celestiallydamned - Tumblr blog

celestiallydamned · 5 years

Text

INTRO

Hmm’s & Praises.

Love us - don’t hate us. Contacting me from the other side, that’s what the Guardian Angel said. Using my inner voice. Sentiment I felt completely. And exactly what I’d wanted to say. But they got in there before me. And I grew angrier, still.

They’re like komodo dragons; one whisper inflicted, strategically, and you’re done for. That’s how I sometimes envisage them. The Agents (similar to our detectives). These monstrous beings hovering around their huge, oval-shaped desk with monitors throughout the length of its circumference. Monitoring constantly. Me. You see, I can make them out some of the time. Even though there’s the inevitable time delay and the fact they’re faster in their movements compared to us. Doesn’t matter. At certain times, as we converse - well, they talk, I listen and occasionally get the chance to interject - I can make them out. Which surprises them. But I can’t prove it. They’re likely to agree with me about the fact that I think I see them to purposefully keep me amused. Especially when I tell them MyGuy’s just arrived back from their canteen with goody bags for y’all. Yes, they snack up there.

The Agents don’t reckon I can see them at all. And seem bemused every time I might ask them things like, who’s the new guy leaning into the left end of the oval desk. I haven’t noticed them before. Long legs and great ass. I used to make comments like that to keep them entertained. As they seemed to buy into it every time. But now things have changed. Gone are the days when the Agents would select my best one-liner of that day, collect them and have them ready to show several of the elected Gods another time so they, too, could laugh. At my expense. Behind my back no doubt. But still, laugh.

Are there so few Agents still connected with my case up there they’re now using wannabee actors. This ongoing situation always was farcical. But this morning they’re adlibbing like I’ve never heard. And the problem is, especially as I lack concentration first thing, I start to wander, hardly taking anything that‘s said to me with any seriousness. Not that I’ve missed much. They’re usually quite fastidious about needing to grab my attention. But when they do, it’s often a case of their not having anything of any importance to tell me. We need to talk to you, they’ll say with urgency. Sit down, we need to explain what’s going on. But their explanations this morning were so boring I actually started to envisage the Agents bins, by their desks, bugged. And told them so. Of course they didn’t take it seriously, until later when they belligerently added, ahem, you were right. Besides them and their usual quandaries, the problem for me is simple: as a medium I can both see and hear.

Neither Agents nor Guardian Angels, both departments working from the same Head Quarters, had even thought of checking the bins. Although, for some reason, I suspected Special Branch’s TopCat’s involvement the night before - maybe so he could prove just how lax the Agents really are. TopCat? All names of the Agents, etc., by the way, are made up by me purely as I can neither hear their language nor the proper pronunciation of their names. Excepting for some of the Angels, those of us that have crossed over already. But even with them they don’t use their actual names. For some reason, and no one has explained this, they’re given different names by the angelic beings to be able to exist up there. Really? Or is it a case of not wanting me to know exactly who they are. Let’s face it, I could get in touch with theirs down here.

07:20 Dream: Large bouquet of flowers - was making mine out of branches. Within a wild, OTT garden. Was it a jungle-type place? Very overgrown but tame at the same time.

White kittens, playing in a very beautiful white flowering shrub. Some girl I didn’t know had just bought or acquired them.

Simon, an Angel from the Dream Factory’s already there, just arrived to chat with me about dreams created by them, transmitted to me and played out this morning (notes above). Are dreams supposed to be split into sections? According to Agent Tedi (short for tedium and from the Psychic department within HQ) they’re usually 2 - 3 segments within one section, but sometimes split. Of course, regardless of what I snarl at these animalistic Agents, off their tethers, about not being able to remember dreams if and when, always when, I hear them droning on, on and on in the background first thing on waking throughout my night and early morning as this makes it practically impossible for me to remember the content of any of the dreams received. Like well-groomed actors waiting for their auditions, Simon and Tedi are easy to put up with admittedly. At least it’s possible to deduce from them certain interpretational skills in association with trying to understand the visual content of dreams that appear as suddenly as that one person you never, ever want to bump into again.

Is the content of dreams really based on Birth Charts rather than timelines? Somehow, and I can’t argue the reasons here, this has always been a factor, never mentioned by them until today. Do they think we’re all astrological junkies?

I should really bother to make notes more often as my journalesque foray into recording this absolute debacle - as it unfolds - has virtually stopped. There’s never enough time, what with dealing with live footage from them. All too live, as it‘s not possible for mediums to hear the ‘other side‘ without listening devices and other equipment installed, by download, inside their heads. Ssshh. Just don’t tell mediums nor psychics as it might destroy their inbuilt notions in being able to communicate with the other side as an innate ability accrued presumably at birth and nurtured throughout their apparent especial lives.

Live footage and monotonous tapes of conversations enacted by Angels (who used to be actors here and now work there as Agents) are played out for my benefit, to keep me company throughout the day. And every day. From as soon as tired eyes blink Agents are there, waiting slathering at their desks. Some conversations are hardly discernible at times as the volume to the listening device installed deep within my left ear is kept off to prevent interference - from others. Yes, according to the Agents, even with the volume switched off I can still hear them through my inner voice. I call it miraculous.

‘We’ve walked straight into a trap‘. Barely audible is someone’s admittance off in their distance. My pen hastily jots notes, marks tearing across pages at times erratically. You see, the Agents encourage both. Not only my writing but my moods. To keep me subdued. Occupied. Frustration verging on repetitive anger orchestrated meticulously and easily due to medication applied by them. And those that play at being god.

