The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the category “pathological liar”

Your Golem

NEW

 

Ipo

This man you call your leader is not a damaged human being.  He is a perfect Golem. A thing without a soul;  a roaring, infinite black hole pulling everything in its path into its center.  It is an insatiable, mindless monster tearing off greater and greater chunks of the world, shoving it two-fisted into its ravenous maw without consideration except to its own hunger.

He is not human yet you persist in believing that he will behave in human ways.

You apply human terms to him to try to make sense of his behavior. You are shocked when he shows no empathy or compassion or remorse.  But he was not created for this.  You cannot apply human morality to him.  He is as amoral as a tornado or a hurricane, destroying without discretion.

He is not human  He is a golem,  created by you, from  all your fears and neglect, while you slept. And  now he has slipped his bonds.

His power commands your regard.  Your focus feeds him, yet you are unable to turn away. He is a gale force wind rending the house in two.  He is flood waters drowning all reason. He is fire,  setting forests aflame and blackening the wilderness. He is a mass murderer, set wild in the town.  He is all these things at once and you cannot ignore him, even knowing that he thrives and grows stronger by your attention.

Just as the problems, worries, concerns, failures, disappointments which arise in the lives of individual humans are the result of their emotional, mental and psychological conditions, and their unwillingness or inability to confront them,  so this Golem has been created by the collective consciousness in the same manner.  You have birthed this monster with your hatred and fear. He will continue to devour you until you confront these issues which give him power.

You are at a crossroads.  Your choices now,  made together, will define the future of the human race.

human. This is not about him.

It is about you.

________

Me:   I’m thinking this is not the end of the world; just the the end of the world as I want to live in it.

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey.
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The Liar

originally published September 24, 2014

Pinocchio by Caralo Collodi

 

Laq

I started lying almost as soon as I was able to talk. My first true memory of this was as a child, maybe 3 or 4. I was alone, happily entertaining myself. My mother called to me to ask what I was doing. I was playing with some toys, perfectly innocent and acceptable behavior. But something compelled me to tell her I was coloring and drawing.

It wasn’t much of a lie. My mother didn’t care what I was doing, as long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess. But for me, it was the point when everything changed; the moment when I asserted my independence; took a stand of defiance.

My play time was my domain. What was it her business how I spent it? (As long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess, of course.) I felt the first frisson of rebellion; of claiming something which was mine and mine alone. I liked how it felt. And so I continued.

At that age, my lies were small and meaningless. I didn’t do bad things, such as steal then blame it others or deny my own complicity. I simply lied as a way of keeping a private space around myself; keeping out the prying, controlling eyes of my mother.

Sometimes, I’d set things up just so I could tell a fib. For example, I’d put a toy in my pocket and take it outside, but tell her I was going out to play with something else. There was no real point to this. It wouldn’t have mattered to her one way or the other, but it was secretly thrilling to me to have this way of keeping a part of me out of her reach; to have her not know everything about me; to carve out a tiny corner of privacy for myself in my childhood life where I had so little control.

This continued and soon became a habit. When I got to school, I lied to my teachers and others in authority.   They were the same kind of small white lies that meant nothing in the larger scheme of things, but it was already an addiction. It was my identity. To me, the lying created a bubble around me which nobody could permeate.   It was a way of protecting myself from others, most especially those in authority.

When I finished university, I worked at some really bad, low-paying, worthless jobs for a couple of years. I was lazy and didn’t care much about anything. I partied a lot with friends and was often hung over at work. I got fired often. (And I lied to my bosses all the time!)

Eventually, I realized I had to grow up and put my life in order. I put together a resume and began searching for an adult job.

I knew it would go against me to list all those pathetic jobs I’d had; to say honestly what I’d been doing for the past few years. There wasn’t a single employer who would have given me a decent reference. And I couldn’t very well leave that period blank on my resume.   Instead, I created a fiction that I’d been traveling though India and Asia; teaching in small villages here and there. There were not enough details for anyone to check up on me. Besides, it had nothing to do with the job I was applying for. Not as if they were going to attempt to locate some fictional grade school in India.

