Restoring Factory Settings.

1/13/18

Pleasantly high and alcohol free, I listen to a hypnotic video on YouTube that aims towards removing unwanted hypnotic suggestions. As I do so, imagery pops up before my minds eye. I watch it all from the witness perspective. Sexual images emerge and fade as well as images of the stars, reminding me yet again how badly I want to lucid dream so I could feel the experience of flying through space again. Finally, I see imagery depicting the violent, consuming waters of a flood inundating the land, destroying things and carrying the scattered remnants away. When I awake, I feel considerably better, more together, more myself than I have in some time.

I listen again the following evening after smoking some cannabis and drinking some Kava tea. Again I recall having had seen apocalyptic scenes of destruction, though this time I’ve retained no memory of what those scenes entailed, or even if they depicted the same flooding scenario.

I presume these scenes are symbolic, of course, or at the very least hope they are.

While the drinking has become less frequent, I tend to overdue it when I haven’t drank in awhile, embracing some lame excuse that brings me back to it, where I subsequently make up for lost time. On such evenings, my brain reverts to writing poetry that I hardly remember writing, if at all. It also seems that alcohol and pot as a cocktail is what elicits my state-dependent tendency to revert back to the erotic hypnosis videos — otherwise, there is no issue staying the fuck away from them. No booze, no problem.

One wonders just how I developed this tendency towards watching and listening to erotic hypnosis, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it was my own manner of upping the ante with respect to porn. I’ve read before how I’m not alone, at least in the most general way: one watches moderate porn, but after awhile suffers from the law of diminishing returns and is then inspired to watch more extreme forms of porn. Erotic hypnosis became the higher rung on my stairway of perversion. The sense of intimacy provoked through sustained eye contact is what drew me in to Hypnotic Haylee and from then on it just got out of control. I began watching other erotic hypnosis videos — always seductive female hypnotists. I was always careful to avoid the exceptionally dangerous and cruel ones that degrade males, absolutely enslave you or try to program straight men such as myself into being homosexual. Even so, who knew what subliminal suggestions were present in any one of those videos? Who knew if a seemingly innocuous erotic hypnosis video might be a Trojan horse?

I tried to transition back to regular, mundane porn while drunk and high, but while drunk, it just wasn’t the same. As a consequence, I started looking for hypnotic porn videos on Porn Md. — and I found them.

Most of these were “alpha male” videos, which I thought might balance out hypnodomme videos. Last week, I came across one hypnotic porn video that seemed innocent enough but fucked me up royally. The following morning, I felt gross for some reason — brain-raped. Who knew what it might have infected my mind with? This shit had to stop.

I’ve managed to keep away from them for over a week, dodging even porn, falling back on old school still images to get my stupid rocks off. Two days ago, I decided to try to find a hypnotic video that would reverse unwanted hypnotic suggestions –and found one.

It seems a worthy form of experimentation not only because of the frightening hypnosis videos but because of how I feel certain television hypnotizes us all with who-knows-what and perhaps it might have some effect in posthypnotic suggestions implanted in my mind by those inhuman creatures…

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Light And Shadow.

I hate standing in line. That’s what finally led me to avoid water parks, as a matter of fact, especially when I began smoking and they wouldn’t let you take a puff despite being outside as you stood in a herd of humans for an absurd length of time. More to the point, for the last two years in the very least, when I had to get my registration renewed at the DMV I met with an excruciatingly long line. Last year, I had to go to the place twice, because after waiting for over an hour for my number to be called the first time I had to ditch out to ensure I’d make it to work on time. So this year, I left early. Two hours early.

I didn’t even get too lost, which is unheard of, and upon arrival I found the place was occupied by at most five other customers. I didn’t sit for five minutes before I was summoned to the counter. Figures. So now I’m parked in the lot at work, smoking, writing, reading, wondering if the experience I had on my way to the DMV is unusual or one of those things many experience but for one reason or another never take the time to talk about.

