Shhh, be very very quiet. We're treading lightly today, soft shoeing it, tiptoeing, maintaining a new level of stillness throughout the house.
I'm typing this very slowly, so old what's his face will sleep on. And as he sleeps, the big hope is that he will continue to shrink. No wakesy, no need for attention. No attention, being ignored, he'll shrink to nothing and go away.
Just saying it like that, though, is a mistake on my part -- but what's said is said. I'll state the quandary in general terms: Any attention, just giving attention to [a problem, let's say], creates a vibe that has a ripple effect. It's tough too to mitigate the effect by speaking of opposites, since reality knows the intimate connections between opposites and their principals. And you ultimately can't fool Mother Reality.
On the other hand it's important for my own understanding and peace of mind -- as well as my desire to communicate these key issues to a broader readership, if for no other reason than to satisfy their morbid curiosity -- that some description be made of the actual circumstances of my situation. So there's a delicate balance, a gentle dance underway.
This tiptoeing is part of the dance. Because tiptoeing around itself calls attention to the circumstances of why you're tiptoeing. You might think there's no winning, but that's where you'd be wrong. Because [an unnamed party] is also under the thumb of Mother Reality; [unnamed party] doesn't get a free pass either.
So the sleeping, the extreme lethargy I'm noting on the part of [the unnamed party] is likely a payback for his inflationary moves as of late. It seems that not even [the unnamed party] can hold full sway. And with me actively, if not mentally, ignoring him, it's piling on. I'm expecting the weapons eventually to appear. Then I will be able to hack to death [an unnamed party].
I tiptoed around the house, squeezing by-- through some wider areas, suddenly passable. I was unable to discern any other being in this house awake except myself. Grandma sleeps on. I wonder what she dreams about. Maybe heaven. She always used to clip out the "Family Circus" cartoons, which would portray heaven. Heaven to Bil Keane was a place on the clouds where the grandfather and everyone else were transparent, black and white outlines of their former selves. Someday Grandma will be up there -- I'm sure she pictures it that way -- with Grandpa. He's up there, transparent, maybe with one of his signature flannel shirts and a couple of wings jutting out his back. Flitting hither, thither, and yon. Fishing up there maybe if they have fish. Fish who were killed on earth went to heaven and are caught all over again. But what happens to a fish that's killed in heaven? I could guess it goes to the second heaven, then the third, as many as they are. Then eventually it retires.
Anyway, I went all through the house, and I noticed some widening of the rooms, more room than I've seen for some time. But I want to keep quiet, keep to myself, sit here in my room and just act like nothing's going on. Then, let's say eventually the weapons do appear, I can go on a bloody rampage and literally hack and hew [this unnamed party] to a terrible death. Then [an unnamed party] can go to heaven as well. [An unnamed party] won't know what happened. [An unnamed party] will be sitting transparent on a cloud scratching its ectoplasm, or whatever you call that sticky, jelly, blob hide it has.
That'll teach [an unnamed party] not to mess with me.