Talking of which, the medical department there have been hiding cellars; heavy decorative rugs strategically placed over trapdoors - leading to their underworld no doubt. Five male doctors were involved with monitoring me last night. Who were they? The only names I’m fully aware of within their department are Ben, and, to a lesser extent, Neil. Although I doubt if either were included in last night’s nasty littl’ soiree. Which seemed to be going fine for the 5 monitoring docs, until this temporary Guardian Angel (GadFly or GA for short) of mine at the moment squeaked a splash or two of oil on cogs needing lubed. Are they, within the medical department, able to multitask; masturbate and monitor me, with cameras spying on everything I do, at the same time?

This relatively new GA was conferring last night with Agents TopGuy and MyGuy about this supposedly classified case. In other words, me. When pertinent information was shared with them, along with an explanation proffered by Agent BigGuy who specialises in electronics and communication. According to them, the signals of the medical department had been checked and configured to track specifically an outgoing signal emitted through the use of significant 3D software?of me. I call the fucking thing ‘the Beast’. It’s an exact replica of myself - on a scale of 1:10 I would’ve guessed, without blemishes and skin infections I’m crawling with. Let’s call the Beast heavily Photoshopped. In other words, digitally worked over so I look perfect, in every angle. And twenty years younger.

The immense power of the imagination of Angels, those humans that have managed to reach the other side. Or Tearaways as I sometimes refer to them as. Those who have crossed over, bringing all-important recent hardware coding with them. And building Beasts.

Last night, according to notes I bothered to make, the realisation this case of mine means nothing actually bothered me. And I’ve no idea why. I’m exhausted; waking up each night several times: right rib cage causing postural problems when trying to relax in bed - the after-effects of having been brutally attacked through their use of poison. But it’s the dreams. And other means of communication, usually downloaded and opening early morning, I never seem to be able to recount. Yet they’re leaving me with neither hope nor wanting to get this misery figured out. And that’s exactly what’s happening. There’s an apathy gradually erupting. With their system so corrupt, and regardless of how disparate these departments appear to be, they’re essentially and relentlessly one and the same. The only real noticeable differences are their distinct races. And character traits.

Somehow female GA’s got through to me last night, late. Had I slept already? That aside, why were they making comment. It’s usually only those that do I’ll pick up on as their tiresome voices come through to my inner voice. I could even see them standing at a pedestal of some sort. Seriously, like something out of a television show. And their comments, intended to provoke, came through loud and clear. About the fact that it serves him right. Meaning me. I’ve no idea what other thoughts may have been charging through my head at the time.

If only I could sleep. All night. Like regular folks do. But I seem to wake up after every sleep cycle, and those don’t seem to last any longer than 60 - 90 minutes or so. Invariably I’m woken up out of dreams or some sort of communication - from them. And that’s when I hear them. Unintentionally. But they can’t help themselves. These wretched GA’s. Eagerly awaiting for me to wake so they can verbally whack me with totally unnecessary commentary. They’re like vultures, circling. Ready to drop. To rob their victim of all that’s holding them together. Before I doze back off again into never-never-land. Only to wake up.

A lull exists. Only if I scribble haphazardly into my notebook. Or if I read a book, something I haven’t bothered with in years. Or editing old photographs taken occasionally on travels thrown together. This lull’s happening during writerly scrawls and morning coffee, desperately needed today. The medical department, after last nights discovery by the Agents of a hidden lab within the medical compound, sent a delegation to HQ (where the dreaded Agents and hellish GA’s lunch most of their days away) to apologise. Not to me. Obviously. Why would the entire medical department be aware of my eavesdropping abilities from here if and when confabs ensue about me.

Besides, how come I was able to view a Victorian pile, or a neo-Gothic architectural monstrosity, last night where the medical moderators were, playing at being doctors. I could see them panicking when they realised their precious monitor / computer system was going to be checked by Agents - as the doctors were monitoring me at the time. The imaging itself (think along the lines of a vivid daydream) was of one of them handing something through a trapdoor just behind and to their left.

And then, along with several Agents, I happened to notice a turret outside, a rather horrid attachment to the original building of the medical compound, containing a spiral staircase with access to other floors; at its peak a cupola. Turns out this small, decorative roof was adorned with an aerial suitable for outgoing signals allowing the 3D software of the Beast and those that operate it not just full control of the Beast itself but their signal emitted under the radar, under the noses of the Agents stationed there monitoring all other signals transmitted through aerials on the main roof of the medical building.

But then I got slightly confused when I spotted a dark green and flourishing grassed lawn within the walled confines of the grounds. Rectangular in shape, its very existence incongruous to there. Is it real? I asked one of the Agents. Watered? Then it dawned on me, ‘It’s a grass roof; similar stuff used down here within inner cities‘. The lawn itself edged in a glass-like casing, allowing slivers of weak daylight into a darkened space below. Apparently the medical department were growing specific botanical specimens in relation to procuring essential natural substances; all organically grown I should hope. All within a large artificially lit greenhouse below the lawn itself. These substances elicited, albeit illegally, to be used in medication created in-house for the doctors insistence on carrying out deadly experiments. On our lives down here. Not theirs - they’re brain-dead already.

#spirituality story spoof angels gods medium journal

0 notes