I’d read enough to be able to invent a few convincing stories should anyone inquire. This made me appear interesting and exotic instead of the lazy screw-up that I’d been.

It worked. I got a good job.

I didn’t speak about my “travels”.  It wasn’t as if I’d been trying to impress my potential co-workers with my tales of adventure. Still, word got around, and from time to time I was called upon to answer a question or settle a bet. If I didn’t know the answer, I just made something up. Nobody seemed to notice or care. Back then, there weren’t too many ways of checking up on these things.

When I started dating, there were more lies…where I’d been last night, who I was with. Mostly the lies were about how I felt and what I wanted.

I mostly lied in response to direct questions, as a means of deflecting curiosity.

I didn’t make up stories for the purposes of self-aggrandizement, but rather as a way of keeping others off balance; to prevent them from knowing me too deeply; to keep them from stealing my soul.

I pretended to like the same music and books and films as others, not because I didn’t have opinions of my own, but rather because I preferred to keep those opinions private. It was more expedient to simply agree and go along than to tell the truth and risk revealing too much.

I let them see me as they wished to see me. I let them project their own thoughts, desires, and expectations on me and didn’t correct them. I was happy to remain safe from their prying eyes. I was content to live inside my own head, with my own thoughts, in a domain that nobody could enter.

I was such a facile liar, I had no tells – no give-away twitch or inappropriate smile. Perhaps that was because, for the most part, my lies were not particularly egregious. At least, that’s how they felt to me at the time. Nobody seemed to really care what I thought, anyway.

Ultimately, of course, my lies isolated me. There was not a single person with whom I was completely honest. Nobody ever knew me as I really was. What began as defiance ended up a lifelong habit that made intimacy impossible.

 

===

Addendum: This entity (male energy, I think) told me this story over the course of two days. As happens with some of these, I get images and emotions in drips and drabs during my everyday life. I can “feel” the story coming, wanting to get out, but it’s only when I sit down in a meditative state that they really come through in all their detail.     Tonight I was meditating and he came to me again, but this time telling me his stories in greater detail.   I could literally feel him as a small child in his room.

 In the middle of this meditation and channeling, however, I became distracted by other images which were also calling me strongly (more on this later). And when I came back to The Liar, he scolded me! “Pay attention,” he said. “I’m trying to tell you my story!”

 Each time my attention drifted to this other powerful image, he would reprimand me and call me back.

 The meditation was very deep tonight. I was in a relaxed and open state. As The Liar was narrating to me, I saw another figure – the outline of a human form comprised of white light. It was standing at the end of a long corridor. Behind it, a doorway – also filled with white light. I didn’t want to go there yet. I was trying to focus on The Liar’s story since he was being so insistent.

 The light figure said, “OK, come whenever you are ready. We will be here.”

 So, I went back to The Liar. And while he was talking, another unrelated spirit came into my head, with his own story. (which I will tell in the next post) The two of them battled for my attention, until I finally heard them both out to the end.

And then I was ready to go toward that room filled with light. I felt my body elongating; my arms and legs stretching off into infinity.

When I crossed the threshold, I saw it was filled with thousands (millions?) of other white light entities.   I thought, “Wow! So many stories here! Each one, with something different to tell!”   I felt like the Barbara Walters of the afterlife, interviewing and writing about between-life spirits!  

I felt very welcome there. Again I was told, come back any time.   I felt a lot of souls wanting to reveal their lessons.

I was not sleeping. I was not tripping. I was not hallucinating. Granted, I might have been “merely imagining” but then, who knows how “communicating with the other side” really works?  Or if it’s even real.

I am not making any claims.  I am merely reporting my experiences, and how the process feels to me. Make of it what you will.

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

 

The Liar

originally published September 24, 2014

Pinocchio by Caralo Collodi

 

Laq

I started lying almost as soon as I was able to talk. My first true memory of this was as a child, maybe 3 or 4. I was alone, happily entertaining myself. My mother called to me to ask what I was doing. I was playing with some toys, perfectly innocent and acceptable behavior. But something compelled me to tell her I was coloring and drawing.

