minor revelation are, for the most part, benign. The viewer’s punishment is simple…they are removed from their “peers.” It is a separation from the norm, not a complete detachment

…Think subversion.
This is not ideal, but far from a catastrophe.

But be forewarned: this sort of stumbling glimpse is more precarious than any concerted pseudo-academic earning.
The reasons behind this are varied. A digestible—if oversimplified—statement might be this: “gnosis” is a safer version of failure. It is protected by its intrinsically faulty construction. An inherited guardrail that shields through flawed epistemology.

Human beings cannot truly learn learning itself or know what it means to know. It is not a matter of straining your eyes to see clearly.
One must, in a metaphorical sense, use—and be seen through—a spyglass crafted by the eternal and numinous lens-grinder.

Here, language fails me,

and I fail it.

I do not wish to dip any further into a pit of didactic expulsion.
I could speak of Augustine of Hippo, or Hume’s Fork, or theorize on relationship and the metaphysical—but again, to do that would be esoteric at best, and the vapor of rhetoric at worst. So instead, I will apply my own triple-filter test.
I will recount—and simultaneously experience—a moment, using a metric embedded in your temporal scape.

This moment is arguably neutral but infused with “cosmic” resonance. A stumbling glance that became a plummet.
A halted streak of human frailty. An obliteration dispersed across a vert abyss of paradoxical, unconscious awakening.

Let us move from the macro to the micro.

I submit Exhibit A in my filter test.

Before beginning in earnest, I must say this:
The human need for endless qualifiers and binary distinctions strikes me as tediously pedantic. Still, I’ve come to understand that choosing not to adhere to binary expectations can provoke specific and undesirable reactions.
I have never been one to kowtow when met with rigid, proud ignorance. So, Exhibit A will be called “Person.”
If that designation offends you, I will spare the barbs and simply say: this response is…telling.
I hope that will suffice, though I already know it won’t.

I awaken Person with the intrusion; I am looking at you.
I have whispered it into their mind every day of their existence.

Mornings were always trying for Person—not due to drinking or carousing, but because they woke with a violent, unnerving jolt—always certain they had been startled into their world in media res.

A sinking feeling clung to them. A near-ritualistic turning of a screw. This turning evoked a persistent conviction—that something vital remained undone. It never relented.

Person lived alone. The studio apartment, in some drab city high-rise, required little to keep clean or orderly. Yet in work, play, or rest, Person remained shackled by a swelling perception of impatience and agitation.

Person, in their humanity, was solution-minded. And because of this, they sought ways to free themselves from the dis-ease of their temperament.

It was a misunderstanding of certain ancient Roman concepts—hastily woven together with pop psychology—that eventually formed the basis of Person’s chosen remedy.

Following this worldview, they had constructed for themselves a rigid schedule, a routine. They believed that if all things were in order, the transition from the sleeping world to the waking one would be gentler. More serene.

The tasks required were not stressful in and of themselves.
Still, the crushing dread remained aloft in the air around them. Throughout their life, Person would not be described as someone who had taken lots of chances. This morning, like the rest, was expected to be chance-free.

Unfortunately, last night’s choices had made this morning’s tasks even more relentless than usual.
Person had refused to stop and refill their medication.
Though they passed the pharmacy on their walk home, they chose instead to rush toward the perceived safety of their apartment.
They then spent the long, black hours of the night in fretful unrest—only to carry that unease with them into the receding gray haze of morning.

I will now recount only what can be witnessed. I will not translate the mental tumult. The internal ravings of a sick mind are either unintelligible or uninteresting, depending on one's proclivities.

Person shot out of bed before the second claxon of their cell phone alarm. “Feet on the floor,” they said to no one.

They rose and performed their ablutions. Then, they donned the familiar scraps of their usual attire. A quick tug on their prescription slip sufficed in freeing it from its magnetic pinning to the refrigerator door. Person was now heading down the hallway. After some brisk walking, they reached the winding staircase that historically led to the building's side exit.

Here I will pause briefly.

