I was lying in a bed and staring at the ceiling, and I was thinking about all the packages of shredded cheese that were accumulating in the refrigerator due to my inability to make a proper check of things before going off to the grocery store. It distressed me greatly and I knew that I had to use them in accordance with their expiration dates or it was possible that some would need to go to the trash barrel. That’s a thought I couldn’t comfortably digest because I am one who hates wastefulness. I was racing the clock of life.

That’s when I looked about the room and noticed there wasn’t an actual clock anywhere. I had no idea what time it was. I looked toward the windows that lined the far side of the room. There was sunlight and blue sky beyond the straight, black vertical lines evenly spaced there. Those were the metal bars designed to keep my madness locked inside so as not to damage the already damaged world.

The walls of the room where I was being kept were a sickly yellowish orange color. Perhaps more akin to the color of a bleached peach. On one of the walls was a large painting of a maniacal-looking man holding a moldy orange in each of his hands. He had a wild and devious grin on his face and his hair was catastrophic, as if he had just stepped into the frame from an earth-shattering windstorm. I must confess; however, the colors went well with the room but the image itself was highly disturbing to me.

I looked up at the ceiling again and that’s when I noticed the pharaohs depicted upon it resembled what could only be described as beings from another world. It was truly unmistakable—the shapes of them, the odd colors of their various skins, their language, their beliefs. It all made sense to me, but then again, perhaps that is why I was here… Because it made no sense to anyone else. I blame the arrogant Earthlings for my captivity.

And recently it has come to me in dreams and half awareness these thoughts: Why are the space aliens visiting us? What are they doing up there? My theory is that they are preparing the people of the world to be taken off the planet. It would be a mighty undertaking by them I imagine… To lift billions of people off the Earth and move them somewhere else. Perhaps they are our true religious saviors, and we are blind to it because we are praying to statues and bearded wizards in the sky. Perhaps the spacemen are the true ones setting up a place for us in the heavens. They are God and the angels.

They look down upon us and see our planet cannot sustain itself. We are destroying it more and more every single day. The mad people ignore the destruction of the environment for that is no real concern to them—for they prefer to hate each other and burn plastic dolls in frivolous, infantile protest.

Perhaps instead of preparing for some war with the aliens via the ridiculous notion of a Space Force, instead of human beings continually being focused on destruction and killing, we should be embracing the presence of these otherworldly beings, welcoming them, preparing ourselves for the final journey to the stars, the resurrection of humanity, the true ascension to the realm of our roots.

Perhaps these extraterrestrials are going through a filtering process with their visitations… What do they do with all the fucking morons? What do they do with all the hateful ambassadors of religion? The bigots, the liars, the frauds, the murderers, the thieves, the utterly ignorant? Let’s leave them behind to burn with the planet they neglected. There is your true judgement day. There is your true rapture. Don’t miss the mothership. Ye mouth this new mantra.

There came a light knocking on the door and then it opened and in came Dr. Milkman. He was dressed in all white as usual. Even his rubber gloves and shoes were white. He was bathed in pure milk, a white-sheeted entity. He wore studious glasses and was losing his hair but styled it as if he just didn’t care what it looked like anymore. His skin was pale. Dr. Milkman held some sort of chart, and he went to the complicated looking machines around me. He checked various screens and connections, pushed some buttons, turned some knobs. He scribbled something on his chart with a silver pen.

Then he spoke to me without even looking at me. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m a bit worried about something.”

His eyes moved from his chart to my face. He was surprisingly interested. “Oh. What’s that?”

“I’m afraid I bought packages of shredded cheese when I already had shredded cheese in the refrigerator, unopened. So, now I have all this shredded cheese and I feel pressured to use it before it expires. I don’t want to have to throw any of it out. Wasting food is devastating to me. The more I think about it, the more upset I get. I’m feeling very anxious… I feel I need to make a casserole or something, like, right now.”

Dr. Milkman uncharacteristically smiled as he wrote on the chart with his silver pen.

“What are you writing down?”

“Observations,” he answered.

“Do you think this is funny?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Because I’m being serious about all that cheese. Can you give me something? I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin.”

Dr. Milkman sighed and placed a reassuring hand on my leg through the white blanket. “Cheese should be the least of your concerns in this world. You’re not well, and so you should focus on getting better, not on an abundance of cheese. The Earth will still spin, and time will march on regardless. I’ll have the nurse bring you a mild sedative.”

“Mild? I don’t need something mild. I need something to make me forget that I exist.”

The doctor’s face turned serious. “You don’t want to exist?”

I looked up at the green-skinned pharaohs for some proper guidance from among the ceiling and the stars. “Sometimes. Isn’t that normal?”

