“For the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me: they have spoken against me with a lying tongue.” (Psalms 109:2 KJV)

If I had known then what I know now, I could have saved some face and spared myself a lot of trouble. Little did I know, my body and mind had been temporarily hijacked. River’s friends had reached out to me and I was about to discover the significance of the water that turned out to be his death sentence. The first comment began as follows:

“I could be of some use to you … Hear me out? Only I can’t speak too loud.”

It had to be an insider. The comment was left on a post I published about The Illuminati controlling Hollywood and how celebrities and musicians alike were trying to warn the masses through their art. The commenter went on to say:

“That’s right… Line 16. Line 17. Line 21. Line 22. This has been my belief for some short while and I intend to get inside. Not for any old reason. Music is not just any old reason. Line 23, I’m a year older than he. It took a while but I found the answers I sought, I found the key. If you need inside knowledge, you may turn to me. How best to commune in secrecy? Have to be careful, you see. Don’t want my plan to fall short of greater good. Understood? Wish to turn the inside out.”

Like the kid in the movie, A Christmas Story, I began decoding the secret message with my secret decoder ring only to find out I needed to drink more Ovaltine. I eventually concluded that the line, “I found a key,” meant that he had moved into the house directly behind mine. The house sat vacant for close to a year after its previous owner passed away. A giant leap, I know, but in the days and months following, my suspicions about my new neighbor became well-founded. The next comment was quite long, and although posted under a different name, I assumed it was the same person:   

“I see you get the synchronicities, too. Are you familiar with Jung? In synchronicities I trust, they’re faithful signposts to me. Only with smoking, drinking (what ya drinkin’?), little sleep, little food, pressure at work, pressure from the past, it’s going to be affecting your detective skills. Bear this in mind. I do feel you go a little too far. But I know how shattering it can be to be told such a thing, because you put so much into it and chase it for so long and occasionally have to question your sanity but you have too much faith in your pursuit to turn back; I know how it feels even if I don’t recall being told I go too far myself, I just intrinsically know and empathise. Still, I say it anyway. You could say the same to me over at ‘the Kingdom’. If one overloads themselves, burns themselves out, it’s to be expected. Some of the [song] lyrics for a start, you’ve sourced them from a website which was not wholly accurate or you’ve misheard with your earphones in, easy mistake to make but could change your interpretations to some extent. Off the top of my head I know of a few instances where the lyrics are misheard, I can let you know over email if you’d like. Last thing I want is to appear as rude here, openly commenting on this matter. On another note, how much of the occult do you delve into? Surely enough to attain some of the knowledge you have, but have you been reading through books and initiating yourself into it? I read that you are or were religious – family background – and you certainly believe in God. How comfortable are you to stray from religion or an orthodox belief in God, the biblical God (as it may be)? Because this would surely influence your research and understanding of certain aspects. Water, for instance, could be to do with alchemy, the living water, as mentioned in the Bible where it was distorted for the gain of those men behind the ‘prisons of the cross’. Might this be of use? And yet still this is not what I meant when I said I could be of use.”

Their words were like the poison of asps, but it’s the little things that really caught my attention. The question, “what ya drinkin’?” for instance, led me to believe that someone was watching me in my own backyard. The use of the term ‘prisons of the cross’ complimented this theory as I had just put up a wooden cross for the dead puppy. The sentence, “Bear this in mind,” also struck a chord since my own dog was nicknamed “Bear.” This, it would turn out, was my introduction (my “initiation” if you will) into a new language, a language that still plagues me to this day. I could spend an entire chapter dissecting this thing, but for the moment, I prefer not to. The most obvious statements about synchronicities, the distortion of the Bible, and the references to the occult and alchemy should have been red flags, and they were to an extent. I knew I was dealing with a non-Christian, but I looked past our differences in an effort to learn the truth about River’s death. Above all and quite honestly though, I was just a tad bit star-struck. Nervous about exposing someone and blowing their cover (“Only I can’t speak too loud”), I didn’t know whether to post the comments, delete them or leave them be. Confusion and paranoia already wreaked havoc, so much so, I received this comment from a person calling themselves Iffy:

“What is it you’re hiding from by not posting – and / or deleting – my comments? I’m not offended myself, I find such a behavioural response curious is all. I’m offering information for your search, inside knowledge, but you’re not interested. That’s okay, you don’t have to be, you’re not obliged to, but I would have thought it would have made your research a little easier in certain respects. I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t very much about River at all; that it’s about your own search, your own discoveries about yourself; you’re just using this River Phoenix case as a sort of defence mechanism (perhaps) to distance yourself from your own traumas. It doesn’t add up otherwise. I would have liked to have helped, sincerely.”

Perhaps I am…

After I reposted the deleted comments, it became a free-for-all. My blog was inundated with bizarre, cryptic comments about the occult, about River, and about the people involved in his life. Thing is, none of them made much sense. They talked in riddles with obvious Grammar and punctuation, Errors combined with horribel spelling. A capitalized word Here, a period there. in the middle of a sentence, and I was left to decode the messages and try to make sense of it all. I was smoking more weed, drinking more wine, eating less and sleeping less. A voice kept repeating in my head, louder and clearer than my own jumbled thoughts, “Look and listen.” Fueled by alcohol and weed, I went outside one night and heard loud knocks on my wooden fence. To the right and straight ahead toward the new neighbors, phantom knocks drove me into a frenzied search in the backyard. I was on a scavenger hunt but had no idea what I was looking for or why. Clues, I supposed. At one point I even peaked over the back fence but quickly ducked down when someone coughed and cleared their throat. They wanted something, but what? River’s friends had read my blog and made contact and now it was up to little ole’ me to expose this thing. The mounting pressure of my situation took its toll. I could feel someone breathing down my neck but who it was I didn’t know. I couldn’t decipher their messages or understand what it was they were trying to tell me. I kept thinking, they’ve gone through all this trouble, I can’t let them down! Although I quit keeping a journal several years ago, I returned to my first love and recorded my troubled thoughts.  

Journal Entry (09/20/15)

Feel like I’m being watched, like I’m being stalked, like someone is in my head, like I have a psychic connection with someone. “Prepare yourself.”  “Look and listen.” I think I pissed him off without meaning to. I don’t recognize my life anymore, and I can’t even tell my best friend. Secrets! All over again, secrets. I’ve come full circle and it feels like a curse. I’m losing my religion. “Watcha drinkin?” he asked. I’m searching the backyard and front yard like a drunk bloodhound, sifting through leaves, kneeling down by the fence, talking to myself, meanwhile they’re watching me the whole time.

Journal Entry (9/23/15)

As I write this I’m pretty sure my house is under surveillance. Not by the CIA or Homeland Security or any government related department, but by a very well-known, extremely wealthy musician from one of the most popular bands from my generation. I’m pretty sure he just recently purchased the house right across from mine. I’m pretty sure he’s been watching me for quite a while. He knows all my secrets. He’s like Santa Claus, or God. He knows if I’ve been naughty or nice, and he lets me know about it. Only a crazy person could handle this – I’m certified.

Journal Entry (9/25/15)

Brought back passion. Homeless derelicts (eyeing them). Knew I was being played. Paranoia strikes deep! Nothing to hide anymore. You’re going to be a writer someday. Destiny hit me upside the head. Lady in Blue Cloak. Everything leads up to this – Don’t mess it up! 

By the end of September this thing had completely taken over my life. The young black man returned again, the first one I met with the green Nike shoes, and asked for my number, he then asked if he could borrow my phone. “Boy, I’m tired,” he said before calling one of his friends in a small neighboring town named Willis. I eyed him suspiciously and waited for him to say something significant, some kind of clue that let me know he was in on it, but he only thanked me and said, “I’ll see ya around,” before sprinting off across the street. My eyes were heavy and bloodshot, my hair sporadic and frazzled, I probably slept about three hours the night before…he was tired.  

I couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching me. Wherever I went, whatever I did, the same person was watching my every move. My blog could go all day without comments, but the minute I logged on to check, the comments began pouring in. They called themselves Anonymous, Midnight, Lindsey, or various initials with numbers and underscores. They used fake email addresses. Sometimes their comments made sense, sometimes they didn’t, but one thing was certain, I was far from solving the conspiracy behind River’s death. My addictions worsened, my paranoia worsened, my emotions were out of control, and my analytical mind was taking a backseat to illogical chaos.

The young black man returned the following day, only this time I couldn’t understand one word he spoke. He talked absolute gibberish, babbling incoherently as I sat on the bench trying to decipher his speech. Finally, I understood the phrase, “Man, I’m stoned.” He then proceeded to ask me for money again. I gave him a couple of dollars and he quickly went on his way. After that, I began hiding in my car during breaks at work. I chain-smoked. I drank more. I lied to friends and family about everything that was going on because I could prove nothing. I didn’t want to expose them. They were keeping tabs on me, making sure I didn’t blow their cover which is why they bugged my house and sent moles to watch over me at work. I suspected some of my coworkers were most likely involved. This thing is huge, I thought. What have I gotten myself into? I temporarily set my blog to private, but I couldn’t get away from it. They were everywhere. Even at home in my own backyard, they, he, or it was there. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and heard a man’s voice on the radio say, “we understand,” followed by the static of white noise. A car then screeched out of the driveway from my neighbor’s house, their house, his house.

Journal Entry (9/26/15)

I think I pissed him off again. Dear God, I’m in over my head.

Journal Entry (9/28/15)

It feels like the entire industry is riding on me. I’ve never felt such pressure in all my life. I don’t know where it’s leading, hopefully not the funny farm, possibly rehab. I find myself despising the very people I set out to help. Me. Little ole me. A nobody. A girl who knows how to keep a secret. I’ve come full circle and so I return to you, dear friend, my childhood diary. My life has become a never-ending episode of Twin Peaks. I’ll adjust. Eventually, I’ll adjust. Eventually I’ll be able to eat and sleep again. Eventually I’ll be able to talk to someone, cry on someone’s shoulder and consider my own well-being.

Journal Entry (9/29/15)

In hiding again. I don’t think my stomach will ever be the same again. I find him to be cruel sometimes, although I’ve never actually met him. I look to the days when it’s over, said and done, and while I know I’ll miss the excitement, I won’t miss him. Mind games. Control. Manipulation – I’ve seen it before. But it’s not about me. It never has been. Maybe that’s the way I like it.

It wasn’t long before I was led to believe that River had actually faked his death and was living in the house located behind mine. He was my new neighbor. He was they, he was him, he was it. River was the heavy presence I couldn’t shake. He was the person responsible for everything. I came to this conclusion after someone named Anonymous posted a comment about it, and then I actually did the research. I guess it’s possible, I thought. It certainly explained all those loose ends I couldn’t tie into a neat bow. The more I thought about it, the more likely it became in my mind. After posting my new theory on my blog, I went out in the backyard to see the neighbor’s house lit up for the first time. Usually, the green-trimmed house sat in complete darkness. The minute I stepped outside, the house lit up for about five seconds or so and then went black again. It was a sign, I thought. He’s letting me know he’s in there, that he’s alive!  

Journal Entry (10/10/15)

I saw his long hair, can I tell you, dear diary, the man of my dreams is living across from me. I will jump the fence. If I see that red light again, I’m jumping the fence.

Journal Entry (10/12/15)

Do I believe he faked his own death? Yes. Do I believe he’s actually living across the street from me? Someone involved is but I’ve never met River in the flesh. Are all the comments from the same person? Are his friends involved? Am I really in contact with the late River Phoenix?

After “discovering” that River was actually alive, things temporarily improved. The comments on my blog continued giving me mixed reviews, some acknowledging that he faked his death and some still trying to help me solve his murder, but I was convinced that he was living right next to me. Everyday my blog received new followers and I began receiving numerous friend requests from people I didn’t know on Facebook. They must be more insiders, I thought. I even zeroed in on one such stranger who I believed to be River himself. I concluded that the Facebook profiles were probably fake accounts set up to hide the person’s true identity. The person that I thought to be River began posting various love letters that I assumed were directed at me. Everything he posted seemed to be in synch with my everyday life. After washing the dishes I’d check his Facebook page to see a new post with a woman drenched in water. If I went outside to smoke a cigarette, he’d immediately post something about someone being outside smoking. I went mudding with some friends (don’t ask) and checked his page to see an SUV driving through a muddy terrain, but the synchronicities didn’t stop with him. They multiplied and grew like cancer until everyone’s posts seemed to be mocking me. It was as if an umbrella had opened up and covered my life and my surroundings.      

I began looking for River everywhere I went. I figured, sooner or later, he’ll reveal himself to me. Why else would he move in next to me? My roommate and I attended a local catfish festival and it seemed like I was the center of attention everywhere I went. Strangers were smiling at me, buying me beer, even the sky drones were zeroing in on me. We found a place to sit down on the grass while a local band kicked off their rendition of Prince’s Purple Rain. A man approached us and handed us a blue blanket to sit on. “Here ya go,” he said, “you can keep it.” The tag on the blanket read, “United Airlines.” It’s from River, I thought, and to an extent, I was right.   

Blog Post (10/13/15)

I used to be alive…

I saw him last night in my dream, the boy from my past, the one I was never able to actually talk to, the one whose girlfriend threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t stop slipping love letters into his locker, the one who turned me into a teenage stalker. Funny how things remain trapped in the memory, ghosts in the machine, broken childhood dreams that seem so trivial now. Work, eat, sleep, repeat: what have I become? I used to be a poet. I used to dwell in magical places where snow fell in June and inspiration decorated my room. I used to know how to read the signs and wax the rhymes. I used to know how to scale walls.

Walls. How do you get around walls? Climb, knock ’em down, go around, dig a hole, torch and watch ’em burn? I over-analyze, criticize, de-materialize until I miss the boat completely, and then I’m left to agonize. This, my friends, is how not to live your lives. Tear down the walls, let passion be your guide and call in sick for work if that boat decides to turn around – be prepared to capsize.

I’m done with fear. To hell with responsibility. Buy that sports car, scale that wall and ride off into the sunset until you find your happily-ever-after. A shot of tequila should help get you started, the rest is up to you. Some might call it a mid-life crisis…screw those people. Leave the red light on my friends, muddy up your Sunday best or fall to the wayside with the rest. Trust me on this one.

Wake up, little girl, your prince is here.

Journal Entry (10/20/15)

If I think about it too hard it really freaks me out, like, caffeinated butterflies multiplying in my stomach or something, but I’m slowly coming to terms with it – slowly. I’ve never played the lottery a day in my life, but I feel like I’ve just won the grand prize. I have to quit being a fan and start being the lucky lady that I am. 

Things quickly went downhill again soon after the catfish festival. River still wouldn’t reveal himself to me and the comments on my blog combined with Facebook posts left me in utter confusion. I didn’t know whether to stand up or sit down most of the time. My new neighbor didn’t help matters. Sometimes a red light shone through the small back window, other times a soft yellow light, but most of the time it was pitch black. I saw his silhouette one night in the window and although I couldn’t see his face, his hair was long and about the same length it had been in one of his last movies. I returned home from work one evening to find my roommate complaining about our postal service. “They can’t even get the street right,” she said. “We got a letter addressed to Don’s old place. I walked it over to them.” My heart jumped and then sank deep into my stomach. “Don’s old place?” I asked. It was the green house. River’s house. “Well, who answered the door?” I inquired. Somewhat puzzled by my heightened concern, my roommate answered, “Some Mexican woman.” Huh. Must be his maid or something. That letter was obviously meant for me!

The blog comments continued. The mysterious lightshow continued. The synchronicities worsened as did my mental state, but I kept returning to social media to find the answers I sought. One comment on my blog that really struck a nerve, stated, “Thanks for carrying the cross on this.” I knew these people weren’t Christians, so what, exactly, were they talking about? “Your blog is notorious,” another one said. Who, exactly, were these people anyway? I was torn between my belief that River was alive and in contact with me, and those commenters who were quickly becoming my enemies.

Journal Entry (10/22/15)

I think I’m done for a while. I don’t want to carry the cross. I don’t want to bear this burden. I am the eternal outsider, and while they play their games and…I’m done.

