The Delicate Balance of Terror 18

“It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentically, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar.” George Orwell

You must have questions. The old man with the beard says as he continues writing. Why do you continue writing if the words just disappear? Why do you continue living life if…we never disappear, the words never disappear…he closes his eyes for a moment. He feels the words as the man is writing them, feels them just the same as they burn away into oblivion…listening to the wind of his soul, floating away with the ash. What are you protecting me from? There is no shelter here. A darkness pervades the sky, something darker and deeper than the night. The thick green fog obscures the strings pulling the wind up toys and the chattering teeth which never stop moving. Numbers and directions are pouring out of the teeth as shadows below it all blindly follow along. He points to the teeth and the toys as they angrily shoot sparks in his direction. This is what we need to stop he says with a large grin. Don’t be deceived by the harmless facade, or the power of stupidity over the human mind. The Detective falls to his knees remembering the life he left. Was it his birth or his death? The man who had the power to move the clouds, The Doctor knew everything. The invisible hand waves over all of them as the toys and the teeth continue to spread out across the land. The desert overcomes his mind as he hides from the burning sun. He remembers when the rain wouldn’t come. Out here in the desert, where The Doctor’s soul was forever caged as the chattering teeth and the wind up toys trampled on the shadows of his life. The Doctor’s shadow moves back and forth between his burning house and the piles of books and research as they are burning. He reaches into the burning pile of books and pulls one out. As it is still burning in his hand he places it upon The Detective’s heart where in one beat it enters him. This is all you’ll ever need to know. He opens his eyes and lies at the old man with the beards feet. The burning words falling like snowflakes on his body. He knows all he ever will need to know, but he still does not know where to find it.

“Reality is an aspect of property. It must be seized. and investigative journalism is the noble art of seizing reality back from the powerful.” Julian Assange

The Delicate Balance of Terror 17

“Very likely as many as a dozen people were now working away on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And presently some master brain in the Inner Party would select this version or that, would re – edit it and set in motion the complex processes of cross – referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the permanent records and become truth.” George Orwell

It was like walking into a nightmare. Remembering the first idea that placed him outside of the picture he held of himself. When the face which created his reality was cemented in his mind. Burning in the midday sun he watched her red, weathered skin crying for shadows. As he watched the glare from her eyes directly shine through him he closed his eyes as what was inside of her splits into a million pieces. She floated out here amongst the shadows a few years back, unnoticed, left for dead. He knew right away what she was to him as he looked in her eyes. She would be his queen. The queen to Vlad the Impaler, he wasn’t even sure Vlad had a queen, or ever really existed. A boyhood story he wrote which he never let go of. The romantic story of Vlad and his one and only true love, the love of a peasant woman. Vlad had quite the reputation for bludgeoning to death peasants then feasting on them, but this particular one was quite special. It was to be his breakthrough, the one that would prove to the world his worth. The ideas that created his life would now shine on the screen for others to see. A narrative he was directing. There was still a glint in her eyes as he reached for her hand and picked her up off the sidewalk. The smell of piss and vodka covering her, he closes his mouth and once again looks deeply into her eyes. In the light of her eyes he steps through dimensional shifts and star explosions remembering where he knew her from. She sang to him without opening her mouth as the burning stars fell between their hands grasping each other. He understood her song as it spoke to his heart, the one that taught him what his life was suppose to be about. The images haunting him each time he closed his eyes were too overwhelming to forget. As he held her hand, the pain that she couldn’t let go of travelled throughout his body. He took me like a shadow in the night, up in the sky, away from all of this. But then he took everything I had and gave me my voice. I was a star floating in space. I was an idea, an image owned and traded, ripped apart and worshipped and I wasn’t real…I never could touch what I thought I was, only what They thought I was. The sun was setting, the sky looked like it was shedding red, pinkish tears raining down upon the Earth. It looked like everything was dying and the helicopter blades were shadows contrasted against the sun. He stepped out of the darkness with his straw hat and his smile which could mean anything. The setting sun was shining off of the helicopter windshield as she grabbed her ears to escape the noise. He held her by her hair and smiled as he dragged her towards the helicopter. This is when I take away all of your dreams she hears him say. She lips the words what are you holding unsure if they actually came out. Why can’t you take away my nightmares? Because, he says in a smile, that’s exactly what I am. As the sun falls to the ground and darkness covers us I see right there what he actually is. I shatter into a million pieces, and now I have to put myself back together once again.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 15

