Struggling to maintain my drug induced realities while watching the Matrix

Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is.

Smoke under water, stops the fire in your eyes... Or so sang a fellow traveller who then was always too paranoid to walk the streets, for fear of being busted by his pupils. Reading the lyrics decades later, he felt less foolish, than angered for all that had been missed by his now permanently ingrained paranoid reality.

That system is our enemy. But when you are inside, you look around...

I used a browser for the first time in 1993 and the tech that was explaining it to me said, "Go, type in anything you want, you now have, the collected history of humankind at you fingertips, at least up until 1972". He then walked away.

I didn't think much about his statement at that time, I was more interested in typing Lincoln at Gettysburg and low and behold I got this image, directly from the Smithsonian site. There wasn't Google Images back then.




Unfortunately, what impressed me that day, was that within four clicks starting at the Smithsonian, I was on a porn site and although I ignored what the tech had said then, I have thought of it often, since.

My simplified theory and possibly his at that time, is that prior to the mid seventies there were mostly mainframes and those mammoths were predominantly used for research, number crunching cataloging and archiving of the previously written word. The users and their usage were focussed on science, education, finance, business and I presume governmental and military espionage, certainly not mass communication.

That all changed when the masses, the schools, we, got our hands on the distributed digits and pixels. Bulletin boards, forums, chat rooms, started polluting the collected, transcribed and digitized pool of knowledge, with anecdotal reminiscences and opinions, even as early as 1993.

Fate, It seems is not without a sense of irony. 

Today, Wikipedia has become the red pill to my past. Life altering interpretations of events that happened over forty years ago have now become substantiated urban myths. Cherished possessions have become nothing more than worthless objects that I have too carefully carted from old house to new home.

Two years ago, a still sealed copy of the first Beatles LP released in the US was transformed into a $12 bootleg by verifying the jacket I.D.

and last month my so-called, rare recording by John Lennon, Dylan and others performing under the pseudonym, The Masked Marauders, became a phoney group put together as a publicity stunt by Rolling Stone and worth on the open market, about a buck ninety eight.

Every few months more of my memories, my past are being destroyed or devalued by Google searches and Wikipedia.

real is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain

There was a time, a brief period of time, that I believed you could take a pill and see the truth. Determining within seconds, the stress levels of unseen, sleeping, home owners by the vibe of their exterior landscaping. Reading people like colouring books while avoiding the vibrating face shifters. 

However, similar to the sunset of those heady days when the pure yellow sunshine became poisoned by the speed of the purple microdot, there is less joy in searching the now recorded history of my own life as I discover that my memories were simply illusions of a different time.

Why oh why didn't I take the blue pill...