For years America has been under attack. We have allowed the left and our enemies to frame our conversation and control education, aka indoctrination. This is goal 17 of the 45 goals of communism as read into the Congressional Record in 1963 by Rep Herlong (D FL)....
The Elon-12 Chronicles, No. 3: First Images of a Pixilated Woman
The Elon-12 Chronicles, No. 3
“First Images of a Pixilated Woman”
Where once I was a physician, a healer, one of many in a great brotherhood — sharing and blending traditions, intuitions, clinical experience, and science into the art of medicine and healing, putting my patients first, determined to do no harm, focused on what will help — now I am told I cannot help, that I am not supposed to help, that I must not help! That, if I try to help — dreadful life-destroying consequences will descend upon me.
Other than that, I have little sense of who I am. I am like a story being printed out on paper while the ink is running low, leaving only scattered hints of words vaguely floating on the surface of the pages. And it’s true, the supply chain for paper and printing ink is supposedly breaking down. They do not want us to make a hard copy of our thoughts…out of what we are struggling to know. They want to be able to wipe clean the digital slate anytime they wish. Then, at their whim, they can remake us into anything they want.
And then a vague image. I have too many of those — vague images I cannot or dare not examine — but this one pulled at my heart. It was — I am shy to say it — the image of a woman. Fleeting yet with the feel of a premonition and a foreboding.
Her face looks so vague and only half-formed and yet enticing, seductive, terrifying. Is this barely perceptible image generated by Elon-12? A dangerous digital seduction?
It’s coming back to me. We met the day before the catastrophe. We had this long day together. I had come from someplace out west. She had come from the east. We were tired and hungry, and a little scared when we bumped into each other at a diner. We stayed there much of the night.
Her face, vague collections of pixilated data that now seem to float around in my brain as the broken digital remains of things I cannot bear to recall, to see, or to understand.
For an instant, the pixels come together and I can see her face and she is beautiful.
Then, like an illusion made of dust, a puff of air, and the pixels disperse, taking her away into their chaos.
I sense many of us are searching for each other while so many of us blur into the herd of the jabbed. They are rendering us immune to self-knowledge or the truth.
Flash! We are in a crowd. We are being pushed… We are being invited… to what?
Give me one more dot. Just one dot of truth. I will stick it on my fingertip and inspect it up close. My first dot in this chaos is…that woman’s face? Then a second dot of truth emerged… Then I will connect them and at least I will have a straight line.
I see her again. I am collapsed with people on top of me. I try to call out to her but I cannot take in or expel any air. They are dragging her away. Dragging away my… my who? I have no name for my pixilated love.
Pixilated love? I laugh for the first time in a long time — anticipating when the woman’s face will emerge again. With it will come incredible clarity.
They make us feel so alone.
No, it is not my task alone. That’s a mistake I must correct. I know there are others — I know that you are out there. At some point in time — I am sure — we will connect, all of us, and we will march as if God Himself energizes our every step.
Please, whoever is out there, whoever else is trying to connect the dots, please keep working. We will find each other. We will each bring our own picture — the one emerging from the dots of truth — and compare them, perhaps place them upon each other for comparison and collation, and together we will begin to see the big picture of what is happening to us. I see that now… at least that much I now see.
But why is it so hard to see? To think and to feel? To find one another?
“Mass psychosis.” I must have heard that a dozen times as if it somehow explained everything. What has really happened to me and to you? To all of us?
I’m not a psychiatrist but I have seen psychotic patients. This is different — this thing they are doing to all of us. This is less active…less imaginative…less full of anguish…less human…than being crazed with anxiety and despair.
I am not psychotic.
You are not psychotic.
We are not in a mass psychosis.
We may feel all alone like being lost in a personal nightmare, but we are not crazy.
Oh, My God, I do understand something.
I have the first dot.
HERE IT IS—the first dot to start the map, to show the way—
This is how it feels to be unfree.
To be continued.
Read the previous Chronicles:
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