On the drive to the DMV, along the long stretch of road I drive down on a daily basis, the sun shone through the trees lining the side of the road and cast an enduring barcode formation of long, slender shadows onto the path before me. As I drove through these shadows, the flickering began to effect my vision as it always does. It’s like when you watch one of those animate, hypnotic spirals online: my field of vision became like the surface of a lake disturbed by a relentless onslaught of waves. I try not to look at the road for too long, quickly looking to the side or down at my speedometer, which morphs to a psychedelic degree, hoping I can fight against the altered state it starts to conjure by limiting my exposure as best as I can.

This happens frequently, but it’s rarely this bad, probably because I don’t often leave this early and the sun is far lower in the sky when I typically drive to work at roughly three o’clock. Is this a typical visual phenomenon, or does this suggest my high hypnotizability? I’ve never heard anyone else mention this before, but it seems unlikely I’m the only one…

The Plague of Devia Mara.

1/4/99

Effectively divorced from my skin and all sensory stimuli, I felt myself descend as if into the proverbial rabbit hole, leading me towards what either constituted a lucid dream or another plane of existence. The debate is still raging. In either case, I was awake and knew this was not mundane reality I was literally falling into, and so I feared the entity that had attacked me so often when this sort of thing happened might lunge at me, so in response I resorted to a technique I had picked up in my Occult readings and refashioned to my own satisfaction. Chanting the made-up word only I know three times, I summoned my protective shield. Evidently, the conditioning I had subjected myself during my ordinary, waking life paid off, as it occurred without effort in precisely the way I always imagined it to function. Starting in my chest area, a white, glowing ball of energy swiftly grew to encompass my entire form, cocooning me in a protective bubble of energy.

To my relief and amazement, the vicious entity without certain form never showed. Though I could be mistaken, I do believe that this was the first time that I had found myself awake within an otherworldly space and not ultimately been subjected to his relentless violence. As I continued to fall down this nonphysical well I saw floating Gray alien heads strewn all about as if I was underwater, which did not seem to be the case, until I ultimately came to rest in an alternate version of my bedroom. There, my lucidity depleted significantly.

What followed, at least in the notes that, judging from my handwriting, occurred immediately afterward, constituted various non-lucid but certainly vivid dreams. I cannot be certain of their chronology, the degrees to which I succeeded in remembering them or whether they were separate dreams or part of a single, enduring narrative, but they were of an uncommon clarity and an eerie, dark overcast. Two scenes have direct relevance here.

Inside what I know to be a long building with a large parking lot that in retrospect I surmised must have been a bar or restaurant, I am sitting at the bar, a friend to my left and a girl sitting to my right. She dragged off a cigarette held between long, frog-like lips positioned beneath buggy eyes, and I got the overwhelming feeling that she was depressed. For some reason, I also felt that she looked like a Jennifer.

In the next relevant scene, I am introduced to what I explained in my notes as a sex-crazed girl in a dark room. I saw her as if from below, sitting on her sofa chair as if it were a throne. Leaning back, sprawled on the chair quite comfortably, she had her right leg bent at the knee and leisurely aiming to my right, with that foot resting on the chair, the other leg casually hanging off the edge. She was clad in a black shirt and pants, her shoulder-length black hair the only discernible feature when I focus on her head, which is entirely draped in darkness.

Though I would much prefer to think that I walked, given the position from which I initially viewed her I would have to say that I was on my hands and knees and crawled toward her, eventually atop her, though her position did not significantly change as I did so. Looking down, I spied her belly, as concave as my own at the time, and her comparatively loose black jeans, void of any belt. So inverted was her tummy that I could not only discern that she wasn’t wearing any underwear but clearly see her finely-shaven vagina. I then asked her a question, I think whether or not she would be my girlfriend.

“No,” she replied. “No Sex.”

In the dream notes, I mentioned that she for some reason looked as if her name would be Devia, though I have never, up to the time of this writing, known any girl by that name.

