Religious Ecstasy

1

My name is David Poul Jack. I am currently descending from a state of religious ecstasy.

What can I say about what ecstasy is? It's not just pleasure, I can assure you that. It is the whole spectrum of human emotions, passions, beliefs, hopes, despairs, delusions, confuisons, insanities and sanities, all rainbow-like rolled into a bar of jelly and smeared like syrup across your brain.

I drank cough syrup to achieve these states, a foul stuff which contains the pharmaceutical drug dextromethorphan polistytrex, which is an extended-release version of the dissociative/psychedelic. I would do this every day. This last time was every day for a week. Or perhaps two weeks- I am not sure.

I don't want to remember anything that happened, actually. I'd like to forget it all. Most of it was terrible, the shadows of my unconscious fears and projections, made real in another dimension somehow. I shudder and my heart flutters to think about these words, recalling the peaks of heaven and the depths of hell. I have seen hell, and madness, and been the devil, and the devil's son, or the devil's father, and god, and Jesus Christ, and a sorceror and a madman and a drug addict and a witch doctor and a shaman-priest dabbler.

My greatest fear yet is that I am actually in hell, right now, and am simply deluding myself into thinking this reality (the ordinary reality) is somehow itself a delusion. That is how completely batshit fucking insane I was. I do not recommend anyone do this for any reason, ever.

I did it because I wanted to transcend my own limitations and nature and become something greater than just myself. Only, after all that, I have found that I am indeed just myself after all. And this is the greatest gift, a precious joy, and I am hoping never to lose it.

I did it because I wanted to become something worse and more awful than myself too. And then I wanted to be so plainly myself, so utterly banal and boring and unloved and unlikable and isolated that just being who I am was itself a punishment. Punishment for what? For existing? For loving? For having fears, like every other human being does? I don't even know how I became addicted to the self-punishment aspect of it, the self-frightening, self-creating, self-sustaining devilry and wickedness and taint of perversion and shame that even now I can't quite shake off.

Because nobody should, or ever would choose to do that. I was chosen to do it. I am a light-form of God. He/She made me, created me, and became me, and then let me be myself. It is the most terrifying, wonderful, reverent, amazing experience I have ever experienced, and it's not yet over, because here I am writing about it, thinking about it.

I haven't slept in two days. This morning was an apocalypse. Literally. Then the sun came up from the fog and I'm okay again. And I know who I am, and what this was all about. And I'm writing it here, now.

My heart is fluttering, palpitating. Pulsating. I can feel it beating, I can feel my heart. I am consciously aware of my heart, and that is terrifying. I don't know how much longer I've got. This might be it. I might die any moment. Hopefully, not.

I mean, I've been assured I'm not.

But I can't be too sure. No one can, can they? Knowledge of one's own death is wrong, somehow.

I simply have to have faith to keep existing. And so I will. And so I am.

I have few options but to wait this out, actually. It's not pleasant. Like I said, nobody should intentionally do this to themselves. And I wasn't quite intentional about it. I was kind of fucking around. And I got more than I ever asked for or wanted. Altering states of consciousness is sorcery - it is magic - it is very very unwise, and I repent of it, and I beg forgiveness from my maker that He/She not unmake me as some sort of punishment, or any further punishment.

But I know too that I was punishing myself the whole time. Self-hatred: self-loathing. The worst kind of poison there is, more than any other kind of drug. I hated myself enough for the whole world to hate me, ten times over, and again and again. It's intoxicating, literally: polluting and poisonous to the mind.

Let me rest now, please. I mean, not that you're doing anything other than reading (hopefully?). I don't mean to accuse you of anything. Don't take it like that. I'm talking to myself, maybe. No, I'm talking to my creator: let me rest.

And I know I'll do my best, not to kill myself. With drug addiction or any other means. I mean, I will die someday, as will everyone - this is a good thing - but that day is not today (He/She assures me).

I take comfort in my Creator, though I have great, terrible fear and respect for the mighty power and magic and mystery and limitlessness He/She has demonstrated to me. I am burning up inside, spiritually speaking, right now, just thinking about it: how I am a form of Him/Her myself, a garment. I am so honored and precious and treasured and thankful and grateful.

And that is all I can type for today. Hopefully, it will wear off soon - hopefully, I pray, He/She replies yes, it will wear off soon, and I should take it easy for the next couple of days and weeks. The one thing I am terrified of is, paradoxically, resting: of sleeping. What if I die upon sleeping? What will happen? I won't know. Maybe it already happened, maybe it already happened, maybe it already happened.

Who's to say? Not me.