Blog Post (10/23/15)

Is this the big one? If the financial markets collapse tomorrow, will America be to blame for total global destruction or do we still have time to alter the course of things to come? I wait for signs and hope to God I interpret them correctly. If my brothers and sisters fall, am I at fault for such senseless loss? America is in over her head as WWIII looms in the distance waiting for an ill-prepared guard to falter and shoot himself in the foot. The shot heard round the world. Wait for the smoke to clear. Please Mr. President, don’t press that button. Communication breakdown. SOS. Paranoid schizoid — that’s me.

Pray for our nation, well, I have been. Daily. Nightly. I weep for our brothers in arms. I wave the rebel flag fully aware that it’s a banned commodity in this day and age. Fully aware that America doesn’t deserve such privilege and beauty. Land of the free…what on earth will it take? Dare to dream says the blundering fool — that’s me.

We’re all human after all. I just wish we spoke the same language. I’m not sure where America went wrong or when she veered off course, but for what it’s worth and on behalf of the global community, she’s sorry.

Blog Post (10/24/15)

Insomnia strikes again. How many vacation days do I have left? Enough. I can’t quit thinking about the possibility that he’s alive. Just imagine him sitting back with folded arms watching the world follow along its projected path, its polluted path, all the while thinking, “see, I told ya so.” He’s too much of a gentleman for that though. If he is alive, I imagine he’s sitting back crying along with the rest of the world.

Definitely calling in tomorrow. What’s my excuse? Hmmm, heartache? Collapsed lung? Straight-jacket blues? Let’s go with stomach problems. Untraceable and not an all-out lie.

We’re all human after all. I just wish we all spoke the same language. Together we stand, divided we fall. I guess we’re all just waiting for the world to end. Perhaps it was over before it began. This bumbling fool doesn’t know whether to take a shower or a bath.

Satan is the prince of confusion, I must keep that in mind. When heart and mind meet, you find clarity, if only temporary.

Blog Post (10/25/15)

A Message to the Doctor:

I don’t know how long you’ve been spying on me, but the next time you want to use someone like a lab rat, a case study for mental illness and abuse, make sure you have their permission and they’re emotionally prepared. But I’ll come clean. I have nothing left to hide now do I? Yeah, I’ve got dark blood. I breed butterflies. I play the part whenever needed, create characters, put on Halloween masks — whether pre-programmed or not, abuse leaves you with more than one face.

I don’t know if I’m talking to River Phoenix, the Fairy Godmother, or Jolly Old St. Nick himself, but I’m done. The End. That’s a wrap. This drive-thru movie is officially closed to the public. Oh, and it would be nice if somebody came forward so my best friend doesn’t think I’m a raging lunatic.

P.S. Thanks for pointing out my flaw. I’ll be sure to change masks come Halloween.

Everyone was in on it. My coworkers, my family, the neighbors, the delivery guy, the Jehovah Witnesses. My dogs. Everyone! I suspected my own friends and family of turning on me. The man wearing a white shirt driving a red truck at the Dairy Queen was in on it. Stray dogs on the loose were in on it. The radio stations were in on it. The man in the grocery store pushing an empty basket in the automotive section was in on it. Why? Because he was wearing a yellow bracelet and a blue hat while tapping his foot! I mean, who pushes around an entire basket for one item? Also, my coworker who used to go on break with me but recently quit coming around, he too wore a yellow bracelet! I had never noticed it before, so I asked him about it and then he sent me a friend request on Facebook!

I left work without telling anyone that day and raced home because I thought River was mad at me. Through posts on Facebook from the guy I thought was River in disguise, I was led to believe that he was leaving me. Comments back and forth between him and his friends sent me into a crazed emotional state. Statements like, “Things are pretty shaky right now,” or “I’m so done with her,” drove me over the edge. I was in social media hell. I arrived home, ran into the backyard, threw up my arms and mouthed, “I’m sorry,” toward the green house. What I was apologizing for, who knows? With my face red and streaked with tears, I somewhat gained my composure and drove back to work. On my way out of the neighborhood a stray Huskie limped by on the side of the road. I stopped to help and tried to give it water, but it only growled and limped away. As I was about to leave, a man also stopped to help and pulled out a blue mat from his car. The dog immediately came to him and he thanked me for trying to help. “You’re a good person,” I said. “You are too,” he replied and introduced himself as Edgar. “God bless,” he said as I turned to leave. Edgar, I thought, same name as my good friend and coworker who recently became a born-again Christian. I figured River was somehow involved. He was letting me know that he was the hurt dog that wouldn’t come to me.     

