He came to tell his life’s story, a discussion, he said, but a monologue in actuality. There was no discussion, just him talking and me—an object in front of him—listening. His experiences were spectacular in how they hit every major science fiction and New Age theme he had ever studied. Aliens, he said. The notorious Council of 9. Guardian angels who were also his oversoul. All of these beings communicating with him internally, astrally, sharing with him wisdom that sounded more like old thinking: outdated science; antiquated notions of how the world works, interior personal domains included.
He was a firehose of this knowledge streaming forth at such a pace as to quell the flame of the listener’s inquiry. Just let me tell my story, he said, and all will be answered.
All is never answered with such a one, just more digressions and sidetracks and talking at you not with you. When he learned of this website he said he might join but, as I know, he already has transcendence figured out. There would be nothing new for him here. He has mastered all.
It is said that all good lies contain an element of truth. The same holds true for delusional people, but not necessarily for their delusion. The delusion may or may not have some semblance of fact to it, but the person, the keeper and promoter of that delusion, holds a truth buried deep down. It never disappears completely and often comes up as an anecdote, a throwaway line, the thing you just say and pave over with your delusions. This, in fact, is how it works: you speak your truth and then bury it again and again. This man’s truth was the first thing he told me: his mother never let him play with other children growing up, so he had to turn inward. He talked to himself. He had imaginary friends. Not like normal kids, though; imaginary friends were all he had. All he had was himself. Himself in multiples. He had fractured, splintered, become a sort of self-aware schizophrenic. And this, he said, this was how he developed his powers of clairvoyance, transcendence, and so forth.
Indeed, it was.
His story may sound extreme because he so deviated from the norm. But what is the norm? Who among us isn’t always and forever talking to our self? What does it mean that we can spot unhealthy ways of doing this? Do we have a safe delusion we are born into and taught to buy into? If we run astray of consensual lies are we then considered delusional?
Ten people cling to a raft built for seven in a turbulent sea with no end. To them, it is a cruise ship. They have been drifting there forever, it seems, and so they’ve given themselves roles of varying importance that play out in hierarchical authority. One man lets go and swims for a mirage of land calling to him on the horizon. They know he is hallucinating and heading into danger. It is obvious. They are not wrong.
Yet there they all are.