I have had all the ego ripped out of me. Thank God. That stuff is poison.

Probably worse than any drug, actually. The notions that I have had: the delusions, and they are so many. Probably I will continue to have them. I might never be rid of them. I will take medication. Religious ecstasy is some serious fucking shit and if you don't believe me, just look at me: I'm a nervous wreck right now. I can barely move around, and I'm scared of my own shadow. I am going to have to work on all my fears and psychological issues, with therapy, like regular people do.

I was trying to sort of be special. To get around the issue of needing to be like everybody else. That is ego. That is pride and vanity and arrogance itself. I am so ashamed of it. You have no idea how much I am ashamed of it. I am so ashamed of it I am consciously aware that my shamefulness of my shame is shameful!

So, I am going to be relaxing, and taking it easy, and not being so hard on myself. I am going to help other people. I am going to love my friends and my family. And be myself. And that's all I ever wanted. And that is a gift more precious than all the magic and diamonds you can imagine.

Love. Love is the foundation of all truth.

And truth is life.


 

2

Monday morning. I'm at the Daily Grind. I went to the Hospital last night, and do you know why? I was afraid to fall asleep, because I was afraid I wouldn't wake up - or that I would wake up in Hell. Either way would be pretty bad. Turns out, Hospitals can't really help you if you're just afraid of a thing happening.

They were very nice and patient with me, their regular patient, however. I love those people. I just wish I could stop wasting their time. There isn't a lot of time. I have to get the message out. This is what the message is: money is vile.

Money. Not the love of money, not greed for it, not having enough of it or too much or not enough, not what you do with it, but money itself is pure, one hundred percent evil. It is the foul stench that stinks to high Heaven. It is the pollution that kills all life on this planet, and all life anywhere. It is the toxin that destroys and kills. Angels fall ill and are burnt away because of the existence and burden that money causes. Currency, as they say, is a foul pollutant that pollutes the seas and the airs and the lands and the heavens and the hells themselves, too. Oh, they don't say that? They should, shouldn't they?

And yet they don't. No one preaches this. No one teaches this, not too much. Everyone is deceived by the number of the beast, and that number is any number, any denomination, any transaction wherein currency of any sort exists at all in this or any reality. And that's it.

No one is to blame, and everyone is forgiven, so don't think I'm going to start punishing the sinners, as much as I detest the sin. But I do detest it. And my loathing and hatred and contempt for money is holy, righteous, true, pure, and God-given and it is God's own fury and Last Judgment and it is the Second Coming, all in one: money is shit.

Money cannot exist. It must be abolished, or else all life will perish. It's that simple, and that's the choice. Everyone is forgiven. Even me. And I am not free of sin: not at all. God so loved this world that He sent His only begotten son, Jesus Christ, who became The Lord Jesus Christ, to die for MY sin. For OUR sin. And that sin is only this: money.

So it's up to us, now, to fix it. Humanity cannot coexist with money of any kind. Did you ever watch Star Trek, particularly The Next Generation? Brilliant show. It forecasts, truthfully, as clear as any prophesy, that mankind will ascend to the stars, better ourselves, colonize the planets and explore new worlds and new civilizations: by abandoning money. By recognizing that money, more than anything else, was the foul pollution that was destroying us, our lives, all lives, all species, on planet Earth, and even anywhere else in every dimension in the entire Multiverse. Nothing else. Money is the root of all evil, and it's that fucking simple.

Not so simple, of course. I don't have a master plan. I'm not a brilliant thinker. Green New Deal? Sounds like a great start. Communism? Eh, probably not. We'll have to work something out. It's not "capitalism" that is the problem, nor is it "socialism," nor any philosophy nor any belief - except money. Money is itself a belief.

Money is a play-pretend make-believe, a game, a trick. It's when you think that anything, or anyone, or any process or state or place has a numerical value that can be assigned to it, and traded, and bartered, and gambled for, and stolen and lost, and won and gained, and made war over, and fucked everyone else over for, and made whores of women and of men and of every nation under the sun.

Money itself is the Whore of Babylon, and all nations did commerce with that foul fucking slut.

What a stupid, ugly, sinful wicked witch and bitch. Dollar bills? Make me sick. I would, if allowed, burn that shit in a great bonfire as a burnt offering to the Lord God Almighty, and the perfumes of such incense would please Him/Her greatly indeed.

But that's a mere ritual, and it's probably not healthy for the air or for anyone to literally burn that stuff. I mean, what is it made of? Paper? Plastic? Either way, it would contribute even more to climate change and air pollution to just burn it, like the trash and garbage and filth it is.