***

Sometime after having this dream, when I again decided to try my hand at fiction, I wrote a short story inspired by the dream, which I entitled The Hole in the Universe. It dealt with a group of guys who hung out at a bar based partially on the one in my dream, which was run by the girl I had called Jennifer. Their typical, end-of-the-workday routine was interrupted one evening when a biker entered the doors, offering cautionary tales to the group regarding a girl he was attempting to hunt down called Devia Mara. He claimed that though he had never met her himself she had taken home some of the guys at the biker bar down the street and brainwashed them, drained them of all will, and those that returned to the bar after nights with her came back changed, not at all themselves. After ascertaining they had not seen or heard of such a woman before, he told them to be careful and departed.

As the story progressed, his dire warnings proved to have merit, as she had evidently moved her territory from his biker bar to their own and started plucking them away one by one — though in this case, none of his friends ever returned to the bar or were seen again. The last member of the group and the one qualifying as the protagonist of the story feared she was seducing and then killing them and, despite the fact that he had still never laid eyes on her, soon became obsessed with hunting her down himself.

Ultimately he encountered her on the stairs at a bar, where she bit his lip and he passed out, only to find himself bound in duct tape to the passenger seat of a car upon awakening, with her in the driver seat. They engaged in a rather aggressive conversation, during which she insisted she had not killed his friends but only helped them to accept their true, individual natures and open up to life, leaving their group and the bar behind them in the wake. Though she eventually releases him and they walk together along a bridge, he stubbornly refuses to trust in and be swayed by her as they allegedly had.

Up to this point I feel my story was okay — not great by any measure, but all right — though in retrospect I certainly feel as though there was far more I could’ve done with it. I am, on the other hand, entirely unsatisfied with the ending, where she revealed herself to be something akin to a psychic vampire or parasite of the soul and left him alone on the bridge, paralyzed, slowly disintegrating into dust, falling into the water below. It seemed dreadfully inconsistent not only with respect to the promise I felt she had in the context of the dream that inspired the story but in the story previous to that point. For her to reveal herself as some simple personification of evil after teasing true depth and complex motives through their conversation seemed cheap, and the ending rather predictable, at least in essence.

To make matters worse, there are suggestions that this was my intent from the very moment I began writing the story, though I can neither recall any specific intentions nor have I managed to uncover any suggestive notes.

For instance, I do know that there was a good reason I chose the last name Mara for her. By the point I had written the story I am sure I knew that a mare or mara was said to be an evil spirit essentially synonymous with mythical creatures such as the succubus, Incubus and the old hag in that they were said to straddle the chests of people as they slept and suffocate them, giving rise to bad dreams or “night-mares.” It should come as no surprise that they are currently thought to be hallucinations caused by sleep paralysis. I knew all this as I had one such experience myself in March of 1995 and had subsequently engaged in obsessive research — and in an era that was BG (Before Google), no less. The sense I got from my research was that such entities were essentially psychic parasites, which is clearly reflected in the ending of the story.

Though I am fairly certain that I had no knowledge of it at the time, I have also discovered that Mara was the name of the demon that tempted Siddhārtha Gautama on his path towards enlightenment, which is to say to the trajectory that terminated upon him earning the title of Buddha. Mara is therefore considered in the eyes of at least some present-day Buddhist sects to be the personification of all that seeks to keep one bound to the wheel of death and rebirth.

In essence, my intention seemed to ultimately present her as a seductive entity that enslaved others and drained them of their power.

***

Though her face remained concealed within the dream, once I introduced her in the realm of my writing I gave her definite features. I was rather taken aback when I read it again, as it seems to describe Hypnotic Haylee, who I only stumbled upon far later, rather accurately:

“Her green eyes dug into me like a knife,” I wrote. “Her forehead was tilted further outward than her chin, and locks of her black hair fell across her face, reminding me so much of a predator fixating on her prey.”

