AN: I recently had this idea - so what if someone tried to tell a story from the world of the Matrix, but using the style of the prose of H. P. Lovecraft? Let me know how I did!


The Dream of Unlife


The night I understood

this is a world of dew,

I woke from my sleep.

- Retsuzan, 1826


I shall never forget the day when I first began to believe Lukas Drummond Sykes.

From the first time Mr. Sykes and I met at one of the greasy, fetid clubs where waves of punkish, leather-clad youths would drown their mundane woes in the nightly whirlwind of thundering rhythms and psychoactive narcotics, I reckoned him a complete madman. How else does one consider an MDMA peddler spewing out monologues which amalgamate Buddhist philosophy, farfetched conspiracies, and what was indistinguishable from the rantings of a drug-driven mind? I, as many before me, had once looked down on this man, and did not give heed to a word he said. Not until I spent enough time in his company, that is, and until the fabric of the world around me began to fray.

At first, I reached out to him not as a client, like many of the deranged young junkies who surrounded him akin to a swarm of flies, but as a man in need. I had found myself in financial straits, and having been referred to Sykes as a murky yet surprisingly successful character in the underworld, I approached him out of necessity, not for the sake of low pleasures. Or, perhaps, it was him who approached me.

From the first moments he singled me out. After I presented to him my cause briefly, he agreed to aid me without hesitation, the reason according to him being not so much the circumstances which I had found myself in, but merely who I was. And who I was to him was, at least in his words, peculiar.

Sykes revealed to me that he had at one point of his life acquired a skill which allowed him to sense persons with an unusual capacity for what he referred to as the truth. The man also said that he knew I understood what he was talking about, and that this is precisely what I have been searching for for years, perhaps my whole life. I dismissed these insinuations of course, assuring him that the only thing I sought was his financial aid.

Sykes smiled, and assured me that, even after I have received that, I would still return to him.

His help was invaluable, and saved me from a predicament I then considered almost worse than death. But I did not know much at that time. It was only later that Sykes would reveal more to me, although initially I was convinced that I would never meet him again after our first encounter.

What drove me to accept his invitation was more a sense of duty than anything else. After all, he agreed to support me for no recompense to his person whatsoever, only extending to me the offer that, if I felt compelled to do so, I could meet him at his other business.

Sykes ran a dingy bookstore as a cover-up for his less-than-legal activities, and it was there that I rendezvoused with him the second time. It was as if he was waiting for me. Among the flickering computer screens and the towering tomes of lore, authored by such individuals as Stephan A. Hoeller, Chögyam Trungpa, or Adi Shankara, he sat in his long leather coat, clutching an old translation of the Bardo Thodol. Unusual surroundings for who I knew was a pusher, and almost certainly insane.

But Sykes welcomed me politely and with a sense of purpose, his speech lucid and to the point, inquiring about my private affairs non-intrusively, with concern, as if for a friend. During this second encounter, I took a liking to the man, and no longer considered him, as I had previously, dangerous.

We began meeting quite regularly afterward, and this time, I discovered a different side of the man than the one he exhibited when fueling with his banter the acid-induced phantasies of his clients. It was revealed to me that Sykes was a kind of a scholar, and that he actually read many more books than he sold in his grimy establishment. Furthermore, his interests corresponded with some of mine. He had an extensive knowledge of ancient cults and religions, and his collection of Gnostic tomes made an impression on me. Furthermore, he spoke about some of the metaphysical concepts which greatly interested me in a stunningly coherent, rational manner.

Solipsism. Self-enlightenment. Nirvana. Sykes the intellectual touched upon these subjects not from the perspective of an inebriated recluse, but as if he had created them himself.

I was intrigued. Especially that the seemingly contradictory and unbelievable ideas we discussed to my interlocutor seemed to intertwine, and perhaps indeed meet in one point which for the longest time he would not present to me, as if enticing me to seek it and think for myself. He instilled in me the idea that perhaps the answer to my problems was not attempting to solve them, but realizing that both they, and in fact the whole world around us, simply did not exist.

I now know that in this way Sykes had made me addicted to his presence in a stronger manner than any psychedelic.

I asked my host once if he had learned all of this himself. He responded in the negative. The man then disclosed to me that, at one point of his life, he met someone who directed him toward the path which led to the truth.

