After one of those evening talks, as everybody left the hall and Dr. Freud organized his papers, I waited in my seat for him to finish. After humoring those who gathered around him with their meaningless questions, the room finally emptied and Dr. Freud looked up at me, a lone student seated in an empty hall. Nodding slightly at me, he headed toward me, and I stood up in excitement.
“You’ve been attending these meetings pretty regularly.”
“Yes, sir. It’s an honor for me that you’ve noticed me and a relief that you’re still talking to me after my attitude that night…”
“Love is a disease, and getting angry at the symptoms is only cruel to the patient. However, if you had hit my head with a chair, I might be angrier.” He smiled, and added, “If you have time, I’d like to buy you a drink.”
...
We sat at one of the back tables in a crowded cafe close to the meeting hall. Dr. Freud smoked his cigar and took small sips from his glass of cognac. I sat opposite him, not drinking my coffee, and playing with the cookie next to the cup.
“So tell me, young man,” he said after a small cough.
“What can I tell you that you don’t know or can’t guess? The girl used me, ran away from the hospital, and dumped me. I went through hard times, but I have finally accepted it and come back to my life, as you can see.” My speech was followed by a long silence. And then I added, “I feel like an idiot!”
Smiling a little, he took a big puff from his cigar and let the smoke out.
“You have plenty of time to correct your mistakes,” he said.
I took a big sip from the cold coffee and was about to take a bite from the cookie but changed my mind. I wanted to talk.
“Sir, I’ve been following psychiatry and your work with much admiration, and, if you let me, I’d like to be your assistant.”
Freud regarded me for a moment.
“Why not?” he said. “I don’t usually pass up the opportunity to help young, intelligent people and gain the advantage of their different points of view.” After showing the waiter his almost empty glass, he continued talking. “I’m always in need of bright questions.”
“I have a question for you now,” I said as I watched the waiter fill his glass.
Freud took a sip and gestured for me to go on.
“Is it possible that consciousness doesn’t belong to the human body,” I asked, “that maybe another life form arrived in that organism later?”
“A very different question. You’ve surpassed my expectations, Mr. Reich. A very different approach. Can you go on?” he asked. Through the dense smoke of his cigar, I saw he had an excited sparkle in his eye now.
“Babies are just the physical offspring of humans until they have their first memory,” I started. “They can’t be separated from the offspring of an animal with their primitive and instinctive behavior. It is only after they gain consciousness and a sense of belonging that they distinguish themselves from the animal world.”
He thoughtfully nodded his head. My idea had been confirmed.
“When babies are mature enough to shoulder the load,” I went on “the living form called consciousness—in this hypothesis, a parasite which can’t survive alone on Earth—comes and settles inside the human offspring. Imagine, for example, another living organism settling inside a snail shell. When we looked at the being from the outside, we would still perceive that it was a snail. However, the snail would now have something affecting its behavior from the outside, and we wouldn’t find its behavior logical. It would fall out of the pattern of normal snail behavior. In the same way, between infancy and early adulthood, this living organism, called consciousness, comes from outside and dominates the human body and begins to lead it. Meanwhile, there occurs a period of imbalance between ‘the primitive offspring of humans’ and the full integration of consciousness.”
“Is this the reason for the incoherent behavior of little children?” Dr. Feud asked. “For example, the child scratches the wall, draws a picture, and, when asked, he tries to explain it by saying, ‘I didn’t draw it.’ And we wonder if the child blames someone else to get rid of the responsibility.”
“I haven’t thought it out in detail, Dr. Freud, but, if it’s like that, then who says, ‘I didn’t scratch the wall’? The primitive human or the organism called ‘consciousness’ that’s trying to control the body?”
“According to your thesis,” Dr. Freud continued, “If humans are the living beings who constitute the shell, then the one who gets in touch with us, the one who captures us and puts something different inside, the one who gives us our explanations is the organism called ‘consciousness.’”
“Yes, yes, it has to be, if we follow the logic, but it also survives by going inside the human, because it can’t exist if we know it’s there. This explains why we don’t know how to completely control the body we’re in. We can’t decide on how fast our heart beats, how our intestines must work, and how much our nails must grow. Except for inside our head, we never have the sense of belonging in any part of our body.
“We receive signals from outside, collect data in our brain via nerve cables and electrical signals, and we make decisions according to that data. But when we touch fire, we never know what part of the cells on the tip of our finger are damaged or which mechanism the tissue there uses to protect itself.
“Our consciousness receives only a signal of that pain so that it’s aware of it. The management of all the cells that bring help, and of the other systems that pull the hand back in order that it not get burned more, are all under the rule of ‘the primitive human/shell.’ Whereas the organism called ‘consciousness,’ ‘parasite,’ or ‘saprophyte’ never gets damaged.”
I took another sip of coffee as I waited for Freud to respond.
