Where do I begin to tell this story? I suppose the proper answer would be `at the beginning.’ That is, after all, where most great stories begin. However, the question arises, when did this whole thing begin?
Was it the day I left Sarasota in pursuit of the gelatinous haze I considered destiny? Was it the day I returned four years later with empty pockets and an open mind? Was it when the press release came out stating that the book I had yet to write was the bestseller at Amazon.com? Perhaps it was the revelation that Sarasota had been infiltrated by alien life forms? Maybe it was the day I met them.
Each of these occurrences had the heavy air of the beginning of something, but compared to my current state of affairs, they seem like nothing more than a light breath. Perhaps that is the beginning of everything.
In this moment, after all that I’ve been through, I should be wiser for it. Yet I don’t feel wise, I just feel.
Right now, my brain feels like a baked potato, the eyes of the world pushing out in all directions and my life’s events oozing through its flaky whiteness like melted butter. My body feels heavy like a tweed jacket when you’ve been caught in the rain. I feel like I just want to throw it off, but my spirit doesn’t feel quite ready for the task. And my heart… my heart just feels open.
Through the fluid perception of time as we know it, all sorts of things are bound to happen. Things I dreamed of as a child have taken their spot in the absolution of the manifest at one time or another. Things that have happened in my past are still lodged in the folds of my memory. And through the stunning brilliance of what the visitors have just shown me, I see these words creating the future that awaits me.
I’ve never had an Estralarian mind meld before. It certainly gave me a new understanding of Salvador Dali. The clock on the wall has melted and is stretched from ceiling to floor in a vertical recollection of Vonnegut’s view of time in the Slaughterhouse. It’s not really like that, you know. Time takes on a much different form when you come out the other side of a mind meld.
I’ve seen people on TV who said they were abducted by aliens. I’ve always been fascinated by the consistency of the looks in their eyes. Though many have worn expressions ranging from lunacy to lucidity, there is always that hollowness of eye that seems to lend the idea that they are seeing more than they can truly express. In my current state of mind, after the rush I’ve just lived through, utilizing this archaic form of expression that is the written word seems almost futile. I could spend eternity at this keyboard trying to fully communicate all that I’ve just seen.
But that’s what the Estralarians told me to do. They told me to “write the world.”
Now, where do I begin?
This is the prelude to the critically acclaimed How To Survive an Estralarian Mind Meld. Order your paperback copy now!
Steve McAllister is the author of The Rucksack Letters and How to Survive an Estralarian Mind Meld. He posts regularly at InkenSoul.com, is sometimes posts at Anything Arts, Sarasota Music Scene, and Elephant Journal, and is currently the Director of Operational Development for the Common Wealth Time Bank in Sarasota, Florida. Follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube.