But through a series of events, the coincidences unfolded. And I came back. To what I had been where I am in what I was. And had never really left--although I kinda feel silly losing track for this long. In other words: everywhere you go, there you are.

But I'm making no sense to you.

Let's start by saying that I grew up with and versed myself in something called Hermeticism.
There are a thousand details concerning my development, the life surrounding it, and a rather complicated cadre of characters related to both.

And for the short of it: I got a small revelation on an obscure part of my ego. The one that will occasionally lash out from nowhere and condemn what I'm thinking or doing as false. The one that is unerringly objective, cold, and startingly truthful about my intentions and actions. The part that never allows me to completely lie to myself. The best way to describe it would be Choronzom (the original spelling). Not Crowley's bit, but the post-Crowley interpretation. In Islam, I believe, it would be nafs.

These discoveries are few and far between. The most curious/aggravating part of these discoveries is that I'm re-discovering things. I already knew them, but didn't know them.

This requires explanation.

Ok.

Most straightforward analogy: imagine an alcoholic who had the foresight to hide bottles of booze in secure places, and completely forgot about 98% of them. Now, imagine he could only find them when he'd sobered up or didn't even much care for a drink. Hidden truths, lost thoughts.

I'm guessing that the not making sense thing is still in effect.

I have weird memories. Of things I cannot fathom or explain because: 1) I was very young when most of them happened; 2) They were so far beyond my realm of experience and dream-like that it was/is impossible to fully recall them.

There's really only one I vividly remember, from when I was 5 or 6.

I vividly remember sitting on a large multi-tiered theatre like stage. I was seated in a velvet red chair on a red carpet surrounded by red walls. I was naked. I had my arms on both arm rests. To the right of me was a man either dressed in black or red. We faced one another at an angle. He asked me a series of questions in a level, neutral tone. And I replied in the same way. I think there was also a group of old men dressed in red who were where the audience section might be...but honestly I don't know if that's the same memory or not. I just seem to remember there was more than that one guy.

Besides the memory of sitting there and the tone of his voice, I can't recall anything.

The next thing I do recall are firetrucks and police cars. I had been missing for a night. Maybe two. I remember walking along several cop cars, in the street along a boulevard with trees, and somehow coming into contact with my mother again. The way she told it, it was the only time I'd ever gone missing. I've told her the story above, but I don't think she ever connected it to that time. Maybe it's best she never made the connection.

And yes, yes it was real. And no, I only have the most vague notion of why it happened.

It's the only solid memory I have. All of the others are like shadow passing into light, refracted from mirrors. What I actually experienced visually and auditorially, or in my mind, or somewhere else just blurs.

So I mostly accepted the simplest course of action: keep the forgotten forgotten, and focus on the reality everyone agrees on.

Only trouble is when I re-realize there's more to it then that. And on occasion I stoop over to pick up a bread crumb, and sensing all of the other locks and doors and pools of ivy yet to be pulled back.

But then we drift back asleep, and dream the dream of parsimony.

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