“The great purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought – criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special showpieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again.” George Orwell

…love me like a bomb…love is like a bomb…His eyes are mirrors of the desert he feels burning his skin. The blood of the sun melts down his skin, escaping shadows eclipse its glow. A pink burning darkness covers the atmosphere as a thick green fog ascends from the spinning vortex below. The blood evaporates into his mind. His heart beat continues pounding so hard it seems to push out of his skin. The sun shatters in his mind and he sees a house on a farm from a long way away, or far into the future. The house is on fire, the books, the words, the knowledge turned to ashes in a blink of his mirrored eyes. There is a figure standing in the burning doorway, waving him away. The Doctor screams something out to him, his bare fire scarred feet pushing angrily into the ground, a fury on Earth nearing its explosion. The Detective clutches his head as if he is trying to hold it together. He sees his hat on the ground up ahead in the distance. The Doctor is raising his hands as if he is conducting an orchestra. He watches his head rising up from the ground below his hat, his hands reaching through the soil, grasping at the burning sun. His body continues growing from the ground as he lets out a scream. In an explosion he is taken back to his present reality.

He is floating in the sky, enjoying a short spell of calmness. He opens his eyes to the image of the disturbingly approaching ground below him. The eclipse breaks and shards of light escape from his eyes as he grits his teeth and prepares to explode. There is a large group below him wearing dark hoods, holding candles and slowly moving below him. He tightly closes his eyes…cmon get it on He hears himself explode before he feels the impact. He feels hands below him gently cradling him to safety. He is rocked back and forth as he slowly opens his eyes. His eyes yield to the power sneaking passed the blackened sun. The Movement carries him up a hill where an old man with a beard is furiously writing as the pages falling from his desk instantly catch fire. I have been calling you for so long, the old man says, where have you been?

I’ve been a bit busy these days.

“You have to start with the truth. The truth is the only way that we can get anywhere. Because any decision-making that is based upon lies or ignorance can’t lead to a good conclusion.” Julian Assange #wearemillions

The Delicate Balance of Terror 11

“…as he readjusted the Ministry of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connection with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connection that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version.” George Orwell

I am wrapped in a foetal position, my face lies on the cold sand as the ocean waves crash over my body along to the beat of my heart. The moon is reflected off the ocean encapsulating her as she rows further away from me but still seems stuck in one area. Words whisper through my ears, why did you jump in the well, how did you survive, did you want to come back up, was someone chasing you, was Something chasing you? I don’t have any answers. As I repeatedly blink my eyes I see my face on that sign, no life in them, did you get pricked? But it’s not me, or maybe I just don’t recognize that Me. Let me be your little brother, I was saying with a smile that was no longer my own.

-There was a thousand page script placed before him that wasn’t there yesterday. The fans were ablaze in the chat because no one could find the exact moment it was placed there. There was a whirring noise materializing from overhead, which immediately forces his body to mildly convulse. He felt a warm shadowy hand on his back colonel what are you holding? The shadowy hand points at the script, this is it. The shadow leaves in a trail of fire as the whirring sound fades away. A sighting of shadows which were not The Director’s own is reported in the chat which is obsessed over for weeks without any real conclusions. A noticeable wrinkle appears running down The Director’s face. In front of him, his eyes can now perceive a burst of fire. Her hands reach through the burning pyre as he is overcome with an odd sense of inner warmth. The shadowy hand returns to his back and bursts into flames. He closes his eyes in an attempt to hear her words whispering to him through the flames. He can only hear the whispers of the shadows as they are marching along the shore having their minds taken away by a dark barely visible hand.

The Detective’s feet are strapped to the conveyor belt as he continues along, growing younger and younger the closer he gets to the building. There is a crane which reaches into the shadows at the end of the conveyor belt. It is mechanically removing something from inside of them and placing it into the bombs which are then attaching themselves to the planes. As he looks down at his feet he sees they are now shrouded in a swirling darkness. He looks out through his now much younger eyes, only able to see the shadow which he has become.