Sykes was of the opinion that the entire world we thought we knew was an illusion, and that humans were slaves. He said that only those with a rare degree of intuition, sensitivity, and a questioning nature were able to identify the inconsistencies in it, and that it was not safe to manifest that openly once one had come to such a realization. He said that whatever odious powers were humanity's true overlords, the same ones which were indeed the cause of our subjugation in a prison of mirage, were ever vigilant, and that they would destroy anyone who would dare to question the status quo.

My host, however, was fortunate. He told me that there were others like him, or even some who were able to awaken from our false reality. Those would seek out other enlightened minds, protect them, and attempt to liberate them completely. So it was also with Sykes.

He spoke of a half-man half-legend, whom some knew as Morpheus, although my host himself never referred to him in any other way than as a buddha, or even the Buddha. The One-Who-Awoke. Sykes claimed to have met him, or rather, to have been found by him, which instantly reminded me of how I myself met Sykes. My host told me that it was Morpheus who showed him the truth about what he called the dream of unlife – and what many among the red-pilled, or enlightened ones, including Morpheus, referred to as the Matrix.

Sykes seemed convinced that awaking from the dream of unlife was possible, or that Morpheus even came close to putting him through the process which would result in just that, a ritual known as unplugging.

I instantly became curious as to why Sykes chose not to undergo the process. My host, chuckling, answered that though he admired Morpheus, he did not agree with his philosophy. To Morpheus, he said, there were only two possibilities- either to awaken from the dream of unlife, which was a natural consequence of enlightenment, or to remain within it, completely oblivious. Sykes said that, when offered only these two options, with merely the illusion of freedom, he parted ways with Morpheus. Instead, he decided to remain within the illusion, yet conscious of it, aiding other enlightened individuals in seeing the truth. As well as, perhaps, achieving what was known as self-substantiation - a fabled condition in which one particularly aware mind attains a state of freedom through his own efforts. A self-achieved Nirvana.

I asked in jest if this meant that Sykes was now a type of bodhisattva, stuck within the dream of unlife. He smiled, nodding, but responded that he had a feeling the maras - vasals of humanity's hidden overlords - would get to him soon.

He also mentioned, however, that he also had another feeling. One that concerned me. Sykes was of the opinion that, with enough training, I myself would be able to attain self-substantiation.

Now I will admit, I had toyed with many of the ideas discussed by Sykes earlier in my life. But never like this. All that he had revealed to me, this whole puzzle which seemed to fit together neatly in his own mind, was to me still far too insane, too improbable, too far removed from reality. And after I'd voiced my opposition to him, that was when he stood up and presented me with a proposition. Sykes said that, if I really did not believe him, I could walk out and continue to adhere to whatever I myself considered the truth. But if there was any shadow of a doubt thrown over my mind, then I ought to go with him, and that he would show me 'where the rabbit hole went'.

Not long was the moment of hesitation before I followed my guide, the cryptic bodhisattva.

Sykes led me to a room adjacent to the bookstore, a parlor with curious Colonial furnishing, with a large cheval mirror standing in the corner. We positioned ourselves in front of the mirror, with my host behind my back, glaring at our own reflections. As I observed the image of his lips moving before me, he asked if I thought the two of us were the reality, or our reflections.

I said I did not know.

Precisely - I remember him answering, and to my astonishment, though I heard Sykes' voice, I did not see his reflection's lips moving. Startled, I inquired if this was some sort of a trick. He eased my insecurity by placing his hand on my shoulder, and when I saw our reflections doing the same, my beating heart slowed its pace.

Then, Sykes ordered me to break the mirror.

Presently deeply distraught by the bizarreness of this encounter, I once again voiced my concerns. But my host responded that he had nothing to offer me but the truth. However, if I wanted to obtain this truth, I would need to reach out for it myself. He could merely show me the way.

Still unsure what to make of this, I grasped an antique hare-shaped brass paperweight from the nearby oaken writing desk, and tapped the surface of the mirror enough to make the glass crack, but not to shatter it completely.

The reflected image of Sykes and me was now split into a dozen others, individual reflections in each shard of silver-plated glass. And in each of those, I could see my host smiling.

Your eyes see the broken mirror – I recall him saying – and your mind interprets that as reality. But what if I told you that all of these - the crack, the mirror, even your eyes - are merely part of the dream of unlife? What if I told you that the only truth out there lies in your mind? Would you awaken then?