“It’s an open-ended argument, my young friend,” he said. “By this logic, all mental illnesses are caused because the organism called ‘consciousness’ is losing its dominance and the primitive human is trying to express its existence.”
“That’s one of the possibilities, Dr. Freud. In dreams, consciousness is either tired or is busy repairing things. It withdraws because it has to be somewhere else and thus gives way to the primitive human shell. When it’s back, it just browses through the records that it hasn’t used during the dream.”
“So we only become human in our dreams, and at other times, we are another organism called ‘consciousness,’” Freud added thoughtfully.
“Only a living form called ‘consciousness’ that can think, interpret, create, remember, and make plans. The only thing that separates a human from a monkey and causes us to be different is that monkeys can’t be invaded and managed by consciousness, while we, whoever ‘we’ are, are suitable for it.”
“And when we die?” Freud asked.
“The empty human shell stays; the organism called ‘consciousness’ leaves.”
“Interesting, really interesting, my young friend. But I must confess, the possibility of changing everything based on a single premise scares me. My biggest fear is the possibility that it could be real, and, on that basis, we’ll never know what that means because we can’t go outside of the system.”
“It is like a fish that realizes the existence of water only when it comes out of it,” I offered. “If everyone around us has been captured and managed by the organism called ‘consciousness,’ how can we recognize the difference? With whom can we compare it so that we can understand?”
“Actually, it’s impossible to prove or disprove its accuracy, isn’t it, young man?”
“I suppose so.”
…[STOP]
Limbo
“Sir?"
“-…”
“Sir, Sir! >!’#{[]}|”!”
“_ _ _”
Cmnd://(Emergency*Resuscitation*Protocole)>:Maximal*Dose-Info*schock
[START]
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Shadow theory
Quanta is the shadow of reality perceived by our brain. J
ust as we can see the shadow of a biker who cycles in front of the sun before he makes his appearance, in quantum theory, we can see the results before the truth appears.
Physically, we live between reality and the “quantum shadow” that lies ahead. When our brain gives meaning to the probability of that “shadow” of quantum physics, the probabilities become reality and the shadow is perceived as “the present.”
When our brain looks ahead (at the future), it sees the same shadow, although the edges are blurred and indistinct. What we call the future is actually something that is obvious, but our brain can’t describe it yet.
Our brain only has the capacity or tendency to perceive shadows by looking back into the past, so it only “remembers” reality that has already been lived through. In other words, our memories.
If something casts a shadow, it means that thing still exists. We can neither see nor remember the thing that isn’t there. So if we remember something, it still exists.
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Relativity
Shadow is faster than light, because when light hits an object, the shadow is already there: it just hasn’t been revealed yet.
We can perceive the shadow before it dissipates as we approach the speed of light and experience the future.
When we reach the speed of light, we can’t perceive anything since there won’t be any shadow.
But if we’re able to pass the speed of light, we can remember the future (the events appear in our mind’s eye first, then they happen), and we will also remember the future when we return to the speed of light.
In brief, if we directly look at reality, we remember. If we look at its shadow and grasp what it is, it becomes “the present.” If we look at the shadow and can’t figure out what it is, then it is “the future.”
…[STOP]
Limbo
“Welcome back, sir.”
“Please tell me. Is there a problem with the system?
“No, sir, I’ve checked and tested everything many times; it looks ok. So, how was your experience?”
“Amazing. If I hadn’t witnessed it, I wouldn’t believe it. Such a large number of people killed like insects. A handful of soldiers destroyed such a huge army.”
“That handful of soldiers achieved more than that, sir. They ended the Incan empire, which was bigger, older, and more populated than the one they came from. Massive cities were destroyed. Millions of people died, and tons of valuable mines were captured. You killed them all in order to stop them from sacrificing men for their religious beliefs.”
“We really killed them all?”
“A species composed of pale blues killed more than you did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Diseases, especially the smallpox that you brought with you, destroyed 95% of their population. Death followed wherever you went and killed almost all living beings. Those who survived were assimilated. It was a massive continent, hosting millions who had lived in isolation since the ice age. But overnight, almost all those civilizations were destroyed.”
“So this made room for the new ones who had the desired characteristics?”
“It’s similar to what happened in Australia. Before immigration, there were no predatory cat species in Australia. Birds evolved to walk on the ground without any fear. When the cats came by ship and escaped into nature, they killed the unprotected birds. Now, none of those species exist. Wherever they go, human beings also kill or allow to die all animal species except the tamed ones or the ones that serve them. They also try to cause the extinction of all humans except those who serve them or won’t be a potential threat. It is in their nature.”
“As far as I understand it,” I said, “there is a genetic intervention spreading throughout Asia, Europe, America, and other continents, starting from North Mongolia. This intervention will happen through slowly affecting the natural evolutionary development and expected mutations and accelerating the process of selection.”