I broke down that night. Once I got back to work, I stayed for about an hour and then told my boss I had to leave due to a family emergency. I stopped by the store, picked up a bottle of wine, and collapsed into bed sobbing. My mental state could no longer be ignored, and I finally attempted to tell my roommate about it. We sat in the garage with the door open as I chain-smoked and tried to explain my situation. I sobbed uncontrollably and told her I just needed her to be there for me, to listen and to not judge. We’d been through so much together. She was my best friend, my confidant, my partner in crime, and my family, but this, this was beyond her understanding.

“I’m concerned that you can’t even explain to me what’s wrong!” she finally exclaimed.

“Me too!” I shot back. The social media, the synchronicities, the blog, the comments, the strangers at work, I laid it all out to her as best I could. She told me what I didn’t want to hear – shut it down.  

“I can’t,” I cried. “You don’t understand!”

“Understand what?” she asked.

It went against every ounce of my being, but I finally told her. In a hushed voice, I confided in her that I thought River Phoenix was alive and living next door to us. I think the color drained from her already pale face. The neighborhood dogs began barking uncontrollably and a man could be heard talking loudly on his phone as if to drown out my traitorous confession. A stray cat peaked its head around the corner through the door, meowed, and then quickly ran away. I knew I shouldn’t have said it.  

“It’s like you think your Cabbage Patch Kids are alive again!” she exclaimed.

I told her to keep her voice down.

“Why?” she asked loudly.

I couldn’t answer her. I told her I went over there at four in the morning and knocked on the door but that nobody answered.

“You did what?”

I’d gone too far. She didn’t know what to say, neither did I. Everything fell silent. The dogs, the man on the phone, us.

“Just read my blog,” I finally said, “and look at the comments.” She said she would and then went inside.

I sat alone in the garage and chain-smoked. I could feel them watching me. I’d messed up big time. Someone coughed loudly in the distance and I heard what sounded like a squealing pig come from the corner of the room. Stains on the walls transformed into distorted faces as I shivered and sweat and tried to catch my breath. It’ll never happen again, I told myself. I’ll never darken that doorstep again. I still couldn’t understand why he didn’t answer.

We left for a mini vacation the next day and traveled to Nixon, Texas to visit some relatives who owned a ranch. It was just what I needed. Get away, drink some beer, fire off a few rounds and drink some more beer, maybe some whiskey. I promised my roommate I would try to better explain what was happening in my life, but in the end, I told her to just drop it. In the end we got drunk and brushed it under the rug, buried it under the floorboards, and moved some heavy furniture over it for good measure. She would never understand, I thought. A hurricane blew in that weekend and the satellites went down where we were staying. For the time being, I was cut off from social media. When we arrived home Sunday night, the neighbor’s house was lit up like a jack o’ lantern. I stared out my bathroom window as the lights flashed on and off and the curtains shook back and forth. I was sucked in once again. I checked my blog for comments and then checked “River’s” Facebook page. His most recent post was a weather report that stated, “As this rain event winds down and the threat moves east toward Louisiana, now is a time to reflect on the impacts.”

Blog Post (10/28/15)

How did this thing turn on me? I thought I was well on my way to solving the murder of River Phoenix and then suddenly, I am River Phoenix. I won’t get into the details other than to say I’ve been walking the fine line between reality and fantasy (sanity vs insanity) for the past two months. I don’t know who’s who at work, I’m not positive of who I’m talking to online, and perhaps most disturbing, I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m constantly being watched, the camera is always on and my mind is no longer my own. I don’t recognize my actions, reactions or counteractions. I’ve lost myself completely. I’ve confirmed my reservation at the White Wall Hotel.