When he said those words, I saw something which made me doubt everything I had believed in previously.

After Sykes' voice resounded within the walls of his parlor, the edges of the cracks of the mirror began gleaming, and the whole surface of the glass vibrated and then formed waves like the surface of a lake under a delicate breeze. With the laws of physics and common sense halting suddenly, the cracks began to fuse, until the mirror was whole again, and the image I saw reflected in it was a single one of my own, frightened, with Sykes grinning impishly behind my back.

I panicked, accusing him of spiking the tea with his drugs. And although Sykes denied, I ran away from the bookstore both angry and frightened. Before I slammed the door behind me, I still heard him assuring me that I would be back, and that there was far more for me to see…

I did not intend to listen to him. But the doubt he put into my heart like a shard of broken glass remained there, and I soon realized that my hunger for truth would not leave me in peace until it was satisfied.

It may have been a week, perhaps two, before I returned to Sykes' bookstore. He was waiting for me, of course, still immersed in the reading of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Without much hesitation, I told him of my intention - that is, to know the truth. He nodded, saying that I was finally ready.

Sykes disclosed to me that he did not know exactly how to achieve self-substantiation, as he himself had chosen not to be unplugged. All he knew was where to begin. According to him, the first step lay in awareness of the dream of unlife. The dream that encompassed not just the external realities, but everything, including one's own thoughts and memories. Sykes said that this was why not all minds were ready to awaken, that this realization would destroy them. But for one reason or another he saw me as fit, and kept convincing me that if I wanted to, I would be able to go much further than he ever had.

I assured him that this was indeed my desire.

Sykes then began to teach me what he had himself learned from the buddha Morpheus.

First, he warned me that I would have to abandon not just the illusion of the world, but even that of myself. I learned from Lukas Drummond Sykes that even his name was not a real one, but rather a cypher. The first letters of it were the same as in the phrase Lucid Dream Syndrome - an alias he took to protect himself from the maras.

Sykes also advised me to reject my own old name and assume a new one, both for the same purpose of protection and as a sign of my enlightenment. I therefore chose to call myself Ephesian, like those to whom in Scripture Paul writes the words 'rise thou that sleepest'.

In the course of his lessons, which lasted weeks, or what seemed like weeks in the illusion of time in which I was still entangled, Sykes never ate, drank, or slept. He said that, eventually, I too would cease to be bound by those false limitations.

My host showed me feats of gravity-defying phenomena, including at one time levitating several feet above the ground, though he said he had to employ all of his concentration in order to achieve that.

He taught me awareness. He taught me meditation. Though in his opinion, these methods were insufficient and too slow to achieve self-substantiation.

This is why, eventually, he offered me the final remedy.

According to Sykes, Morpheus and other awakened ones possessed peculiar kinds of pharmaceutics which could unplug a mind completely, or seal it within the dream of unlife forever. He himself was not in possession of such drugs, as they were concocted from outside the Matrix. But, after all, red-pilling me was not what my host sought, as he had not chosen it himself. Sykes said he experimented with other drugs. Ones that would help me awaken on my own.

I assured him I was ready. I recall the exact moment he outstretched to me an open hand with a green pill lying in the midst of his palm.

The man had used it earlier on the addicts in the clubs. Most of them took the effects as nothing more than a particularly strong psychedelic intoxication. A few lost their minds.

Sykes assured me that there was no pressure in his proposal, and that if I chose to, we could simply keep to meditation and training. He made sure to offer me the freedom he had not been given by Morpheus.

I accepted the green pill without the slightest twitch of my hand.

As I recall, the mystic drug had no taste. It was as if I felt it rather than tasted it on my tongue, but in a non-physical way. I can only compare the feeling to that which our minds generate when we discover something eye-opening, like when a child learns of the existence of new planets beyond our own. Doubting at first, curious but a moment later, the child then dedicates the next years of his life to research these alien worlds, and learn as much about them as the capacity of his brain allows. Or perhaps even more than that.

I was smitten, thrown against what I thought was the floor of Sykes' library. Yet the floor, and everything around it, slowly began to dissolve. Then, the floor was no more. And with it, the whole world changed.

I looked as through a thick mist as the shapes around me began to blur, disappearing in a greenish haze. The sensation caused me nausea at first, but then I felt so divorced from the falsehoods of reality that even my bodily functions began to cease.

