Walter Wallace - Chapter 52

Phil stared into the eye of God. He communicated through a oneness not of this earth. His mind had transcended his body and soared into the heavens.  A great heat bore down upon him, drawing him closer with gravitational intensity, yet falling away from him at the expanse of the universe. A beam of direct light anchored between his third eye chakra and the God-entity. It was here that fear held no sway over love. Only the most divine attain such privilege; only those brave enough to conquer the self and submit to the void belonged.

But Phil did not belong. He had not attained. He was not bereft of fear, merely no longer possessing the capacity to obey it. He could not look away.

Phil had heard of this place from the scriptures of ages past, a forgotten realm, betrayed and abandoned by that of men. The journey was all the more arduous; the disparity that must be traversed was inconceivable. All consuming, and unforgiving: a true God of the past.

But there was a portal discovered that linked this world to Phil’s. A key to the trapdoor that betrayed the path. It was the pure product of consumption that transformed space and time; the Devil that proves the Deity.


The formula of this concoction was less than a myth. Known by few, pursued by fewer still, and those that did were not worthy of the torturous reward for their folly. But what did fall in the realm of myth was a story or two of the “lucky” few who stumbled upon the elixir by no more than dumb luck. And Phil had done just that.

He would never be able to recount the various quantities of acid, coke, mushrooms, weed, alcohol, DMT, MDMA and ecstasy he had taken, let alone the trace elements of opium, crack and prescription uppers, downers and neutralisers. Nor could he account for the various fermentations that had taken place in his body with each of these compounds. It was pointless to measure the time that passed since he had lost his consciousness. He had looked into the Sun, the Eye of God and the world went dark. It had vanished like it had never been. That world no longer regarded his existence. He was the product of its sin.

Would he return if he could just look away? Was it possible to disengage? It was all moot; he knew the answer was no. He could only stare as it blinded him, gaze as it scolded him, weep as it revealed the nature of existence to him.

But the language it spoke was beyond him. It spoke as it would to a Buddhist monk or tortured martyr who had voyaged to its plains. The images in his head were of inconceivable beings that belonged to no dimensional subway. They morphed and eluded form. They did not communicate with him as they knew he was not one of them, they could only pity him, but they did not do that either as their sorrow would engulf him.

He was not even a moment to them but he would have to spend lifetimes waiting to return should he ever be allowed. What chance did he have? Countless billions passed before his chemical endeavour betrayed him, would he live those out in suffering until the Sun, too, drew its last breath? Perhaps by then he would be one of them. He would learn their language, experiencing their pain, earn their love-

His new existence pulsed in retaliation to his greed. The energy rippled down God’s highway towards him at a fearsome pace. It stretched with the momentum of the universe, snowballing as it hurtled towards him. His fear cuffed him, it nailed him down to his post. They were no longer looking at him, they were disappearing to their un-dimensional abodes. The pulse expanded exponentially as it approached. It drew him in. He was sucked inwards like a vacuum tearing the skin off his face. He tried to scream but no words escaped, he would not have a last say on his keep: no chance to plea; no chance to repent. He must take it all as the poisoned fruit of his seed.

It was upon him. The pulse hit and the Sun exploded into darkness. He awoke; alive. A screeching sound broke and his world filled with a glorious light. He was in heaven. But how?

“Dude, what the fuck!?”

Phil did not understand.

“Dude! What the fuck?!”

Phil turned and saw a blurred illusion from his past. Cam Benson, a fellow roadie on the Walter tour, glowed in a halo of light. “Dude you have been staring at that fucking light for six fucking hours. It’s 10am, we gotta get the fuck out of here.”

Phil stared in wonder. He saw a window next to Cam, the curtain next to it freshly pulled. On the other side of the room was a light switch, the button freshly switched. He was in his trailer.

“What happened?” he asked weakly, his throat burning with the effort.

“You fucked out, man. Told us all to get the fuck away from you cos you had a date with god or some shit.” That was at like 3:30 or some fucked up hour like that. Thanks a lot. Most of us slept outside. It’s still pretty fucking freezing at night, you know? Then I come back here and you’re screaming your brains out still staring at the fucking light bulb.” Cam shook his head, then added accusingly, “Are you crying? What the fuck happened to you?”

Phil still felt unable to move, or still too afraid. He looked at Cam and said, “I got stood up.”