“Every time we witness an injustice and do not act, we train our character to be passive in its presence and thereby eventually lose all ability to defend ourselves and those we love. In a modern economy it is impossible to seal oneself off from injustice.” Julian Assange #wearemillions

The Delicate Balance of Terror 10

“You have to remember what it was like in 1948 to appreciate Nineteen Eighty-Four. Somebody in 1949 told me- that was the year the book came out- that Orwell had wanted to call it Nineteen Forty- Eight. But they wouldn’t let him.” Anthony Burgess

The television mirroring my thoughts flickers on and off, reminding me who I am. The light trickling from the screen forms a barrier of fog as my mind continues wandering past the images. Sometimes when I close my eyes, it becomes louder. Sometimes when I enter my brain, touching those forgotten memories which I swore to never forget, to never forget that peace…in one swipe of the hand, they disappear along with the wind. I remember the walk down the beach, as if it was ever real. The stars raining down into my eyes. The waves from the ocean, falling through my soul, tilting me forward. I saw the end there, staring up into the sun, I thought I knew all there ever was to know. Wrote it all out in my mind. When I went back to read it all, it no longer made any sense to me, maybe it never did. The television comes to life in a short flicker. I fall to the floor and I can no longer move. I can no longer watch the past.

-I saw something. I saw something in my eyes.

He descends the dark corridors and watches himself step through the moon.

-In those eyes I saw it, I saw what was always chasing me.

Her cries grew fainter as their cries grew louder. I remember all I stole. I have nothing to offer. We like to watch people fall apart.

-Well strap yourself along for the ride because here it is- but now he could hear what the children were trying to say, now he could feel them, now he knew that their story was his own. The old man with the beard shouts from above, it is time to come on in. He continues to watch his face grow older, as Her hand reaches out for him once again through the flames his hands approach the mirror. The moon shatters in two as her cries and her fingers running down the mirror etch shadows of blood and words he can no longer remember. The moon crashes to the Earth in a burst of light.

He touches the scar running down his face and remembers the life he once lived. Before the fog, and the fires. The fire overcomes him as cries emanating from the darkness reflect through his closed mouth. He touches his hand to the Earth, satisfied knowing he is heading in the right direction. The building expands and changes shape with every footstep towards it. He sees the conveyor belt and the children strapped to it as they flow into the building unable to move their feet. The full moon blinds him. He crosses a barely visible line in the sand. The fog evaporates before him as the spinning shadows ascend into the moonlit sky. The old man with the beard sits atop the hill with pages and pages of burnt paper crackling at his feet. The sun cries out in anguish resting on his shoulder. An eternity melts at his feet, as his footsteps track the blood and tears of his eternal return. His eyes mirror the world we thought we had as cracks form down the middle. The Detective touches his heart knowing, he has to fix this, sensing his mission he still couldn’t understand why he needed to travel to the past to experience the future.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 9

“…nearly the whole of the English Left has been driven to accept the Russian regime as “Socialist” while silently recognizing that its spirit and practice are quite alien to anything that is meant by “Socialism” in this country. Hence there has arisen a sort of schizophrenic manner of thinking, in which words like “democracy” can bear two irreconcilable meanings, and such things as concentration camps and mass deportations can be right and wrong simultaneously.” George Orwell

-The nail has never been hit quite so hard on the head…who are you…?

He looks at the computer screen, watching his face slowly contort into desperation. He closes his eyes and watches her reaching up for him, her muted cries for help cut deeply deep within him. The cats walk across the marble floor, moonlight reflecting from their eyes as her screams emanate from their open eyes-don’t close your eyes, don’t ever close your eyes Looking straight into his own eyes continues to become more difficult. He can’t remember what he was searching for here as he looks down on the blank page his hand is resting on. It were the minds he stole that made it no longer possible for him to experience rest. Haunting his every waking moment, he stared at himself falling apart and still could not understand why. He walked along those stars, never noticing the shadows not far behind but always seeing the cracks forming up ahead in his vision. His blood quakes from the anguished cries of those hands reaching up at his feet…

The dying desert sun washes over his eyes as he’s blinded by the fog which continues to distort his vision. He continues walking down the seemingly endless alleyway as the humming from the people follows at a similar pace. He feels a strange cold wind pushing him from behind, emanating from their constantly spinning bodies. He no longer has the ability to see if they are living or even what they’ve become. As he pushes away the thick green fog from his eyes he sees a building in the far distance and a barely visible flickering light. He continues on, knowing this must be where he’s headed. In the darkness the screams only seem like a faint wind blowing through everything, passing unnoticed. The building flickers in and out and he is not sure which way to turn. The blood of the sun from his eyes deters them from closing as he is once again lost, and he is nowhere. In a piercing cry of peace a fire lights his way up ahead, the burning warmth calms him as he slowly approaches the fire and the humming and the spinning winds instantly subside. In the shadows of the flames he is overcome with the life reborn, pulsing through his veins. A cry from a man unseen suddenly enters him and for a second he remembers everything