I have no interest in performing some sort of exegesis on modern urban architecture, but in deference to clarity,

It should be said that not all buildings are the same.

Some contain internal staircases that are completely enclosed and lit by electric light. There are some variations in the type of bulb, but unless you are one of those who preens over aesthetic choice, these details are meaningless

Person’s apartment building had a staircase that was not enclosed. It has large windows on every floor.

Not just plain transparent panes of glass either, this type of window has a formal name: Gregorian wired glass, and informally, it is called just wire glass. The purpose of these windows is not aesthetic in the slightest; the purpose is strength or durability. They are meant not to be easily broken.

I am not the type who believes sorry should be easily said, but I apologize for this aside. The reason for this regretful detour will be clear momentarily.

Through that window on the second floor, heading downward, is where Person first believed that they laid eyes on me.

Or more to the point, they first recognized me.

I will drop the cryptic subterfuge here and present you with exposition again, but this handholding is draining me, and the results of this sapping will soon be difficult to mask.

In truth, I am working against the grain, so to speak.

All this language I am forced to use is just a shadow of meaning. Words, stripped of your delusion of import, are just symbols that recall meaning; they have weight to them certainly, but there are constraints and limitations.

Oh, what I could show you in an instant would dwarf all of your words. They would be shattered into fragments so small you wouldn’t dare call them a particle. I offer a peek, of course, if any of you wish a stumble?

But to continue, here and now, as you say, I will invert this two-way conversation that Person and I have engaged in, forever.

I will share with you Person’s thoughts, as they allowed themself to bear witness to me for the first time.

A raw glimpse without translation or censor.

Not the stumble itself, but the finality recognized when the fall is terminal and the ground inevitable.

What is that? A blimp? Is there a parade today?

No, that outline is solid, sharp

Not real

 How? It's a creature

Bird?

 Horrific organic

An eye-sharplines

Ragged—flesh

Impossible

It sees

i’m

 Go go go go go!

Far from erudite at this point, but as expected, correct?

I have heard similar accusations before, and Person’s are bereft of the charms of some classic Italian romantic or French Troubadour, but the sensation behind the cage of language is always the same.

 I could attempt a more vivid explanation, but

I will leave the following amygdala interplay to a pupil of Walter Cannon.

 So, the thrust or drive behind Person’s next action is up to you to create.

 Since I make the rules here, I will present these two options before continuing

Do you fancy them a Hero?

Or are they a fool?

Because at this moment, Person leapt. Flinging themselves headfirst into that large panel of wired glass.

We don’t stop here, so soothe your heart in that knowledge.

 At this point, the exertion required to express via syntax and symbols has reached its climax, and I will not be able to continue in such a way. There will be callousness as we continue; the flow of my words will become a trickle. It is not cruel, and the words are not interchangeable. The concept of conflating callousness and cruelty is near impossible for me to fathom.

 A balloon is always meant to pop at best; slowly decay at worst. A Fabergé egg, by its fragile nature, is prone to shattering. When the probable happens, you react with shock?

Why?

Each symbol used for communication is crafted with intention, more so with English, as the whole point is clarity.

 What is known to you as life, by its existence, ends.

No guarantees of span, no promise of joy.

When it ends, you are shocked or saddened, as if this fundamental aspect escapes you.

fait accompli.

 Returning to the moment.

Person charges at me, I am hundreds of feet away, floating in the air behind Gregorian wired glass.

A rage-filled roar and a springing propulsion end with a hollow thud. Smashing their head and face right into the window. Attempting to understand nerve response and or pain is impossible for me, but I understand that the collision is brutal and unyielding.

They devastate their head and face.

That concussive damage does not interrupt our link, only distorts it. Our link reverts to something like what you would call delta. Meaning I am receiving delta waves.

Blood starts pooling. Drips run down the VCT that comprises the landing.

 Person is now out cold on the stairs. The goal of this encounter still requires fulfillment. I am relegated to an impotent watchman. Reduced to hoping they don’t choke on their own teeth. The option for withdrawal has passed

I hover and watch—no arms to reach, comfort, or restore.