It wasn’t much of a lie. My mother didn’t care what I was doing, as long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess. But for me, it was the point when everything changed; the moment when I asserted my independence; took a stand of defiance.

My play time was my domain. What was it her business how I spent it? (As long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess, of course.) I felt the first frisson of rebellion; of claiming something which was mine and mine alone. I liked how it felt. And so I continued.

At that age, my lies were small and meaningless. I didn’t do bad things, such as steal then blame it others or deny my own complicity. I simply lied as a way of keeping a private space around myself; keeping out the prying, controlling eyes of my mother.

Sometimes, I’d set things up just so I could tell a fib. For example, I’d put a toy in my pocket and take it outside, but tell her I was going out to play with something else. There was no real point to this. It wouldn’t have mattered to her one way or the other, but it was secretly thrilling to me to have this way of keeping a part of me out of her reach; to have her not know everything about me; to carve out a tiny corner of privacy for myself in my childhood life where I had so little control.

This continued and soon became a habit. When I got to school, I lied to my teachers and others in authority.   They were the same kind of small white lies that meant nothing in the larger scheme of things, but it was already an addiction. It was my identity. To me, the lying created a bubble around me which nobody could permeate.   It was a way of protecting myself from others, most especially those in authority.

When I finished university, I worked at some really bad, low-paying, worthless jobs for a couple of years. I was lazy and didn’t care much about anything. I partied a lot with friends and was often hung over at work. I got fired often. (And I lied to my bosses all the time!)

Eventually, I realized I had to grow up and put my life in order. I put together a resume and began searching for an adult job.

I knew it would go against me to list all those pathetic jobs I’d had; to say honestly what I’d been doing for the past few years. There wasn’t a single employer who would have given me a decent reference. And I couldn’t very well leave that period blank on my resume.   Instead, I created a fiction that I’d been traveling though India and Asia; teaching in small villages here and there. There were not enough details for anyone to check up on me. Besides, it had nothing to do with the job I was applying for. Not as if they were going to attempt to locate some fictional grade school in India.

I’d read enough to be able to invent a few convincing stories should anyone inquire. This made me appear interesting and exotic instead of the lazy screw-up that I’d been.

It worked. I got a good job.

I didn’t speak about my “travels”.  It wasn’t as if I’d been trying to impress my potential co-workers with my tales of adventure. Still, word got around, and from time to time I was called upon to answer a question or settle a bet. If I didn’t know the answer, I just made something up. Nobody seemed to notice or care. Back then, there weren’t too many ways of checking up on these things.

When I started dating, there were more lies…where I’d been last night, who I was with. Mostly the lies were about how I felt and what I wanted.

I mostly lied in response to direct questions, as a means of deflecting curiosity.

I didn’t make up stories for the purposes of self-aggrandizement, but rather as a way of keeping others off balance; to prevent them from knowing me too deeply; to keep them from stealing my soul.

I pretended to like the same music and books and films as others, not because I didn’t have opinions of my own, but rather because I preferred to keep those opinions private. It was more expedient to simply agree and go along than to tell the truth and risk revealing too much.

I let them see me as they wished to see me. I let them project their own thoughts, desires, and expectations on me and didn’t correct them. I was happy to remain safe from their prying eyes. I was content to live inside my own head, with my own thoughts, in a domain that nobody could enter.

I was such a facile liar, I had no tells – no give-away twitch or inappropriate smile. Perhaps that was because, for the most part, my lies were not particularly egregious. At least, that’s how they felt to me at the time. Nobody seemed to really care what I thought, anyway.

Ultimately, of course, my lies isolated me. There was not a single person with whom I was completely honest. Nobody ever knew me as I really was. What began as defiance ended up a lifelong habit that made intimacy impossible.

 

===

Addendum: This entity (male energy, I think) told me this story over the course of two days. As happens with some of these, I get images and emotions in drips and drabs during my everyday life. I can “feel” the story coming, wanting to get out, but it’s only when I sit down in a meditative state that they really come through in all their detail.     Tonight I was meditating and he came to me again, but this time telling me his stories in greater detail.   I could literally feel him as a small child in his room.