“Not always.”

 My focus purposely shifted. “Can I ask you something?”

“Absolutely.”

I motioned with my head. “What’s with the crazy painting of the guy holding the moldy oranges?”

The doctor turned to follow my gaze. “Do you like it?”

“No. It’s odd. And it seems out of place. Don’t the people who run this facility realize a painting like that could be detrimental to a person’s state of mind? We’re already fragile and disturbed. Why not hang a painting of a lighthouse or a peaceful mountain or a glittering spaceship in the sky?”

“No, no. A lighthouse is no good. Lighthouses are creepy. They are spires of loneliness, hollow horns, cold and dark. And mountains? People fall off mountains and die all the time. The man with the oranges is thought-provoking.” Dr. Milkman tapped at his mussed head with a finger. “A painting like that greases the mind. A painting like that is good for you.”

“I have to disagree.”

“And what’s this about glittering spaceships? Have you seen something?”

I gently clawed at my bearded face as I considered what to reveal. “I suppose I’ve been preoccupied with the end of the world. I’ve decided that the extraterrestrials may be our only hope.”

“You’re a believer in UFOs then?” the doctor asked.

“I am. I’ve seen them myself… Five red jewels in the sky above the desert in the blazing American Southwest.”

“That’s quite an extreme division of thought.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, first you were terribly concerned about packages of shredded cheese… And now it’s about aliens and the end of the world.”

“My mind is a broad spectrum. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

The doctor smiled. “We’re working on it.” He adjusted his glasses and made a move for the door. “It would be good for you to get out of this room occasionally, to be social with the other patients. I highly encourage it.”

I moved my head to look at him. “I don’t care for people much,” I told him. “They’re generally a grave disappointment.”

“Not everyone is a terrible person. Maybe give someone a chance.”

He slipped out the door and I was alone again. I threw my blanket back and crawled out of the bed. My muscles felt stiff. I stretched and walked toward the bank of windows. I grasped the metal bars and looked out. The landscape was rugged and felt African. The dunes of sand were a rusty orange color and those high, shape-shifting mounds receded for miles from the edge of a very dark blue sea. I could smell the salty air. I saw miniature people slowly walking along the shore and I envied their freedom. I tried to bend the bars apart, but it was useless. I should have known that. There must be some other way to escape, I thought.

I went to the door and out into the dimly lit hallway. I scuttled along the shining tile and was soon swallowed up by the smells and the moans and often the screams. I heard the television loudly playing in the dayroom and stood outside looking in. There was a small group of other patients gathered around watching the horrible news. A young woman turned her head and looked at me in a crazy way. Then she quickly looked away as if I was some terrible being.

I walked the hallways until I could take no more and then went back to my room and waited for my dinner to arrive. I ate and then rested until darkness began to descend. I went back to the windows and looked out. There the universe began to come to life against a bruise-colored backdrop, the hollow moon a burgeoning beacon. I felt their presence on the dark side. I felt their presence in the fluttering orbs of gold and green. I suddenly and unexplainably turned to look at the painting of the maniacal man with the oranges. For some reason he brightened in the growing darkness. I stepped closer and looked into his crazy eyes. They were now sockets filled with swirling stars and then I heard him very clearly speak in a warbled, mechanical voice. He said, “Come inside. Come inside.”

At first, I stepped back, but then I reached forward with my hand, and without any resistance it went right into the canvas and through it. I quickly retracted it, and it was covered in wet paint and space dust, a mingling dripping of stars and the colors in the strange portrait.

The voice came again. “Reach in a little further, and then further still. Come all the way through and the true Heaven will find you.”

I steadied myself with my hands on the bottom edge of the frame and pushed my head through. There was a calming wind, a rush of colors and spirals and primordial visages. I took a deep breath and there was no fear.

“All the way to the end,” the voice said. “We are waiting.”

I leapt forward into the portal with all my strength. A sudden soft dark and quiet met me on the other side. I looked up and the universe was there in all its expanding strength and perfection. I turned to look back through the portal and it was now like a clear window, and through it I saw my former room of captivity completely void of me.

I saw Dr. Milkman suddenly rush into the room and frantically search for me. He went to the windows and looked down. Then he turned and came to what was the maniacal painting for him, the window for me. He tried to peer through it as if he knew, but he could not see me. He was speaking but I couldn’t understand the words. His language was now suddenly unimaginable to me. I stepped away and turned. The ship there was lit up like Las Vegas, yet meditative like a monk. I moved toward the light, the welcoming light we all crave at the end, and I stepped aboard the shimmering cloud and into this gesture of graceful, everlasting ascension.

END

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