…sometimes I awaken trapped in the middle of a feverish dream. The dead, cold hands warming me, the ticking in my brain, the shadows hovering above me. I keep running but I can no longer turn behind me. Attached to my brain is a hose, attached to one of three holes in the wall. Maybe this is where it all ends, in a fiery inferno below all of us…there is a constant chatter coming from down the hallway. There is constant darkness covering my eyes, but I am safe, I am warm, at least that’s what they tell me. I don’t forget the moon here. I don’t forget when they come to take me away. I hold my bunny and never let go, but they still take me away. They still tell me it doesn’t hurt as they whisper it’s okay, it’s okay and all I remember is don’t worry, it’s okay. But I ran from you before, I always have to run. On a conveyor belt I am taken away, along with all our hopes and dreams, taken away with the wind by your cold gentle hands, wrapped around my mouth. It is all taken away from me when I’m told I’m not right. Do you remember when you said that? I’m not right, I’m crazy. In the night I close my eyes and I see the shadows and the moon, beating down upon my face and I feel your hands and I cry into the emptiness of the shadows surrounding me as it’s okay means something different here. And I touch my stomach as the eyes that always followed me in the darkness become something different here. They become the eyes of my own, staring out from that screen, reminding everyone don’t worry, they stick that in your arm to help.

The Delicate Balance of Terror 8

“Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. Now that he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible.” George Orwell

-What are you protecting?

-I told you I ask the questions.

In a flash The Interviewer flickers in and out.

-What are you…my…what are We protecting?


The Director fades into the shadows… everything falls apart

He watches the crack grow longer and splitting across the fish tank. The eyes are still watching him, penetrating into his but he can’t see their mouths. He feels their eyes, more than ever he can see what they are as they spin in circles staring out blankly he sees their life, even if they can no longer feel it. As they raise their hands to the sky in some sort of worship he cannot recognize, a small amount of fear begins to overwhelm him. A hum he cannot understand exits their mouths in a droning, sleep inducing pace. Water begins shooting from the cracks in the fish tank as the humming grows louder. A hand passes by his eyes as he sees himself in an alleyway with rain pouring down his hat. Still the humming continues and the faces follow not far behind. The invisible hand behind him directs him forward as he turns back and sees a greenish fog ascending from the ground below the humming people. They cannot see it, but he notices the fear in their eyes. a whisper from somewhere-they cannot see it, but they’re told it is there. And the desert washes over him and the bleeding sun and he is reminded of something that is instantly forgotten. As he puts his hand on the pavement below his feet, the pulse is gone, but the green fog surrounds his hands. He tips his hat as the fear grows stronger in their focused eyes, and the humming grows louder and is near impossible to understand but it’s their beating hearts that he still can see, it is what he came for. He places his hand in front of his mouth, but it is no longer there. In a scream something releases from his eyes, he falls to his knees and raises his hands up as the rain pours down on his fog covered hands

-Cut! Cut!

The Detective sees her, the long blond hair, her dying eyes, the red lipstick spread across her mouth, the Hollywood sign burning to the ground, the children reaching, crying out to the Earth. Blankness, shadows walk through him, fade from this

-Remember why you’re here

The blood of the sun awakens him.

-I don’t

There is a drilling coming from behind me. They are coming for me now. They’ve taken enough pictures, distracted enough thoughts, my story is old and it needs to end. There are hands reaching for me, voices I’ve long forgotten calling out for me, the tears of my mother and my sister are washing down my face as they fall from above. I don’t want to leave, please don’t take me away from here. Hands are reaching through the cracks in the wall as I have nowhere to turn.

The old man holds his lamp up, shining down from the mountain. He has a song to sing but he can’t remember the words. He has a story to write but no longer has a pen. He has dreams to film but there is no camera. His painting, the Last painting is finished in a mural spread across his mind. He hears their cries of pain and despair emanating from his blood and it’s all he needs to know. As long as their story is untold, as long as their song remains unsung, he must continue telling it, even if it ends in a blaze of fire. He touches his beating heart and cries out a song that only he can hear. There is nothing untouched by it.