While I never delved into how it was Devia changed those who became entangled in her web, hypnosis would fit nicely, and had I known enough about it at the time I feel certain I would have included it in the story as the means by which she “brainwashed” the guys at the biker bar. In any case, I’ve come to suspect that this is why I ultimately gravitated towards Haylee so many years later. She fit the profile of Devia in the dream to a startling degree and at least physically in the story that it inspired, suggesting that I have been psychologically projecting Devia onto her.

Mindfulness Versus the Hypnodomme.

For a good while — sometime between six months to a full year — I came home every night, sat on my couch or my papasan, set the timer on my iPhone for anywhere between ten minutes and half an hour, closed my eyes and fought to remain motionless as I summoned determination to focus exclusively on my breath. Once I failed, I worked on not beating myself up about it and instead returned as gracefully as I could to my point of focus: the nostrils, the breath.

It was all going so well. And then it wasn’t.

I stopped my daily practice at around the same time I began drinking nightly, which was, I think, very early in July of 2015. It seemed counterproductive to continue engaging in both and I wouldn’t stop drinking, so the bottle won the battle. Two days ago, on Christmas Eve, I meditated for the first time in a long time and instantly remembered why I had once kept up with it on a nightly basis to begin with: the pleasant, however transient sense of focus I can achieve during the practice; the sense that it somehow serves to balance out my brain; the ability to reach beyond my emotions, thoughts and memories into a place more central, more true to me, a closer approximation my “original face” otherwise suffocating behind the thick and icky masque of the everyday.

Honesty, I was pretty damned surprised that after not having practiced for so long that I achieved any immediate benefit at all.

Then again, I have continued subjecting myself to hypnosis since abandoning meditation — and they are essentially the same thing, right? Meditation is just hypnosis initiated and guided by oneself. Hypnosis is just meditation initiated and guided by someone else. Even so, I prefer meditation, particularly since I have sensed something insidious about those hypnodomme videos on the net. Evidently, this means little to whatever part of me is under control in these instances. Typically I feel compelled to watch them when I’m alone and high. The issue, the urge, has continued to plague high-me with a rhythm comprised of piques and troughs.

It has been some time since I’ve consciously addressed it at length — even longer since I wrote about it. It embarrasses me that much. I mean, from at least as far back as high school I have intentionally avoided watching or investing any attention in commercials on television or the net because I fear being brainwashed. I still do this despite the fact that, when I’m high, I am overcome by this state-dependent impulse to seek out videos that essentially aim to do just that. Maybe it’s just the relative honesty that earns my respect.

Another contradiction about all of this is my profound distaste for the newest brand of feminism, whatever you wish to call it — the brand of feminism that seeks not egalitarianism but female dominance, idolizing women as it demonizes men, modeling their desired matriarchy over the perceived presence of an oppressive patriarchy.

Let me be clear: I’m all for equality, equity, egalitarianism. We all have equal value as individuals regardless of the body we happened to be born into. It’s Dualism (of the philosophy of the mind) at work in me. Sex, gender identity, sexual persuasion, skin pigment, point of origin and so on and so forth — prejudice on that basis is unethical. No one should be oppressed. We are all individuals and we have personal rights that should be self-evident and recognized by whatever typically corrupt social system we are embedded in. Do what you will, be who you are, so long as it oppresses no other. This does not seem to be what modern feminism stands for, however.

Chauvinist pigs and sexists can sport any of the available kinds of genitalia: it is by no means exclusive to men. Their are dictators, pussytators, and I’m sure their are hermaphrotators: there are -tators for everyone. And -tators are the enemy.

This malevolent quality is not always something I sense from the hypnodommes, but it does seem to be a prevalent undercurrent — and despite my distaste for it, I still keep falling under their spell. I pluralize it — “hypnodommes” — because it is more than one hypnodomme I have come to listen to, though Hypnotic Haylee was the genesis and remains the nucleus. My attempts to diversify in this area was an attempt to at least ensure I would not be owned by or bound to any single one.