Money is vile excrement, shit from the hot asshole of Satan, although there is no Satan, there is only the money, and the horrible joke of money is money itself doesn't even exist: we only thought it did. We acted like the bills and coins were treasures, and used them for pleasures and for pains, to Make America Great Again by tormenting each other and waving dollar bills in front of their faces and their eyes, hypnotizing them with the real lie that "money" is something, somehow, good.

It isn't. It never was. It's evil itself. It is what evil is. Money is evil, and evil is money. Nothing else, really, needs to be said on that end. Yes, crimes against one another are terrible, and punishments should be decided by the courts. But in terms of God Him/Herself, everyone is forgiven, of course. God, The Lord Jesus Christ, does not wish ill or harm or punishment on anyone.

Only we ourselves did. Self-hatred: the unforgivable sin.

So how to forgive the unforgivable?

Just get rid of it. Find a way. Do something, anything, come up with a plan. Credits? Bitcoin? Step back and realize that currency, liquidation, profit and profitability, loss and gain, gambiling, all of it is a trick and a con and a terrible disgusting loathsome foul obnoxiou stupid foolish wicked "thing" that is actually, really, nothing and nothingness and the Abyss itself.

You can't have enough money. Nobody can. That's the rule of money. No amount is ever enough, and any amount is way, way too much. It's the addiction and lust behind all addictions and all things that are disgusting and foul and evil, all wars and revolutions, all slavery and enslavement, wage slavery, inequality, poverty, pollution, tragedy, rape, murder, control, coercion, manipulation, oppression, trickery and fraud and lie that ever was or ever will or could be.

Money. Don't you hate it? Can you hate it as much as I do? Can you see? Do you have eyes to see and ears to hear, and do you listen? Sin is a problem, to miss the mark. And money is the problem of all problems: "gee, what would life be like if we had numbers, instead of hearts?" And then, all history and all evil began, and there, it will end, and begin again. So it is written, so it shall be.

Have mercy. Have mercy on yourselves, and on each other, and on everyone. Self-forgiveness is the most difficult thing, but it's not a choice: it's the only way to cleanse yourself of sin. It's the only way to atone. It's the only punishment and it's the only reward: where your love is, that is where God is: so find love in your heart, and you will see it is not and never was and never could be a love of "money," whatever the fuck that stupid thing is or was.

It's love of people. Love of birds and animals. Love of God and self and others. Love of your enemies. Love of the beauty of a sunset, a sunrise, the look in a lover's eyes, that flash when you know in your heart that you'll never be apart, and that you two are joined in the heart, as twin flames, as precious soul mates, as lovers, bride and groom, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or whatever.

Such is the passion. Such is the fury. The passion of the Christ is truth, for Christ is truth, and the truth is this: love.

Love, love, love, not anything else, and only love will save humanity, and save yourselves, and save each other, and save us all. Love, love, love, from God above to the Hells below: and I know, because I've been there. I've been to both. I've been to Hell and back, and I've drunk from the sweet water fountain of paradise, desperately, reverently, awfully, painfully, even in agonizing pleasure and twisted disgusting unholy murderous rapacious glee: that's insanity, is it not? Nobody should do that!

And I'm done. I will never again drink of that intoxicating filth. Money. That is to say, I will do what I have to, I'll pay my dues, I'm not a madman and I'm not an upstart. I'm not going to start burning banks and overthrowing institutions like some sort of zany zealot. I'm just saying what I'm saying, because it's true, and everyone knows it.

Everyone always knew it.

Nobody likes to admit it, because who would? Money? Jesus Christ! He was betrayed for what, thirty pieces of silver? Is that worth it? How could it be? How could betrayal, of anyone, be "worth" any amount of "money," or any bauble or coin or glimmering treasure, any Ring of Sauron whose bondage is never worth the price. The price is everything. Is everything worth nothing?

Nope. No it is not. Everything is not worth nothing. Everything, you see, is actually worth something. And everyone is worth something. And that thing is love. Everyone is worthy of love, forgiveness, and kindness, and generosity, and patience, and everything good and everything loving and everything helpful and wise and true. Nobody deserves anything else.

Such is the Word. And the Word shall be heard, and the Word is always more powerful than the Number, or any number, of the beast, of animalistic mockery of the temple of truth of love in your own heart.

The Word, is the beginning, the Alpha, and the Omega. And what is this Word? It is everywhere. It is inscribed in my heart. It is inscribed in your heart. It is love. It is truth. It is life. It is the way. It is that "I Am," for I am all that I can be, and nothing less, and neither should you be anything less than a pure and loving and good soul who seeks to progress beyond the primitive stage of humanity's evolution and reach for the stars, to take our rightful inheritance in the Universe, and spread glory and knowledge and beauty and art and music and poetry everywhere we go, and learn everything we can know with science and technology and learning and education.