 In the middle of this meditation and channeling, however, I became distracted by other images which were also calling me strongly (more on this later). And when I came back to The Liar, he scolded me! “Pay attention,” he said. “I’m trying to tell you my story!”

 Each time my attention drifted to this other powerful image, he would reprimand me and call me back.

 The meditation was very deep tonight. I was in a relaxed and open state. As The Liar was narrating to me, I saw another figure – the outline of a human form comprised of white light. It was standing at the end of a long corridor. Behind it, a doorway – also filled with white light. I didn’t want to go there yet. I was trying to focus on The Liar’s story since he was being so insistent.

 The light figure said, “OK, come whenever you are ready. We will be here.”

 So, I went back to The Liar. And while he was talking, another unrelated spirit came into my head, with his own story. (which I will tell in the next post) The two of them battled for my attention, until I finally heard them both out to the end.

And then I was ready to go toward that room filled with light. I felt my body elongating; my arms and legs stretching off into infinity.

When I crossed the threshold, I saw it was filled with thousands (millions?) of other white light entities.   I thought, “Wow! So many stories here! Each one, with something different to tell!”   I felt like the Barbara Walters of the afterlife, interviewing and writing about between-life spirits!  

I felt very welcome there. Again I was told, come back any time.   I felt a lot of souls wanting to reveal their lessons.

I was not sleeping. I was not tripping. I was not hallucinating. Granted, I might have been “merely imagining” but then, who knows how “communicating with the other side” really works?  Or if it’s even real.

I am not making any claims.  I am merely reporting my experiences, and how the process feels to me. Make of it what you will.

****

 Thank you for visiting.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead.   If you enjoyed what you’ve read,   please share via email,  Facebook,  Twitter and/or other social media.  Much appreciated!   Thanks!

 

The Liar

Pinocchio by Caralo Collodi

 

La

I started lying almost as soon as I was able to talk. My first true memory of this was as a child, maybe 3 or 4. I was alone, happily entertaining myself. My mother called to me to ask what I was doing. I was playing with some toys, perfectly innocent and acceptable behavior. But something compelled me to tell her I was coloring and drawing.

It wasn’t much of a lie. My mother didn’t care what I was doing, as long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess. But for me, it was the point when everything changed; the moment when I asserted my independence; took a stand of defiance.

My play time was my domain. What was it her business how I spent it? (As long as I wasn’t getting into trouble or making a mess, of course.) I felt the first frisson of rebellion; of claiming something which was mine and mine alone. I liked how it felt. And so I continued.

At that age, my lies were small and meaningless. I didn’t do bad things, such as steal then blame it others or deny my own complicity. I simply lied as a way of keeping a private space around myself; keeping out the prying, controlling eyes of my mother.

Sometimes, I’d set things up just so I could tell a fib. For example, I’d put a toy in my pocket and take it outside, but tell her I was going out to play with something else. There was no real point to this. It wouldn’t have mattered to her one way or the other, but it was secretly thrilling to me to have this way of keeping a part of me out of her reach; to have her not know everything about me; to carve out a tiny corner of privacy for myself in my childhood life where I had so little control.

This continued and soon became a habit. When I got to school, I lied to my teachers and others in authority.   They were the same kind of small white lies that meant nothing in the larger scheme of things, but it was already an addiction. It was my identity. To me, the lying created a bubble around me which nobody could permeate.   It was a way of protecting myself from others, most especially those in authority.

When I finished university, I worked at some really bad, low-paying, worthless jobs for a couple of years. I was lazy and didn’t care much about anything. I partied a lot with friends and was often hung over at work. I got fired often. (And I lied to my bosses all the time!)

Eventually, I realized I had to grow up and put my life in order. I put together a resume and began searching for an adult job.

I knew it would go against me to list all those pathetic jobs I’d had; to say honestly what I’d been doing for the past few years. There wasn’t a single employer who would have given me a decent reference. And I couldn’t very well leave that period blank on my resume.   Instead, I created a fiction that I’d been traveling though India and Asia; teaching in small villages here and there. There were not enough details for anyone to check up on me. Besides, it had nothing to do with the job I was applying for. Not as if they were going to attempt to locate some fictional grade school in India.