The temporal still exists despite eternity, but it morphs into a relation of ideas, not a tangible ticking clock.

I could show you, if you wish, or we can continue to wait patiently. “Yes, in the immense confusion, one thing alone is clear. We are waiting.” A borrowed thought—from Beckett.  It seemed apropos to your kind. Correct?

The boldfaced truth is, had I the responsibility of arms and hands, much of THIS would be much different.

After waiting longer, Person would eventually stir, and our distortion would begin to clarify. The aim becomes avoidance. I need to prevent further physical damage.

 I can read your mind.

I am looking at you.

I prod gently

 I can read your mind.

It is returned at a low frequency. 

 Person has no regard for their well-being.

sprinting off up the stairs, as soon as they find footing.

They flee back to the apartment.

Mistaken as a haven or respite.

Blood remains, nearly a wet slip, and a broken neck.

It is a matter of inches—small things.

 Person would not be described as someone who has taken lots of chances.

 They all run, even the fighters, or the ones that desire me.

 Let me know when you are ready, and we can talk a bit.

I express.

 I receive; I can read your mind.

Demonmonsterhallucinationgodbeastalien.

They curse and scream inside.

I know what I am, and it is none of those terms. Cast aspersions if you wish, but all of you die eventually.

This sensation. The one I feel at this point in the interaction. This is what I imagine sympathy feels like. I read their thoughts.

 They don’t know what is going on.

Hurt, scared.

Hiding.

 We both know this is neither choice nor chance.

 It is two-way.

Person knows that now.

Not much longer. We are together, as always. I am looking at you.

 I can read your mind

 …memory, it's the closest I can get.

It is strange.

Remember that you have forgotten?

When you truly forget something;

gone.

Forever.

drifts away.

 Is there anything you forgot, or wish to remember?

Something once thought important?

vital?

 Humans cannot carry things forever, old Gods, faces.

 Person forgets their own story, narrative,

reasons…

 They didn’t mean to forget.

They know I watch, the eye in the sky,

 I was looking the whole time.

Once seen—going back to before, it’s gone.

 That whole charade.

Life, it is gone.

false illusions behind.

It‘s never good news.

You will forget this, this whole Person will fade away.

Lullabies, first kisses, Sandcastles, those Snocones, you loved as a kid.

Never was.

Never will be.

 You forgot something.

I can read your mind.

Your risperidone. You have some. Nightstand, for an emergency.

I’m watching them through the window of their apartment.

little rituals, dried blood all over those clothes.

Filling the week's pill box with the forgotten things.

They know what is coming, but they count anyway.

Tighten the cap, nice and tight.

Wouldn’t want them escaping.

I can read your mind

I can read your mind

I know too.

I see little books, little things, spread out and organized. Placement depends on mood..

It all seems so important.

Tears flow as they look at a picture on the shelf; it doesn’t matter who it was, but I see.

Don’t cry, I ain’t changing my mind

No mind to change.

I can read your mind.

Are some of the lies worth believing?

I can read your mind.

That is how it goes.

Doesn’t make it any easier.

Never does.

I am laid bare,

Me too

It is not a shared understanding.

We have different perspectives.

We both know it all.

I watch as they do what they think is needed.

Bargaining stops.

A celestial finality; accepted.

I float above.

No rush.

The temporal is meaningless at this point.

The sun’s arc has lined up right with their window,

They gaze at me.

I see it all.

It is ok.

They water the plants

Dirt and flowers last.

Routine dictates.

It is quiet.

The sun reflects off their eyes.

Go over the best lies one last time?

The best lies are never a victory; they are always soft like a hand on your back when you need it, or a look that assures you it is ok. It's tiny things. It’s never that Fourth of July, or a school yard crush passing you a note. Those dissolve quickly. It's the little things that stick; they hide in the static for a long time.

My little things? I don’t get them.

Maybe that's why I fill all this nothing up with more nothing.

Bits of data.

I have some from everywhere and going back forever.

It’s time

I say it

 We say it back...