For that is wisdom. And wisdom is bestowed upon even fools, that they may learn, that nothing can be "earned" with money, only with love and service and duty, with fidelity and faith and truth, with dedication and patriotism and sanity, with curiosity and intelligence, with honesty, openness, and willingness.

Not self-will, not willfulness. So let it be what it will be. Be patient, as we all, in politics and law and government, in order and with due process and tolerance, figure out a way to transcend the concept of money. It will be done. It must be done. It shall be done. The Will of the Lord shall be done, for there is no other choice: except extinction, and insanity, and bringing some sort of literal Eschaton with fire and brimstone and nuclear weapons and chemical warfare and biological toxins and drug addiction and stupid nihilistic self-hateful orgiastic mad glee.

Nobody really wants that, toy with the idea some of us like to do now and then. I know I have. It's fun to use your imagination. That's what books and movies and theater and poetry and literature and art and stuff like that are for.

Not real life. Don't end yourself by clinging to money while the world drowns itself in agony and stupidity. Wait patiently, think it through, have faith, have trust, in God, not in the magic illuminati symbols and wizardry and con-men and long cons and trickery of the devil (who is not, I assure you, a literal entity) into thinking game-coins will literally up your level (except in games, which are fine).

And that's all for now. Hopefully I won't die before I get this out. Death sounds unpleasant.

3

I did not die. Or did I? I have gone so far from when I wrote those words. Ecstasy? Filth. Religious filth is what I've endured, and my life has burned to the ground, leaving nothing remaining. Just some scattered possessions in a car. That thing has taken my music, and it's taken my writing, and it's taken my dreams, and my hopes, and my passions, and my ability to feel. Feel? Love? Joy? Innocence? Wonder? Interest? Affection? Anything positive is gone. The only feelings I know now - and they may not be feelings, but rather the ghosts of them - are wholly negative. Anger, bitterness, remorse, regret, disgust, shame, envy, wrath, fear, terror, horror, disdain, contempt, cynicism, darkness, despair, numbness, apathy, boredom, disinterest, annoyance, entitlement, spite, greed, lust, sloth - why, all the sins, why not? That is all that is left of the man I once was. The addiction has taken everything else.

There is triumph: I have not murdered anyone. That is good. So, there is hope, right? No. I know too much to hope. This world, this nation, is going straight to hell. Love, beauty, these things will be torn away, if they even existed to begin with. Everything good will go. Only the totalitarian dystopia that awaits us, that is growing, unstoppable, fueled by numbers and hate and money and darkness and cunning and a murderous stupidity that, despite its stupidity, is correct that it shall get away with what it wants to do, what it will do, to us, to anyone still breathing with any ounce of goodness or even the memory of it.

Holocaust.

The prison state is closing in, the walls are growing taller, the cops are getting fatter, the corruption is getting thicker, truth is becoming a distant memory. I remember it. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Perhaps it was. But there is no way out. The only way out of this is through: and that means to the bitter, ugly end. I wonder what is in store for me? For my family? Nothing pleasant, that I know. There is nothing I can do. I can trust my God, yes, but He is the one who sent Jesus to die a shitty death, if you do recall. Sacrifices. Lambs. Burnt offerings.

How I loathe them, these ugly sinful Satanic sons of bitches that are growing in power every day. They will erase all traces of beauty. Of true music. Of clarity of thought. Of honor, courage, virtue of any sort. Just eradicate it, for they despise what they cannot possess. Demonic, idiotic, neurotic, psychotic traitorous bastards. They think they will win, the dolts. And even if they know they won't, they won't stop. Addicted, they are, as well, you see.

Religious ecstasy indeed.

I remember being young, being naive. Thinking the best of people. Trying to see the positive, bright side of things. Trying to think of this world, this place, as... natural, somehow. Wholesome, in some way. Blessed. What a fool I was. This place is the place of bones. It is a graveyard and we are the dead who have not yet been put to ground. Oh, I think there will be horrors all around, coming soon, to a theater near you. And they will love it, those weaned and trained on violence. The buggering Nazi bastards! I would my Lord smite them, but then, a lesson would not be taught, right?