I’d read enough to be able to invent a few convincing stories should anyone inquire. This made me appear interesting and exotic instead of the lazy screw-up that I’d been.

It worked. I got a good job.

I didn’t speak about my “travels”. I wasn’t as if I’d been trying to impress my potential co-workers with my tales of adventure. Still, word got around, and from time to time I was called upon to answer a question or settle a bet. If I didn’t know the answer, I just made something up. Nobody seemed to notice or care. Back then, there weren’t too many ways of checking up on these things.

When I started dating, there were more lies…where I’d been last night, who I was with. Mostly the lies were about how I felt and what I wanted.

I mostly lied in response to direct questions, as a means of deflecting curiosity.

I didn’t make up stories for the purposes of self-aggrandizement, but rather as a way of keeping others off balance; to prevent them from knowing me too deeply; to keep them from stealing my soul.

I pretended to like the same music and books and films as others, not because I didn’t have opinions of my own, but rather because I preferred to keep those opinions private. I was more expedient to simply agree and go along than to tell the truth and risk revealing too much.

I let them see me as they wished to see me. I let them project their own thoughts, desires, and expectations on me and didn’t correct them. I was happy to remain safe from their prying eyes. I was content to live inside my own head, with my own thoughts, in a domain that nobody could enter.

I was such a facile liar, I had no tells – no give-away twitch or inappropriate smile. Perhaps that was because, for the most part, my lies were not particularly egregious. At least, that’s how they felt to me at the time. Nobody seemed to really care what I thought, anyway.

Ultimately, of course, my lies isolated me. There was not a single person with whom I was completely honest. Nobody ever knew me as I really was. What began as defiance ended up a lifelong habit that made intimacy impossible.

 

===

Addendum: This entity (male energy, I think) told me this story over the course of two days. As happens with some of these, I get images and emotions in drips and drabs during my everyday life. I can “feel” the story coming, wanting to get out, but it’s only when I sit down in a meditative state that they really come through in all their detail.     Tonight I was meditating and he came to me again, but this time telling me his stories in greater detail.   I could literally feel him as a small child in his room.

 In the middle of this meditation and channeling, however, I became distracted by other images which were also calling me strongly (more on this later). And when I came back to The Liar, he scolded me! “Pay attention,” he said. “I’m trying to tell you my story!”

 Each time my attention drifted to this other powerful image, he would reprimand me and call me back.

 The meditation was very deep tonight. I was in a relaxed and open state. As The Liar was narrating to me, I saw another figure – the outline of a human form comprised of white light. It was standing at the end of a long corridor. Behind it, a doorway – also filled with white light. I didn’t want to go there yet. I was trying to focus on The Liar’s story since he was being so insistent.

 The light figure said, “OK, come whenever you are ready. We will be here.”

 So, I went back to The Liar. And while he was talking, another unrelated spirit came into my head, with his own story. (which I will tell in the next post) The two of them battled for my attention, until I finally heard them both out to the end.

And then I was ready to go toward that room filled with light. I felt my body elongating; my arms and legs stretching off into infinity.

When I crossed the threshold, I saw it was filled with thousands (millions?) of other white light entities.   I thought, “Wow! So many stories here! Each one, with something different to tell!”   I felt like the Barbara Walters of the afterlife, interviewing and writing about between-life spirits!  

I felt very welcome there. Again I was told, come back any time.   I felt a lot of souls wanting to reveal their lessons.

I was not sleeping. I was not tripping. I was not hallucinating. Granted, I might have been “merely imagining” but then, who knows how “communicating with the other side” really works?  Or if it’s even real.

I am not making any claims.  I am merely reporting my experiences, and how the process feels to me. Make of it what you will.

****

Thank you for visiting.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow the blog and/or sign up to receive email posts. New posts every three days, and they are getting more and more interesting. I promise! Comments are welcome here or at https://www.facebook.com/livesofthedead.   If you know anyone who would enjoy or relate to this,  please forward and/or share on Facebook or Twitter.  Thanks!

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