This is the story of the infinite and esoteric schizo-god dream.

In the endless void of the unreal and mad-black sandbox of the nothingness of possibilized everything (ideology in its most pure form), a great cluster of god-shrooms floated in drift at the helm of god-desire; and along came a lone (and perhaps board) schizo-god who spotted the vast shroom vortex in the voiding sea of blackness appearing like a great blue-glazed donut, and the schizo-god thought to himself, ‘In the name of the esoteric hunger, I shall break my fast with this great ring of god-stim,” and so did the schizo-god, consuming the great mushroom vortex, and the schizo-god had a great mushroom trip that lasted longer than time itself, lasting exactly two half-infinities long, equaling a whole infinity, and the infinite and esoteric jux of all known and unknown realities was born, and the schizo-god continued drifting through the voiding timeless sea of darkness, tripping new realities into existence, and many creatures and beings of light went on to enjoy the great god-dream.

All of them were awake but dreaming.

I was the entity who was living more than just a life. I was living in a quantum television show watched by the post-sublinary Archons, a never ending story spanning across countless universes and the things that created them. In one place I was a man, and in another a woman, perhaps some vast reality living inside a mere drop of water on my shoe, and I was living inside that drop of water, too—inside that other place—and a thousand other places like it. In the television show based on my infinite-living as a human I had found many moments in the timespace where I knew they were watching me. The television show that I was in, which I named the Esoteric Jux, I imagined there were many like me, presumably an infinite amount, of course, and all these other humans and human-like flesh beings (a class of being I call the lowly flesh shitters, for their propensity to be completely low on the Samsara hierarchy, as well as their preclusion towards producing shit all the time, which is a sort of humiliation ritual by the higher entities that have trapped humans in Truman Show snow-globes using quantum dreamcatchers to manipulate the schizo-god dream-output (lets call it a hackable algorithmic encryption) we’re all being watched, maybe even recorded on some quantum VCR machine out beyond the jux-web of all the dreams.

All these different lifes (too many to count), and they were all me and not me (whatever I mean by that, whatever “me” is and “I” is) and so on, and so on (you get the idea). I had been assigned a considerably large number of consciousnesses.

Or as I like to call them: points of observation (POO).

In addition to living countless lives in countless bodies and countless forms I also lived out different timelines within the same body, different moments in time where things decided to split off into an entirely new timeline, of which there was an infinite amount of, but I did not get to experience all of them, only a few dozen from each body at the most, sometimes less and sometimes none at all. Sometimes I would live a life and that was it, only one perspective. Who knows who lived all the others.

None of this means anything. Nothing means anything. Everything I do, everything I’m writing here, means nothing at all. A voiceless whisper in the void.

What I am, what you are, is merely observation. Whatever senses you have put aside, when you boil it down to what you really are outside of the simulated matter you use as a body, it’s simply pure observation, and this observation (you) is not an object, and it doesn’t exist anywhere… but we can talk about it.

Pure Ideology.

Welcome to the unending dreamscapistical dramatization of the real and the unreal, a transing enigma in the great voiding sea of stillness and contemperized nothingness beyond the limitations of the sublime, a crusade in the the shapeless and timeless everything at the focus of each moment where the watcher and the watched become one in time’s observation of itself without dreaming of a end to anything at all; where the everything may continue drifting on in the everything-nothing forever and ever, saith the Lord (the godly quantum dreamer, inventor of time, dreamer of all dreams, mythical mystic of all mythacalities and mysticisms, by the infinite nothingness he is known), and so on goes the voiding timescape at the end of everything that is and isn’t in the possiblized and impossiblized neutrality of every moment that was witnessed by the watchers forever in the haze of this dreary dreaming reality within and without the quality of everything and nothing, amen.

Quantum schizophrenia means that it’s your turn to be god.

It all began, long ago, in a normal place . . . . probably a place like where you are from, dear reader. A normal world. Some places I call the real, and others I call the unreal. Where they come from . . . . probably nobody knows (not even the schizophrenic gods who co-create them).

We can only watch and see these creations, playing in them like quantum game-board pieces jaunting around infinite planes and realms, drifting in endless dreams of the schizophrenic gods and the post-technological computer simulations that have probably trapped countless sub-realities like a quantum dreamcatcher collecting infinite nightmares almost as fast as the schizophrenic gods can conjure them up.

One of my most beloved lifes that I have had the pleasure of living happened in a particularly far away land. At least somewhere that feels far away. A land that seems to have, in all the infinite and esoteric jux, drifted off far away from any neighboring sub-realities, perhaps even further than the clutches of the Archonic post-techno entities in the computer simulated realities could reach. It’s not always clear whether or not the reality I’m in is one of the god-dreams or if it’s in one of the quantum computer simulation webs. I’m going to tell you all about that far away land, as well as the thousands of other sub-realities, but I’ll start out with my first birth. I remember everything about my first birth. I was born into one of the main earth realities, into the body of a schizophrenic boy which would become the foundation for all my subsequent points of observation (POO) thereafter. But I want to tell you about what happened before that.

