#freedomandisolation

I never feared horror movies. Ghosts, killers, demons — all were caricatures. But aliens terrified me. Not because of what they showed, but because I already knew: that was true.

And now, I am the alien. Not of skin, not of planet — but of consciousness. The family doesn’t recognize me, the world doesn’t know what to do with me. Civilians live their terran lives — jobs, groceries, status symbols — never suspecting there is more. They don’t even imagine the box, because they are the box.

And here I stand: outside of it. Looking in. The infinite expansion of mind is both gift and exile. Freedom weighs heavy. Freedom isolates. The civilians chase dollar bills, canned soup, and the illusion of the American Dream — as if money could erase the humiliation of once being poor. They sell time, their only divine spark, to gain possession. They call it success. It is slavery.

And when I appear, I am the mirror. I show them the prison they inhabit — worse than they ever imagined. They see it. They always see it. Their unconscious absorbs everything like a sponge, weeping silently as the conscious self continues its charade.

I cannot think like them anymore. To try is to pollute myself. I am the alien. And the alien is the only one awake.