I do not let this practice carry over into the sober state, either, as an effort to compartmentalize the issue, to quarantine the whole thing. The sober part of me of hates that it relaxes me, that it helps me shut my mind up so that I — drunk, high and hypnotized — can finally get some sleep. This makes it no less stupid of me, makes me no less of a weak minded fool, of course, and of this I am painfully aware. My shame and self loathing over this has helped me limit the effects, too.

Mindfulness meditation can help me own myself, find myself, be myself, create myself, make it so the mask I’m trapped within more accurately reflects whatever strange, unearthly soul hides behind it. It can make it so that my Original Face does not hide so much as merely, and inevitably, reside behind it. Hypnodommes? They seem counterproductive. As soon as I think of Hypnotic Haylee’s green eyes, however, and particularly when I’m high, I all-too-often succumb.

Still I oscillate between something approximating weakness and something approximating strength — but the weakness has taken over. Time to balance this out…

I Dream of Haylee.

It is three or four in the evening on November 21 when I wake up and drag my ass out of bed. It takes awhile for the dream to trickle back to me. I actually write it down in the notebook beside me on bed, which I have been neglecting to do when it comes to dreams for some time. It was a dream of Hypnotic Haylee. My first recalled dream of her, too, I should mention, unless you count the “text” I got from her during a false awakening some time ago.

In the dream I somehow meet her in person. Though we were in some bedroom, it was strangely a circumstance void of any sexual charge that I can recall — notable, I should add, as there always seems to be some erotic-mystical element to watching her videos, listening to her audios or reading her words. We talk some and I keep looking into her eyes, drawn there, transfixed, and I become convinced she must have the capacity to control the constriction and dilation of her pupils. At least twice I feel sure that I saw, for a brief moment, how she squeezed her pupil to almost a pinpoint, her green iris overtaking everything.

My lingering fear towards her gave way to burning curiosity. I was about to ask her if she was capable of controlling her pupils and used it as some form on hypnotic induction method, uncertain if it was just me, when some other guy burst in the door and asked her the same question. Though I do not recall her response, I do recall being frustrated that he got in the question first.

High Hypnotizability?

As I drive to work, the sun begins going down behind the trees lining the side of the road, casting long, slender shadows across my path. I cannot look at the road, for the flashing it exposes my eyes to as I drive feels dangerously entrancing. When I look at the lines of light and shadows as I drive through them, I can feel my eyes do that strange thing, like my field of vision is the surface of an ocean and I am staring into a series of rhythmic waves. The intensity is such that my vision almost seems tactile, as if I were running my fingers along a ridged surface.

I try to keep my attention on the road ahead. To focus. The adrenaline it delivers, the effort it takes to focus away from it, all of it is remarkably intense.

Does this happen to everyone, or am I just highly hypnotizable?

Haylee & Phantom Texts.

Despite not having internet at my residence for the last two months or so (mainly due to the fact that my neighbor finally put a password on his WiFi), I have somehow managed to feed my continuing hypnotic Haylee obsession through collecting some images of her off the internet and putting them on slideshow. So I put on the slide show, watched it while I was high as a kite, and submitted to getting my stupid rocks off in the process of doing so. I have not seen her videos for some time, at least consistently. Unless previously having watched her videos conditioned and reinforced the seductive hypnotic response I presently experience when staring at her photos while intoxicated, I’m really at a loss to explain how it happens — but it does. My capacity to fixate on her eyes is almost alarming.

It was only a matter of time. Eventually, I kept telling myself, she is going to show up in your dreams, and this morning (August 3rd) she did. It may have been part of a false awakening I do not entirely remember, for it seemed to be when I glanced at my iPhone when half-asleep and saw the opening lines of a text message:

“Hi Ben! This is Haylee…”

I felt fear and excitement when I read it, but rolled over and went back to sleep. I have never contacted her and she shouldn’t know my name, certainly not my real one, so my response was a bit bizarre.