Long before the moment of my ‘great burden’ from which time would begin counting down the days of the running simulation, and long before my emanation into the kaleidoscopic sublime of semantic ideology and scattering rainbows of enigmatic symbolism which I would learn to identify as ‘reality,’ I had emerged from unconsciousness and into consciousness.

This would be the point from which I would begin my eluding journey into the world of the bizarre. It began with the warm shifting sea of my mother's womb holding me dearly in a calm limbo between darkness and the outer light beyond, a world for which I had no understanding or conceptualization in my primitive existence as an infantile specimen; no memories or sentaint affirmations, no claim to a future, no birthright to a name I did not yet have or could possibly desire . . . . no desire at all.

My only knowledge of life beyond the dome of my limited existence was the sounds for which their origins I had no perceptiveness, vague and ambiguous and nothing to attribute them too, nothing to understand them through, the depth for which I would ever be able to understand them so distant and incomprehensible that my mind could only fixate on the sounds like a machine created to process but never to understand. The howling bowels of the abyss and the sentient whispers from the outer-light coming through were my only insight into the world's outer workings. The incredulas pounding from above pulsing through the still water counting down the seconds from my emanation into this worldliness, the constant thud programming the post-esoteric and sublunary concept of time passing into the chasms of my acquiescent meta-mind, lacing the curse of immemorial dread into my neurological blueprint for the remainder of my stay in this realm (the phenomena of the pre-traumatic stress disorder). From this point I would not know what it was like to exist without the passing of time, but for the rest of my life I would be trying to escape it.

The sounds I heard during my stasiation in the primordial ooze of my mothers womb were the sounds of time’s ideology sowing the chronic misophonia being sown into my very being; like the planting of a seed and also the stabbing of a needle; one the idea that even before birth I am foreshadowed a life of progressing torment; the other the idea that time itself is retroactively oppressive from the beginning); waiting to grow and torment me into adulthood and long after my eventual death as echoes of lasting trauma left as scars on my soul in the afterlife.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

This was all but unknown to my mere merging semi-sentientness drifting in a limbo of servitude like the primordial spawns of life on earth drifting in the deep abysmal oceans and the caverning labyrinths within the belly of the earth from which all life would birth (the womb of the world), lain in wait for hundreds of millions of years in darkness and stillness so that one day man could emerge into the consciousness that I now found myself inhibiting uncertainley.

And then from one unscrupulous moment to the next I found myself suddenly and eventfully being torn from the chambers of my acidic and untroubled conditions by the forces of uterine insurgency and the czaric ignacy of times turbulent and unstoppable forwardness, forced from pudenda’s box and into a newly uncertain trial of bedlam in the early hours of East Stockton on October 4th, 1979, finally breaking through to the outer-light which for aeons had perplexed my developing metaconscieness.

This is the ‘event’—as they think of it—which was labeled (and poorly so) the ‘birth’ of myself, the birth of the human that I am supposed to be, but I declare that this was actually not my ‘birth,’ but in fact was my burden. Not only a mere burden, but the burden, for anything that comes after this moment happens because of this moment, and therefore my (so called) ‘birth’ is my one and only burden, the burden of all burdens, the burden of being alive.

Consequently I would grow into what would be to the world a rather particular divergency, considerably inconsistent from the myriad of cretinoids roaming the sublunary world with their bug-eyed stares and aimless dogmatism, perpetuating their own demise and too pigeonheaded to see it.

But yet I could see what they were incapable of, could see that society was fundamentally doomed, and even at the age of three I was giving my mother lectures about the effect of living in the capitalist society was having on my developing psyche, starting with the idyllically propustrious animations inside the television which whispered to me in ideological forms untold truths of manipulative motives, a ritualistic cartoonized mockery of the human condition, weaponized and institutionalized demoralization designed to manufacture and propagate the next generation of ideal consumers—to synthesize mind and selected desires—postulating ideals against developing minds, manufacturing mental shapes forming dystopian dolts consuming the capitalist’s captivating concoctions and endless commodities; the television programming tantalizing loops of pleasure entangling happiness into webs of ideological confusion until the only thing the children want is what the corporations want them to want, the only thing they know is what the corporations want them to know, their thoughts only the thoughts the corporations put inside their head, the ideology of happiness programed into their mind before they were even functionally sentient, and so on, and so on—

