Ploom #005

We don’t really like the word god, you know? It’s silly. It’s like, you know how magic is just technology you don’t understand yet? Well, any sufficiently evolved human is a god to a human who is too primitive to understand them. Imagine trying to explain yourself to a chimpanzee.

What we do is, we monitor all of you, looking for the right… Excuse us. We don’t want to be rude. The right… medium. It’s not a complicated process. We’ve attained collective consciousness, so we all agree on the selection because we’ve all made the selection.

They have to be the right age. There’s a sweet spot after the medium has attained their potential but hasn’t begun to diminish. Then we can confirm that they are the chosen one. After that, it’s quick. It usually works. Jesus of Nazareth was great. The meld was as close to perfect as doesn’t matter. Henry Jekyll, though! That was horrible. Our knowledge made him cruel. Remorseless. Tortured.

It’s not the date of birth that’s important, though. Even if Jesus had been born on December 25^th, that wouldn’t mean anything. Real Christmas was the day our DNA was introduced.

Don’t get us wrong. We hate that bit. Our DNA is incredibly advanced. It doesn’t take millions of years or even generations to take effect. It takes hours to complete the evolution. Then, the medium understands. We are the medium. The medium is us. Those hours, though. They’re terrible. The worst trip ever, multiplied by a million. Time ceases to have any meaning, then is everything at once, then expresses its true self. And that applies to everything you can comprehend. It applies to everything of which you can’t yet conceive. The mind disintegrates into unbound elementary particles shooting away from each other.  It’s like watching a universe die. 

This is the moment when we look in your eyes and see that you know you’re the medium. You’re confused. You don’t feel like your mind is about to be ripped apart. It’s something of which you can’t yet conceive. We remember.

Merry Christmas, we suppose.