Her pull is certainly strong…

Notes from the Pocket.

Was it the hypnosis videos I listened to again last night to relax? Was it her who opened the door again?

It began last night and they, the memories, have continued creeping in since I awoke. Like a pocket of memory with an ever-widening hole and these fragments keep slipping through. Recollections hiding in this strange mood, now emerging before me yet again. The same things I always remember about the place, be it a parascom or otherwise, though now I feel closer to them.

A phosphorescent oasis in the midst of a dark wasteland. Ferns and trees glowing neon. A sense of beauty and lethality within this patch of jungle. Across the desert, predatory creatures, like swiftly-moving psycho-pompoms with long spider legs. Sand and hard ground and rock formations. An underground place, fairly well hidden, that I call home. Death machines, war machines, like triangular tanks without visible guns and with wheels that stretch far above my head. Every brief and vivid memory, so convincingly lifelike. Within the memory my vision seems widescreen, crystalline clear and farsighted. Bigger and better eyes, perhaps, or an atmosphere high in oxygen. As that creature pounces, dust flies up and settles slowly, as if the wasteland is low in gravity. This can’t be earth. I can’t be human. This can’t be real, the rational part of me insists. Why do I remember this as if I were there? Why so rich an illusion, so strange a lie? Just let me see the face I’m looking out of. I keep striving for my reflection in these forbidden recollections.

If this is real, what does it mean? If it’s not real — what the fuck does it all mean?

Some greater understanding here would be nice…

Haylee & Flashes Before the Mind’s Eye.

On April 3, 2015, in the midst of listening to Haylee’s “Blank and Empty” video, I suddenly receive a flash of what feels like a memory. I am moving across a vast, desert landscape when I come to a broad and narrow entrance. Inside is a ramp that slopes downward, underneath the desert floor, into my subterranean home. I felt safe there; secure. You could not see the entrance from the sky and no one would suspect it was there.

A day or two afterward, while watching Haylee again, I suddenly see a crisp and vivid still image in my mind’s eye. It is the corner of some beautifully blue in-ground pool. It is a bright and warm summer day and I have no fear, no worry, not a care in the world. I feel in the here and now and it is cleansing, refreshing.

Then, on April 6, I get high, watch two Haylee videos and then masturbate. I just observe my mind for awhile, watch as it flips through images as I drift off towards sleep. Suddenly, it manifests before me in my mind, where it appears real close to my face (my innerface, I guess). It is a pitch black silhouette of a man against a bright white background. Faceless and facing me. It is vivid as hell but lasts only a second. When I see it, I bolt awake in my bed, sitting up in shock. The area from my head to my chest was numb and tingly.

Kriya, Anima & the Rabbit Hole.

If I remember correctly, it first came to my attention while watching the Haylee videos on YouTube, back when I was still living in the old apartment. I had a lot of approach and retreat with respect to watching her videos; I’m uncertain as to how far along I was at the time, or perhaps where I fell along her conditioning schedule.

In any case, in the midst of a Hypnotic Haylee marathon I suddenly snapped into a state of consciousness in which it distinctly felt as though two of me were there. By this I don’t mean me-as-body and me-as-mind, but rather that there were two distinct aspects of consciousness active and present in my body at once, like one subtle form superimposed on my own.

My feeling was that this was indeed a part of me and not “something else” in a sense of an intruding spirit or whatever, only a compartmentalized and evidently autonomous part. I could not anticipate how he would move; again, which is to say that I observed myself making movements without deliberately making those movements. The movements were not anything major or complex and seemed rather stiff and robotic-like. The background mood at the time was of a calm, charged, trancey, blissful kind of feeling. The feeling was no doubt induced by both the fact I was high on cannabis and her vast array of clever hypnotic techniques — yet were the movements also programmed by her covertly, subliminally, or was this arising all on its own?

