Hear the Siren

She was an American girl. An American mouth. What then is a dog-eared map? What had He told me in the early morning hours? Always with the lyrics and the LISTEN. Why. Why do you call them a mystery? Why do you feel the way you feel? Who calls you in the night? In your dreams? That dog-eared map, that book, not a geophraphic location, but you definitely have to be IN it.

Big pill looming.

You were told of these days. Of when the fig leaf would bloom in Winter. Of when the rivers would turn to blood. You were told to look for signs. Who will remember Him?

And I was led, by the cat. She was scruffy. Beat down. A stray. Yet not lost. Wandering. She weaved in and out of the night, urging I follow. She knew I heard. I was one who listened. Curious. Nose sniffing around the Scent. Following. Always listening. Searching. That was me. And she knew I would follow. Same as I knew I could not resist the Primary Function. I followed. She led me to a house wherein the people danced and sang, drunk on mortality but hearing not the song to which they absentmindedly swayed. She beckoned me to look deeper. To see with her night vision what was to my waking, mortal eyes, concealed. She gave me her sight so I might see. And I looked and beheld the revelers taken, disappearing before me, though no one noticed. I cried out. See? Look what is happening. Right in front of your face. The cat said nothing but urged me to another room. Each room she led me to was the same as the last. They were dragged away and no one noticed. Heavy now with a sickened thought, I followed her to the last room. No revelers here. The room was empty save one soul. Her head laid upon the table at which she sat, arms hanging limply to her side. A single slow drop of blood dripped from her middle finger when I raised the wrist.

I knew her, but I was unafraid. Nor did I weep. I was satisfied with her death. Her mortal blood leached, she was one of the newborn. The cat said nothing. I followed her from death’s house to a clearing. An old rusted punch buggy was the last remnant of that world and though new upon my entry, it now revealed its true face. Like that decrepid house. Both had been sucked back into the darkness, that old car left at its gate as a reminder of a world that slowly lay dying, unable to hear Redemption. And those who could hear were called to guide them. But you must know when to stay and when to go. These places of deafness can trap your light. Do not waste it there, said the cat.

The cat led me from the darkness. A new light filled the place, not the mysterious light of the moon. An inner light that radiated in that place, that light, bathed us. We sat with the trees, those sentries of the awakened, who shelter. We layed on a blanket. She, still no less scruffy but all the more beautiful with her peaceful knowing, she, with her gently purr, eased my mind from their suffering. And we dreamed that others would meet us soon.

Might you remember the truth? Him? Will you have another dispensation? Dare you risk that wager, gambler? I told you there would be massive death. I told you fires would burn, unquenched. Anger would be the language they spoke. Resisitance. How then do you inspire? When love is no longer a common tongue how do you show them they are love?

Might it be her? Does she call you in your dreams, begging you to find her. Come to me. Let me in. Come home. Did you hear her what she was saying to you in your dream, Kyle? Do what she asks. You wanted an answer. Needed interpretation. What does she want from you? She wants you to let her in, and you do that with a dog-eared map or the lyrics of your favorites. That is why favorites are important. It’s a language you are meant to hear.

You’re not meant to stop the spiral, Ricky. It keeps going. You weren’t meant to stop. You were all meant to keep going. Think bigger.

You asked for a leader. But you begged for kings and queens. You would have a ruler. When you need only lead yourself. When the White Man came to this world, they asked for gold. The ancestors, knowing the wisdom of the Great Spirit, the wisdom that said, ask and receive, gave them gold. But like you, they wanted something mortally precious. Something that is beautiful only for a season, like a ruler, like a pretty faced flower that withers and dies.

You sell a gift. You have something greater than mortal treasure.

Have I found you or have I lost you.

I told you of these things. I warned you of the beginning of the end. There would be massive death and suffering. Fires. War. Famine. We now face a time in history, and yes, it was always His story, when we now have more ongoing conflicts (since 1945?). You were warned of this time. But you were also given Hope. That after those days, man would move toward a hive like mind, united, and that would be utopia.

But you didn’t believe. You were fooled. Deceived.

If there is a new dispensation, I am unaware.

Time’s up. Over.

Loose yourself. Loose. Let loose. Leap even. That would be better. Go bigger.

In the music. In a moment. You want this, trust me, you know you do. Better never let it go, WHY.

You get one shot. Better pick the right. The creative. The intuitive. Feed that wolf. I can’t be any plainer. This isn’t hard. Just listen.

Will you keep your chains or trade them for the circle?

Why the circle. Why infinity. Why the 4th dimension of time. Think BIGGER. Then think BIGGER still. Why. What purpose. What drive. What inspiration. Ask the questions of the philospher and writer. Who. Who Am I? Why Am I Here? Why. How. What for and when and where. But you are numb to your inner Pilot. You are tested. You suffer. Why. You know there’s a little more life somewhere else.

Pretend your favorites speak to you, like that song lyricist is your intuituve voice. It is sending you a message. Listen.

I’m running out of songs, lyrics, and pretty faces. You don’t hear in any language, and you dance as your ship sinks not realizing you gave away your inner King for a lie. Steer your own ship.

We gave you the gold, and we are STILL HERE, waiting for you to listen. You need to feed the right wolf. We told you this. Feed the right wolf. Why did I discuss epigenetics with you? And yet, you killed every messenger. Galileo told you to revolve around the Sun, and you killed him. You burned my witches. You hung my prophets.

Time’s up. How do you judge utopia? Of what need does perfection have of justice or judgment?

Have I found you?

Or lost you?

The clock has run out. You are in the age of the Piscean. And you know the secret of life is 42. You know to feed the right wolf. Because WHY. Cognitive brain therapy, REWIRES. Every right decision, a change in your very DNA structure. Following the right path with every right choice, the choice you were intuitively guided to make. Yes. It was there all the time. Right in front of your face. Like magic. All you had to do was listen. And that steering will lead you home. To the North.

There’s your gold. You won’t find that at your job that chains you to a world that is structurely designed for nothing but your demise. Your world and your life is a lie. You were robbed.


I’m out of music and there’s a bandwidth problem now, He said.

You must make a choice.

Will you remember Him?

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