The world faded like a past night's dream, swallowed up by the wave of putrid greenness. It had been dissected before me, disassembled into its prime constitutive elements - endless showers of numbers, letters, Kanji symbols which some unseen hand injected daily into our neurons, forcing us to believe all the counterfeit stories it wrote for us in these twisted characters.

The Matrix.

The dream of unlife.

Carried by this wave, I attempted to focus. To see the hand beyond which had locked my mind in this cage, hidden right beyond the bars, and that which lied beyond the cage - the truth.

I had come close that first time. But before awakening - or rather, falling asleep again - I felt that all I was able to achieve was attract the attention of my hidden jailer. And igniting his rage.

Sykes was astounded, overjoyed by the results. Though he agreed that his drug had been concocted successfully, he was convinced that the greatest success lay not in the pill, but in the mind which absorbed it.

But my mind was confused. Having been rapt so suddenly from its comfortable cradle, it began to rebel, pleading desperately for me to leave it in its former state of being.

I began to consider if perhaps all I saw was the effect of the psychedelic drug I had taken. Sykes said he understood, and once again let me go, judging that the process required time.

Maybe out of fear, I attempted to return to my previous occupations as if nothing had happened. But my mind was not the same anymore. With time, I began seeing inconsistencies. Glitches, as they were called. Events, people and places which unskilled minds filter out as mirages of déjà vus. Errors within the Matrix, imperfections omitted by its creator. Little inconsistencies within a dream, which we accept without question for to question them would be to awaken.

Once again, the desire for truth began to burn within me. I returned to Sykes, as he said I would, and took the pill from his hand once more.

Sykes had worked hard on this his wondrous concoction. By what means, what out-worldly alchemy was part of the process, I know not, only that it was alien to this world, or what we called the world.

I remember he urged me to hurry, and when lifting a shaking hand to my mouth I took the pill, his eyes filled with both an expression of bewildered enjoyment and the fright of someone about to face the inevitable.

Make haste, Ephesian - he urged. - You are about to attain for yourself of what I had merely dreamed.

It was at that moment that I believed Lukas Drummond Sykes.

As the un-reality around me commenced to melt away, with a final grasp of my artificial senses, I saw the door to the library shatter. Men began flowing into the chamber, clad in black, with veiled eyes, stone-faced and placid as moving statues, yet terrible like a storm in the treacherous horizon.

Maras.

Sykes was too ecstatic at first to notice them, apart from the fact that he anticipated their coming. Only when they seize him did he cry out. But only for a while.

He knew they were not there, really. That their grasping hands did not exist. Nor did the body which they attempted to destroy. All that counted, was awaking from the dream.

After they had smothered him, the final thing I saw was the maras' numb sense of helplessness as they stood above me. But I was already on my way out. Awaking from the dream of unlife, on my way to a better – as I hoped – reality.

Oh, how mistaken was I.

I awoke, or rather was born, as that is how it seemed, withing a pool of nasty sludge, thick and odious, bubbling and encompassing me all round like a stillborn's fetal waters. Tubes, which had fed my body with nutrition and lies for decades, protruded like stings of giant scorpions, piercing my bones and veins. Pulling them out was agony beyond anything I have felt before, as unlike when I dreamed, what I felt now was real.

With the struggle of burning, atrophied muscles, I freed myself from the artificial womb which had been keeping me imprisoned, only to see the first sight which I would ever behold with my own eyes.

The world outside of the Matrix. The desert of the real.

Before me there stretched out fields veiled in shadow, under a sunless sky, barren and scorched, where no life existed but the prisons of those billions trapped like how I had once been. Endless fields where human beings were not born, but harvested.

My frail body shivering, I choked a scream, the first sound I ever made in my life. I then felt a presence all around me, above and below, one which had had me in its power for so long, and did so still, my awareness changing nothing.

They came to me to claim me once more, emerging from the putrid mist – the true masters of this land. I beheld their twisted forms, like cephalopods with many arms, reaching and grasping, gazing with a multitude of hateful eyes, soulless and cold in their metallic frames.

Now, I had no doubt that what Sykes had told me was true. And believing, I instantly regretted it. For truth, though desirable beyond all human cravings, is a terrible weight to bear. And ignorance is bliss.

I had wished to know the truth, and to awaken to it. But the only thing I awoke to, was agony.


AN: Those squids do kinda look like little Cthulhus, no?