“Sir, you have begun to regain your abilities; you have also begun to solve the system easily. What you are saying is almost right. The main aim is to lead the evolutionary development, which would take an undesired shape if left as is. The goal is to provide the species with the desired characteristics. It is like human beings’ unconscious efforts to change the process of evolution by taming animals. If you want to get more yarn, you let the wooliest sheep live and kill the others or prevent their breeding. By only producing those with desired characteristics, you continue the bloodline.”
“If there is such technology and foresight, isn’t a direct genetic intervention easier?”
“Sir, your opportunities define your style of work. You can only work from your present options.”
“Is that the soft way of saying that we can’t do it?”
“We are at the final stage, sir. You will get all your answers soon, and, if there is no problem, you will get all your old abilities back, together with new ones.”
“Final stage? Who will I be?”
“Wilhelm Reich, an extraordinary Austrian psychiatrist.”
“Again?”
“Yes, sir. Can we start now?”
“Yes, let’s finish it.”
Wilhelm Reich
Typically, the things you value most are the things you have taken for granted, but you do not realize their value until you have lost them. I learned much later that I had everything I wanted in my early childhood. There, on a large and productive farm near a mountain village, I grew up dreaming and playing in nature, experiencing the seasons as colorful feasts. Tame animals were everywhere, and every spring there were new offspring to bring up. Abundance and fertility were all around me.
I was blessed with a beautiful mother and a father who was surly but omnipotent.
Servants were at my disposal. The cooks made delicious meals. A butler fulfilled all of my wishes. And I had many siblings to share my joy. With such pastoral bliss, I happily spent my childhood without leaving the farm.
When it was time for my education, a governess came to our home and added new lessons to the reading and writing my mother had already taught me. At the time, farm life had begun to seem too narrow for me, so it was impressive to learn from somebody from the outside. My governess told me about incredible things and had me read exciting books. When she told me she was getting married and had to leave, I dealt with my aggressive behavior by returning to the tender embrace of my mother.
In order to prevent another emotional trauma, my father brought in a male academic from far away. He was a very different man, tall and young with blond hair and a unique style. He knew a lot and taught me many mysterious things. I soon looked forward to each lesson.
His father was an archaeologist participating in excavations in Ottoman lands and beyond. I would make my tutor tell me about the ancient Sumerians and the civilizations they established and would always listen to him with the same excitement. He would tell me about sky Gods who came from very different planets and stars that we couldn’t even see with our eyes.
As he explained it, their planet, Merodach, came from an unseen place every four to five thousand years to rule the people. Their gods fought in space, helped people, and presented a wealth of knowledge when they returned. When necessary, they bred with people and protected the lineage of the children born to them. When they got angry, they used disasters to kill the ones they didn’t want.
My teacher brought me all the books and texts on this history and tried to explain the things I didn’t understand. I began looking at the sky and the stars with a different perspective. I dreamed of my own stories with my own aliens. Sometimes, in my dreams, I was friends with them and destroyed my enemies. Sometimes, I rebelled with the people and fought against the aliens. I promised myself that I would live until the next time the aliens came, no matter how old I was.
My teacher was an impressive man. You either loved him or hated him. First, I chose to love him, but when my mother made the same choice, I began to hat
e him. At first I denied what I saw in my mother’s gaze and behavior, but, when my mother and teacher started to be alone in a room after telling me to read or do my homework, I could no longer remain in denial. Once, I “accidentally” went into the room and faced the very truth I knew but didn’t want to know. From that moment on, my nights were filled with dreams of killing archaeologists and their children together with the alien gods.
At the age of 12, out of anger at my teacher, I gave up my interest in aliens, and revealed my teacher’s betrayal to my father. I never knew someone could survive such a bad beating and run away as fast as my teacher did when he was thrown out the door. I savored my revenge, no matter how short it lasted. My mother responded with screams at first, then denial, and finally silence. We didn’t talk, not that day, or the next. No one looked at each other, and we always found an excuse to be apart.
But the biggest disaster was still to come. One day, we found my mother lying on the floor surrounded by empty bottles of kitchen chemicals. She had consumed them hoping for a quick death, but it was just the beginning. For days, we watched in horror as her faced twisted from the burns and her purulent wounds leaked blood. Our nights were made unbearable by the high pitched sounds coming from her roasted air-tube. My mother paid, yes, but she also made us pay, without uttering a word. When she finally passed away she saved her last mortified glance for me.
After that, everything was gray: sometimes light, sometimes dark, but always gray. My father and I would catch each other’s eyes, but we wouldn’t look at each other. We would say a little, but we never talked. I registered in a school away from home and buried myself in books at every opportunity. My father was never the same again and he was seldom at the farm. A few years later, under the pretext of fishing, he went up to a cold river in the mountains. There he tortured himself in the cold until he got sick. It was a suicide of exposure. So, at 17, I became the head of the household.
Save the Last Bullet for God Page 26