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Psychological pain.


Ten Years Since The Revolution at Amazon.

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to a torpor and Cindy suggested we have a quiet word. She led me to one side of her office and insisted I tell her exactly what the bloody hell was happening. The urgency in her voice insisted she wasn't a happy lady. This might be because I had somewhat kept her in the dark, not intentionally, but more from a professional prerequisite, for what was about to follow.

I explained to her how I did not want her to unintentionally lead any of the subjects, or perhaps unwittingly coax them in to something they had no prior knowledge of: I was aware of 'False memory syndrome', and the last thing I needed at this stage was my four contacts developing any phantom beliefs. Cindy told me, rather sharply as I recall, she does not lead her patients in any way shape or form, and if I made the suggestion again, I could find someone else to psycho­analyse them. I retreated quickly, making excuses along the way.

I apologised for my flippant behaviour, and emphasized just how crucial this investigation was, and how much work I had already invested in the project. Cindy met me half way; but insisted from now on in, we had no further secrets, no being economical with the truth, and no deceitful agenda. I agreed; not that I had that much choice. Cindy asked me exactly what she was dealing with? The infor­mation I had given her a week before over lunch, gave a brief outline of UFO activity, but not to the extent where abductions were involved. Even I was reassessing my prospective as we spoke. I had only just discovered the Kent connection, and felt strangely distanced from a fuller, detailed explanation myself. I asked her to trust me, and before she spoke with my next contact I would brief her fully. I think, out of politeness more than anything else, Cindy accepted my argument.

She returned to Paula, who lay slightly crooked on the couch, her body almost lifeless she slept so heavily. "Can you hear me, Paula?" Asked Cindy, her voice solid, and as she spoke, Paula stirred. She signalled she could hear Cindy, with the faintest of moans.

Cindy asked her to describe the room she was now housed in, the one with the small people.

"I don't want to. I want to sleep!" Replied Paula, her voice distant.

Cindy said it wasn't time to sleep, as I watched anxiously, like an expectant father in the corner. Cindy ordered Paula abruptly to clarify what was happening. Paula still appeared reluctant, but managed with some unstoppable, psychological pain, to drag herself forth and determine events in her own mind as she recalled them. Cindy had somehow rekindled an exhausted flame, and suddenly, once again it burnt bright.

"I don't like the people here," said Paula. She added quickly: "They've got strange faces."

Cindy glared over her shoulder at me with a very pious stare; and I rolled my hands enthusiastically, encouraging her to advance into Paula's self confessed trauma.

"What kind of faces?" Asked Cindy, searchingly.

Her voice once again enveloped that motherly tone, offering Paula some semblance of verbal salvation. Paula hesitated, as if to formulate a stronger clarity, then relinquished a description in a canvas of minute detail.

"They're very fragile," she whispered, and as I looked on silently, she expanded her collage, building the intricate fabric of her composition with a pained expression. I could see the bitterness stained over her face, and considered getting Cindy to cease this torturous experience; yet, at the last possible moment I couldn't bring myself to utter those finite words.

Ashamedly I allowed this invasion to continue, and later, from her description permitted myself a plagiaristic luxury of constructing my chapter on mankind's selfish attributes. Paula insisted they had no real facial configuration, almost as though, where identification marks should be, they were missing.

"Their noses are no more than holes in their faces," rambled Paula, inanely. "I can only tell they have mouths when they talk with each other." She continued.

"What are they saying?" Inquired Cindy, as she carefully took notes.

"I can't understand," retorted Paula, as her frustration built.

She seemed upset that she could not decipher their dialect, and the more she tried this difficult task, the more alarmed she became. Cindy reassured her with some warm, soft words, and Paula relaxed back. I scribbled another of my silly notes at this point, and passed it over, by nudging Cindy's shoulder. "Do they



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Below is a list of chapters for the Metaphysics Anthology. The book itself is designed as abit of fun! One man thinking out loud. You should not see it as science, merely enjoy the imagination of the human mind in full swing.

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