Month: September 2025

The End of Childhood

By

On September 9, 2025

In Farewells

I remember the good times. The smiles that were had. The endless days of sunshine in my mind, now ended, and gone.

The corridors of power, and ‘learning’. Led by people in dead-end jobs, leading us to the same nowhere(s). These places they’d trapped themselves in; all sudden ‘adults,’ people with diplomas, and doctorates, all painted in the same corner(s).

I remember the birth of the Internet. The endless creativity, now ended. The fire of passion, those flames now frozen, by time, and Capitalism. The limitless tributes to the lives lived by the people we will never meet. A thousand thousand photographs of people’s long-dead grandmothers, all set in bespoke ‘image galleries’, on Geoshitties.

The “Under Construction” sign, anointed animated gif, from a site beckoning me to ‘check back soon, for updates.’ The text therein reads: “last updated…” in the previous millennium.

Old sites, frozen in time. Links going nowhere; all digital tombstones.

Old fucking memories. Like breathing the air in abandoned buildings. These places are gone; their experience(s) liminal. But they still live on, somehow, in my Heart.

It’s time to let go.

Good night.

The sun is about to rise . . .

A Bright Light

By

On September 2, 2025

In end, Space Aliems

Here’s my Hope spot.

Today, I was particularly grievously injured. I’m talking, gushing blood, thought I was going to need to go to the hospital; it was bad. It was also painful in a way I’ve never really experienced before in that part of my body.

And so, in my desperation— and I know you’re not going to understand this, but I’ll say it anyways, because it’s true— I asked a space alien for help.

Part of the problem I’ve had with my belief in UFOs and space aliens is, I have precious little evidence for it. Sure, I have decades of memories, but very few of these are corroborated by external parties. These could be hallucinations; delusions; confabulations; anything. Without at least another person there acting as a witness, I don’t really know. Or, at least, I thought I did not know.

I ran to Her for help.

And She healed the wound nearly instantaneously. There is not even really a mark where it happened— I cannot tell, just by looking, where it happened.

And so, this is the beginning of something new.

I’m really not going to bother explaining what’s going on beyond that. I will, however, be explaining a few key essentials:

  • I know what I should be doing, now.
  • I know that it is not this.
  • I have experienced enough of this in order to know that, in comparison, it is not what I’m supposed to be doing with my life (nor what I want to be doing).
  • I have hard choices to make, and I’ve already made them.

For the past two years, starting in February of 2023, I’ve pursued a hard agenda: I wanted to convince America, and the world at large, that UFOs and space aliens were real. I did this partially to finally figure out if I was, indeed, insane; and if I was, I could move on, and figure out my life.

But if I wasn’t insane, I could get everything that I’ve ever dreamed of.

Well, being healed by that person is the start of everything I’ve ever dreamed of. It turns out that, yes, getting myself into a bad situation, inadvertently, and being injured, was the start of… like, I don’t know; like when you get the edge of a sticker on, that’s really on there. You’ve got your fingers on it; under it. And you have a grip.

And you’re going to get it off.

In the same way, I have gotten my fingers underneath the start of what I want for my life. And this start will transition into something more. It already has been, over the past few months. And one day, I’ll be back Home.

But that’s where I have some bad news.

There are no Stars in Heaven.

The Anunnaki have a saying: “There are no Stars in Heaven.”

It’s difficult to translate its meaning. Basically, it means, once you have reached the highest point, there is nothing left to attain; you are living the moment of your victory, and there will be no indicators.

But there will also be no celebration.

If First Contact is to happen, I, for one, do not think that I will be doing it. Inevitably, inexorably, I’m fucked; I’m going to do it. I know that I’ll be the one at that podium. I know that I’ll be the one making the announcement.

But I don’t want to. Because, when I look at this space alien woman, and I know everything that everyone on this stupid fucking planet is going to try to do to Her when they realize that She’s real, and that I’ve been telling the truth?

I think I would like to go away, now.

I think I would like to be regarded as having been just some strange, old, washed-up, has-been of a schizophrenic. Someone that no one really understood— that no one really wanted to understand.

Because I don’t know how to protect the people I love, should I get famous again. And, when I look into Her eyes and I hold Her hands, I don’t fucking know how to protect Her from all of these horrible fuckers on this stupid goddamned planet.

The truth will eventually get out. It’s inevitable. What I’ve started is a slow burn that only goes to one location: the truth of reality. You haven’t ever been alone on this planet. For the past 50,000 years, you’ve been living alongside a space alien species. All of you have met one of them, and almost none of them have been famous. Even now, you probably have had at least one friend who was one of them.

I can’t stop it.

But I can make sure that, in realizing the dream of one of my family members, that I do not let this desire consume my family members.

I can stand and step out of the way.

I don’t need to be famous.

I need to protect my Wife, and my family.

This, I think, is why none of the human whistleblowers came forward.

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