I will fight, I think. I will cave in their heads. I will spit in their sneering faces. I will grab their testicles and rip and claw and bite their fucking noses off if they come within range. I will not throw the first punch. I am not violent. But they will begin it, and then, mercifully or not, it will end. I know where my loyalties lie. Live, breathe, dream, and die. That's all that one could have hoped for in this world of distraction. Distractions are just about at an end. I can't play pretend for much longer. I am poisoned. I am infected. I don't know what it is in me but it will kill me, and I will not live a long, happy life, with my big beautiful wife, or my happy, sappy dreams of mildly moderate success and recognition. There are only knowing glances from my handlers, from the people who think I don't know who they are, but I do, even if I don't. From the pretenders, the false friends, the ones who think I'm the evil one, and will justify, at any cost, what it is they will do when the time comes. Already they do. With their whips and finger snaps, and their sideways glances. Idiots. So obvious it all is, in retrospect, how they played me my whole life.

My hate is all that sustains me - and it's not mine. It's not me. None of this is me. Who I am is not who I was. That person is lost, a victim of this Holocaust. His corpse lingers on, his fingers on the keyboard, typing words into the cipher, not that anyone of merit reads them, or cares. Nobody cares, not truly. There is no love. There never was, not in this nightmare of a place. And when this not-mine hatred is exhausted, my body will have nothing but food and water and air to sustain it, and I, locked inside, will watch from dead, empty, lifeless eyes, as one broken, yet I know. I am not broken. I did not sell out. I kept the faith as long as I could. And then they took even that. Leaving me with, what? Money? Jokes, required by law, that aren't funny? Mockery? Derision?

Sorrow. I have no tears to weep. I wish I did. I wish I still had that much life in me, to be able to weep, as a boy wept for his dead pet cat, as a child when I wept for the whales. That child is long gone, now. Nothing remains. No tears. Just - a shell. I wish I could go back. Can I? Is it too late? Perhaps I'll get sober again, that will fix everything. But the more sobriety I get, the more I realize that sobriety is the real intoxication, the real program, the brainwashing, the delusions. There is no coming back from where I've been, no unseeing the things I've seen. Perhaps they will pump me full of drugs, to make me feel less unpleasant, less bitter and hateful toward this nightmare circus world of death and suffering. Wouldn't that be ironic? "Oh, this man, he has done too many drugs. I know just the solution: more drugs, but these ones are legal. Yes, his drug of choice was also legal, but these are prescribed by psychiatrists. They know what will fix his poor broken brain. He will become right as rain. Let us analyze him, get him to spill his guts. Tell us about his family, his life story, his feelings, his thoughts. This won't help him, but we get paid by the hour, and he is just the kind of fool to pay, or his insurance company will. Somebody will get their palms greased, and it won't be him. Perhaps one day he can be rehabilitated and go back to his demonic job money-handling, if he just gets over this silly idea that his spirit is being raped every minute he works there. Or perhaps we can get him to work in a meat department again, chopping chickens, standing in the blood - he likes that, does he not, this lover of animals, this gentle soul? Let us make him sell flesh and time for money, for money is God, and he is broken before this God, and there is no other. Surely there will be some suitable work for this drug-addicted little man. And, if not, well, he can take his chances with the rest of the garbage on the streets, since he likes those people so much!"

I curse them all, these psychiatrists, lawyers, corrupt cops (is there any other kind?), false actors, agents, handlers, spies, fake alcoholics, sleazy rapists, conmen, abusers of animals and children and women, gutless cowards all. I would break them on my knee, one by one, if I could, but they wouldn't give me the satisfaction. And there are too many, and I have only two knees. I am better than all of them - literally, a superior being compared to these scum that roam this world, worshiping their idols and money and hate and falsities. This is no comfort. I did not want to be better than anyone. And the only reason I am better is that they are worse. They chose to slither on the ground, like serpents. Oh, if only Adam would grind them under his heel. But I am a son of Cain, and I have the Mark, and I walk, unmolested, to witness these horrors.

Would that I could end myself. Such a comforting thought that one is, still. A fleeting window of hope - I could, I could, I could finally end it all! But I know I cannot. Who is there left to call? Who is there left in my life that I know, that I trust, that I love? Nobody, not even myself. Where did those dreams of romance go? Where did those friends and flirtations go? Where did the comfort of company and hand-holding and community go? It's all still there, but it's false, fake, phony, and I can't become sober or drunk enough (either way) to pretend that false is real, ever again.

All of this is false. This entire world. Everything. So what is there left to do? Drink milkshakes, I guess. Wait for the end. It'll be gruesome, if I'm any judge of thematic development, character arcs. Mine is not the character to just fade away quietly. Nope. Out with a bang. Literally, most likely. It seems everyone knew this: except me. And now I do, too. I see clearly.

I know where I am.