This has happened since, both on occasions while high and during meditation, and at least once while both high and meditating. My eyes will pop open and I will move my head, often robotically, to the left and right and face forward, a sense of curiosity often the reaction I feel from the animating force. I get the residual sense of staring out of my own eyes through an entirely distinct state of mind in which all appears foreign and interesting. When I’m high I also occasionally find myself ashing my cigarette without deliberately doing so, which is distinct from doing so absent-mindedly, for instance.

The only reference I can find that even vaguely fits this experience is what is known as “spontaneous kriya.” From the Sanskrit, kriya can translate to action, much like karma, which has the same root. Though it is often used to refer to intentional movements used during yoga in order to put the peddle to the metal with respect to spiritual evolution, kriya is also a word often used to refer to the reverse. Rather than movements used to spawn such evolution, spiritual evolution — the awakening kundalini — spontaneously spawns such movements in an involuntary way, as a kinetic manifestation, during meditation.

However nice it would be able to see the movements I made during meditation to be symptoms of psycho-spiritual progress, kriya as described seems to refer to more random movements ranging from slight jerks and twitches to full-blown, ants-in-the-pants attacks resembling seizures. In some cases, people can allegedly twist themselves into a pretzel like a yoga master, or like those who are possessed are said to do, and may even make involuntary sounds. In essence, it sounds like the Eastern equivalent of speaking in tongues and flopping around in the floor like a fish out of water because you’re “possessed by the holy spirit.”

Kriya could be seen as a form of instinctive displacement, perhaps: the involuntary act of discharging unblocked energy in movements, either random or perhaps in a manifestation bearing patterns characterizing the blocked energy in question. It may be a broader manifestation of what are often called ideomotor responses (subliminal movements such as during hypnosis or when using a Ouija board, for instance).

Or might the “holy spirit” in this case be the energy-working hypnodomme, the seductively psychic hypnotist, mentalist; the puppetry of that luscious, insatiably dark mistress Haylee — she who teases you into trance, makes surrender a fix and obedience an addiction.

Terrifying. Yet alluring. Oh, my trust issues…

Why does she appear to be the more likely source of the two? Mostly due to the fact that the movements appear deliberate, not random or rhythmic, as described across the net and shown in several unconvincing (to put it kindly) YouTube videos allegedly depicting the phenomenon.

Since I stopped listening and watching her for some time, I have felt the desire creeping up to watch her again. When I finally relinquished to the pull, I wrote about it. It was written in third person limited as part of my effort to try out a little experiment in self-talk, a literary manifestation of my approach to this behavior with mindfulness at the suggestion of that Actualized.org guy, who has some interesting videos and viewpoints that I have enjoyed chewing on and experimenting with. He said to be mindful of your behavior, but rather than interfering with it just take up an observer position and “follow through.” So I did. I attempted to watch her again twice since picking up daily meditation, I dipped out and masturbated halfway through on both occasions.

And tonight, I return again, feeling high, lonely, horny and typically lost in a world I have never felt I belong. Seeking comfort. Wanting to feel that other side of me again, knowing I may just end up damning myself by the time I woke up that evening for my third shift, I look up Haylee on my laptop.

Beginning at 6:40 AM on March 5, 2015, I watch two or three videos until deciding to get higher and watch some more. I then had a cigarette, but as I wanted to finish it rather than have it burn down to the filter as I became transfixed, I decided to “read her words” on her website. As I looked, I saw a video to the right — Haylee’s guided meditation. No fucking way, I thought. I had been listening to some Kabat-Zinn videos and other guided meditations at night sometimes in addition to my daily meditation. Just the other day I had tried Googling for such guided meditation tapes with a sexy female voice — something with the power of Hypnotic Haylee but without the fears of some hypnotic army agenda — and here it was. Found when I stopped looking. I couldn’t resist. I plugged my ear buds first into my laptop, then into my ears and pressed play.

Magnificent. Like an answer to my telepathic plea.