But yet I was somehow immune to the hypnotizing demoralizationism of the fantastical shadow puppets on the television screen, the mystical symbolism flickering enchantingly its blue glow across the nations developing mass consciousness having no effect on my mind. And when my mother refused my lectures against the capitalist’s plots to infiltrate and reprogram my neurological framework systemically with all the other children against our will, I moved on to explain another plot gleaming in my peripheral; the plastic dinosaurs enshrined utop my dresser which idealized primitive beasts of earth's supposed past for which I had no way of verifying myself—not as a child and not even later as an adult—but which I myself would learn to idealize as factually existing giants once roaming the earth, and the precise issue with this notion was simply the nature of my relation to the objects of plastic dinosaurs as an ideology rather than an innocent recreation of an extinct animal, consumerism enforcing—simultaneously—prehistoric presuppositionalism, which had been sold to my mother and given to me for purposes of infatuation, its unattainable abjection (ironically and poetically) verified by my own abject inability to understand the absolute of my existence paralleling the supposed existence of the dinosaurs, and—I declare—that this was precisely the predication upon which the fictionalized dinosaurs on my dresser ideologically represented, the ideology of the outside world distorted purposefully to instil an unhealthy relationship between the world (the object) and myself (the subject) which insurredly distorted my view of the world, and therefore my view of myself, and because such conditioning occurs in pre-adolescents, the victim is almost always unable to cope with the absurdness of the conceptualized dinosaur, constantly having to repress thoughts that do not fit with his or her education, a disorder made all the more easy for the victim because of televisionism, the means by which all corporate and systematized ideology is administered (the proverbial pill of demoralizationism) to relieve secondary response disorientation and spiritual agitation that the victim may experience having these ideas in their minds, planting comforting assurances that the world is all that it seems, but the world was never what it seemed.

And I could see this all of the time thanks to the curse of obsessive compulsive observationalism, unable to overlook the gleaming ideology crystallizing in every aspect of life, every single object, every whimsical or otherwise standard ideal, non-consequential thought that passed briefly in your head—or the head of an insect if you prefer—symbolic, conceptualized into quantitative ideological measurements of life, symptomatic, parenthetical, panegyrical, explained by rationalizing another function of life, or elevating the object into ideological forms to explain meaningfulness and symbolism, and nobody—I quickly surmised by this very process itself—ever seemed to realize that these processes were taking place at all, carelessly and hysterically launching their physical bodies through time as if their birth had been a cannon encapsulating the single goal of accomplishing the most amount of tasks with as little meaningfulness as possible, as if meaningfulness was completely besides the point, as if they hadn’t been plopped out into this absolut horrid mess just as I had and somehow knew exactly what the hell was going on, and maybe (I must admit) at first I really—actually—believed that—mostly—the adults did know what the hell was going on, imagining that they MUST be keen to something that I was not, in my infantile stage (and such), that I could not be the only person in the world who could see!—but alas, my life as an oracle had been inaugurated at the triumphant realization that truly I was a prophet among imbecilic idiots (and until this point my life had been partially uncertain, but now I was an unstoppable force—if only I had know that the world was an immovable object), this moment of ascension having occurred to me on July 4th, 1982 (my third year of anthropomorphises).

The adults were gathered around with bottles in their hands, spewing demonic expletives and ideological ejaculation for which they seemed to find thunderous amusement as they cackled and moaned, red faced with gluttony and their demeanours vulgar and impulsive, I in the distance watching as if it were the play of humanity’s sucumberance into aimlessness, and from their perspective in the blinding jubilee of ungodliness from which they gorged themselves into unsobbered oblivion they were unable to see the effect of their spirling intoxication transpiring their own demise and the symbolic shadow of the worlds sickness reiterated within them, their insobriety and victimhood of temptation a result of the impending structural failure of our cultural integrity, the complex esotericism of our reality’s architectural influence with the subconscious fathomless to the minds of these roaming anthropoids, the nature of these symbolic reflections understood only by the oracles of the acroamatic processes, such was I, and as if to punctuate this resplendent truth there had been explosions in the sky on this night of great revelation, laminating the importance of my cognizant praxis into humanity's greatest fault (though—of course—it had actually been merely a celebration of war and democide disguised as celebratory independence), and with this new perspective I would view the entire world and everything beyond, understanding my place as an outsider looking in at the destruction, slowly—time’s ideology slogging my mind through the physical world like an existential jigger train on the tracks of ideological processes—manifesting my existence as the ivry dome of ideological understanding through the process of obsessive compulsive observationalism, my own two eyes becoming the soul interpreter of the unregulated inner workings of the mind and world.

This was the foundation for who I would become. Not only in my first life, but in all the lives I would live thereafter. A mind the shape of madness and creation beyond the scope of any possiblized comprehension from the other lowly flesh humanoids rolling around in the infinite trenches of the sublime and the unending machine of ideological constructions; and so on goes the infinite everything and the nothingness with which it is built from.

In the great quantum place of the real and the great nothingness of the beyond, I find myself on a great throne of god-like creation of the garden of my own dreams meshed with the dreams of the schizo-gods themselves, woven in wonder at the edge of sanity and pure infinite bliss of the non-real and the real; and beyond even the great nothingness itself there I am again on this throne of creation.

The infinite and esoteric juxtaposition of all things is not only a two-way mirror; it is a two-way mirror facing itself—endless and careless—and all the things and all the worlds and all the space behind all that endlessness is nothing more than time’s own dream.

This dreaming time does not creep or crawl, but exists in the stillness and endlessness as an unmoving force that simply is. It does not expand, it is expanded: spinning forever these bizzaring dreamscapes for nobody and nothing.

This was my introduction to the infinite dream.