Start writing here…I told myself “just write down what you know.” But the thing about that is I can’t. I’m not a writer. I never was. I am just a guy who has a few ideas about the world. I tried writing anyway, sitting alone in a coffee shop with iced espresso to soothe my caffeine addiction. I wrote this. I wrote:
“I needed an outlet. I was told that I needed to do this or be that or achieve this in order to acquire the fame and money that I needed to do things I wanted to. I needed to be someone. I needed to try this product. I needed to use this consulting technique. I needed to work in this industry or sell this product.
“What the fuck was I thinking when I did all of that? I can’t believe I was so gullible for that many years not to see the thing which sat immediately before me. All the tools and money I spent on designing and perfecting a trade which many others have done for years before me all led to that one moment when I sat in the coffee shop and started doing the thing I loved. The thing I left behind in the name of profit. In fact, sitting in the coffee shop was the only thing I’ve ever known how to do. I did it for over a year to craft the first book I ever wrote. I did it when I wrote school papers and studied. I was in a coffee shop when I met my girlfriend for the first time. Granted I met her online, officially, but we met in person at the coffee shop.”
And then the Voice took over. King Ofaejher’s voice. A God-like omnipresent voice permeating my very existence. I felt small.
“Such a strange sequence of events to lead to this moment when I have finally realized that the only thing it takes to become what I desire was to do the thing I found most relaxing and simple. The tools have changed, but the anonymity remains. No one in this place knows me. No one knows for sure what I’m writing on this digital pad computing device. No one knows that King Ofaejher is in their presence. But why should they?”
The Voice was as polite as his contention for the human race. I could feel how powerful his presence was. I was no longer myself when I wrote. I could not even pretend to know what I was writing. King Ofaejher knew words. He knew my words. He knew my thoughts, my actions, my objections, and my attempts to thwart what output he forced through my hands. Instead of fighting, I let it go. I let him free. I let him write the things he needed to say. Because to some extent, I know that what he has to say is what I have to say. It’s what the world has to say, and I am the vector through which his message is portrayed. I could no longer pretend that music or painting was enough. People don’t understand music or art the way they understand words. I blame that on evolution.I could tell you about the time when people did not know words. I could tell you about the time when rhythms and melodies were the primary means of communication. How the sound of wind through leaves said more than a few lyrics in a song. How the sound of rolling clouds in the sky warmed the soul and warned of coming rains. I could tell you about the time when body language and emotions were the results of environment and not personal investments in a situation. But instead, I will channel the Voice and let him tell you about those things. King Ofaejher will tell you about the world and the universe. I will remain silent, as his vessel for message transmission. That is his desire. Even though I experience a universal truth as he writes for me, I can only admit that without him, I know nothing.