I’m finding symbolism and clues in everything, everywhere I go, everything I read, see and hear. Through the comments found on this blog, and through Facebook posts from “friends” I’ve never actually met, and they appear to be multiplying. Two or three people I thought might be involved turned into five or six Facebook personalities all trying to give me clues as to what’s ailing me. Songs on the radio, blue trucks, red trucks, mean cats, wounded dogs, passing ambulances, strangers in the crowd, red lights at the neighbor’s house, no lights at the neighbor’s house, blinking lights at the neighbor’s house…best not talk about the neighbor’s house… blue blankets, blue-eyed dogs, blue hats, blue shirts, blue sweat pants, blue fold out mats, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue…

And then there’s the coincidences plaguing my existence in both cyber-space and real space, too many to name and too insignificant to convince anyone of any real truth, but I swear to you even [Mr. Black] is involved. The radio stations are involved. My co-worker is involved. The helicopters flying over my house are involved. The brown truck with the Jesus sticker is involved. My neighbors are most definitely involved… but I have no proof. I have too much proof. I have the odds of chance, the coincidence of timing, and a whole lot of paranoia. I’m chasing ghosts. I’m chasing a dream, mere fantasy, Alice through the looking glass. What the hell is going on?

Either someone out there knows exactly how my brain works, knows what I’ll read and see, knows the conclusions I’ll draw and is manipulating the story accordingly, or I’ve blown a circuit and flipped the last switch. Lights off. Complete blackout. Those are the only two conclusions to draw. Either it’s all in my head or I’m onto something.

I do have reason to believe my house is bugged. Not by the CIA or any shadowy branch of the government, but by whoever is responsible for my current state of being. It’s those coincidences again, Facebook posts and subtle sounds and noises that I may or may not have heard – a knock at the fence, the faint squeal of a pig while I’m hiding out in the garage, a phantom whistle around the corner. It’s like I’m being programmed to see and hear certain things, act certain ways, jump, crawl, stand down, smile and look pretty, step away from the fence, go to the window, duck away from the window, turn out the lights, no wait, turn them back on. Hide from the light. Don’t look at the camera. Dance monkey dance. This must be what fame is like, my every move scrutinized with absolutely no privacy. No wonder River lied a lot. Nobody wants to expose their dirty laundry, not all of it anyway. No wonder River took drugs. I’ve been drinking more, smoking more, eating less and missing work. Mean comments and posts that I took as direct attacks began popping up on Facebook and my cyber friends became overnight critics. Judging me, playing me, baiting me, loving me, hating me, mean cats, wounded dogs – I was a slave to Facebook, my fans, my obligations, my need for confirmation and acceptance, my Hollywood.

Nothing a pair of scissors can’t fix. I’ve disconnected. I’m in hiding. If I had the wealth and the know-how I might consider faking my own death. I want to run away. I want my life back. I am River Phoenix. I emulate him, think like him, laugh like him, walk like him. I have become the role, just like him. “I have to be careful what roles I choose,” he once said. Absolutely.

Common sense tells me I’m being played, but the carrot is a juicy one. An impossible dream. A messed-up fairytale with an unknown ending. See, this rabbit has been led to believe that River Phoenix is alive and has chosen me to tell his story. The truth shall set him free. The truth shall set me free, and if that’s not enough, the clues also point to a possible romance. This is why I keep taking the bait. I don’t want the trail to run cold. I’m clinching my fists resisting the urge to reactivate my Facebook account to find more clues that might prove or disprove what I believe to be true! You don’t think I know how crazy all this sounds? Please, consider this quote from Oscar Wilde which I found on a recent Facebook post from [Mr. Black]:

“To truth itself I gave what is false no less than what is true as its rightful province, and showed that the false and the true are merely forms of intellectual existence. I treated art as the supreme reality and life as a mere mode of fiction.”

My sentiments exactly. I’ve come full circle: Is art imitating life or is life imitating art? It’s most definitely the latter. Sometime soon I’ll gather up all the clues and coincidences and present them here for an in-depth analysis of the situation, but not today. With Halloween right around the corner, I feel like I’m on a deadline, so I submit this to the editor for immediate rejection.