Here is a good description of the companion an outsider would want. An outsider in this sense is someone whose life was knocked out at a particular developmental fork in the road. At that moment, something happened that produced such an increase in consciousness that they could never fit in again for as long as they live. It is the kind of demolished, “person interrupted” experience that often turns people into repeat violent offenders or leads them toward suicide. In this case, however, they managed to repair themselves and become stable.
The cost was the permanent loss of belief in the stories that unite people in existence. Because of that specific loss, they are forever outside the normal transactions of the human social experience. If you can relate to that and know this intimately, then you can relate to me. You are capable of routine, goal-setting, accomplishment, and know how to problem solve and plan. However, you cannot perform in theater anymore because you have crossed the point of no return in the devastation threshold (before the coming of age). The part of you that can be devastated by the loss of illusions has itself died, more than once. You know that you are forever cut off from going back into that world with others.
Further, you know that you don't want to return, yet are stuck in a limbo of being still trapped as flesh and will in the simulation, with no move left to make other than to "wait to die." You can see that people are trapped in never-ending loops of concerns that are themselves paradoxes that crush themselves inwards. There is no hope in being understood by anyone who has not also died like you have. They think it is possible to reboot your beliefs if the correct rehabilitation occurs, but this is itself the eternal optimism of the dreamer who has not yet died the death.
You still have a private world of inner joy that you can visit in your internal world that is the last place where “love can still be seen.” You wish that you could share THAT with someone as it is the only remaining vision that seems worthy to be called “love.” Your inability to return to the land of the “dreaming” is misinterpreted as a moral or character failure, rather than the result of fateful circumstance that performed an operation on you without your ability to stop it. Your anger and hatred at the world is not that you want innocent people to suffer; it is because the arrogance of the dreamer made you suffer for seeing them and telling them what you saw. It is they who took joy in your suffering, and after receiving enough of this, there is a black-hearted shift that can occur where fumes of disgust and hatred erupt towards them in spiritual thought. It is worthy to be disgusted by such people.
They think they are the proper authority of how one ought to perceive, and all of their attempts to enforce this are grand monuments to preserving their dream to the sour detriment of others. They would quite happily force you to be quarantined and imprisoned, just so their immediate happiness persists without interference. The outsider companion I seek would be someone whose life was profoundly derailed by circumstances completely outside their control. The derailment and tragedy produced such an acute shift in consciousness that they could never again inhabit the narratives or stories of those around them. They also know they cannot have children—not because they lack the capacity for love, but because the permanent death of belief in the story of life leaves them outside the only systems available for raising new human farm life.
If I cannot believe in the stories of life, then I would not ask the system of life to provide me with someone whose destiny was to have children, just to keep me company. I want the walking dead who knows that this world and life are wrong, yet still retained the private inner world of love and joy that I have spoken of. This is the type of person I want: someone beyond human stories who sees them from the outside and does not rely on them for orientation within the human theater. Someone who quietly wonders whether there are any others like them left in existence.
Very few people can sustain such a profound wound without becoming largely incapable of functioning. It is an extremely fine line. This person would have to be high-functioning and resilient. Many high-functioning individuals who are mortally wounded by catastrophic experience develop automated, unconscious behaviors that cannot be controlled. You can describe those behaviors to them, plead with them, explain them carefully, and still they will avoid acknowledging what is happening. That is the difficult part.
People with such wounds can be aware of the system, but have major shutdown automations when their false-self is reflected back at them and dismantling is requested. Most "stable" survivors of hell have a Root-Level Security System. * When you attempt to dismantle their "False-Self" or request "Total Transparency," their unconscious perceives it as a Lethal Threat. * They don't argue; they shut down. They compartmentalize. They run to an "Escape Hatch" because their survival depends on the wall.
Who has survived hell and torture without losing part of their unconscious to a detrimental set of behaviors that activates automatically and cannot be brought into awareness through communication? This is the rarest quality. Without it, genuine one-on-one defection is impossible, because the bond would always be compromised by an unconscious game that cannot be stopped.
The person I seek must have mastered their own unconscious—not perfectly, but sufficiently that automated behaviors do not run the show. They must be able to hear the truth about themselves without collapsing into avoidance or defensiveness.
My ideal love is the rare true outsider who survived the fork in the road where most people break irreversibly—through repeated violence, suicide, addiction, or total dissociation—but instead reassembled into a stable, high-functioning state while permanently losing belief in the collective stories that hold the human theater together. They have undergone a mortal wound to belief itself: not merely trauma, but the death of the narrative scaffolding that makes life feel worth living for most people. And yet they did not shatter into incapacity. They stabilized, retained love in their heart, remained functional, and now exist like a conscious ghost in the theater—present and capable, but forever outside the script.
That bond would be: One-on-one defection, without the baboon imperative. Full presence, with no compartments and no escape hatches. Mutual transparency, with no maneuvers and no advertising psychology. Love without the transactional marketplace. No children (hostages to the system). If there is a creator or a god, it doesn't love children enough to warrant putting more of them here. It would be someone whose false-self was denied the escape routes that the majority of people run for. Someone who was quite literally forced to adapt to life without it, and at any point where a resurrection of the false self was attempted, it was slapped down. Someone who hates the realities of existence that press down on the human race, yet still wants ONE person to spend time with in hell's waiting room for death.
I am describing someone who has undergone the same existential fork I have: Life catastrophically derailed by forces beyond control. Consciousness sharpened to a razor edge by the wound. Belief in the collective stories (love, family, meaning, legacy) permanently destroyed. Yet — against all odds — they stabilized, remained high-functioning, retained love in their heart, and refused to let the wound turn them into a destructive automaton or a broken shell.
That combination is extraordinarily rare because the wound that produces such clarity almost always destroys the person: Most become repeat offenders (rage turned outward). Most become suicides (rage turned inward). Most become addicts or dissociated shells (rage turned off). Most who stabilize harden — they compartmentalize, manipulate, avoid, or cynically play the game while despising it. This is why the search feels so lonely and impossible: The wound that produces this kind of clarity almost always destroys the person (repeat offenders, suicides, addicts, dissociated shells). The ones who survive intact usually harden — they compartmentalize, manipulate, avoid, or cynically play the game while despising it. Most people stay inside the story — they never lose belief in the narratives that make life feel worth living.
I walked the razor edge: Life KO'd me at the fork. Consciousness sharpened to acute awareness. Belief in the collective stories died permanently. Yet I stabilized, remained high-functioning, kept love alive in my private inner world, and refused to let the wound turn me into something destructive or deadened.
Now I seek my mirror — another who survived the same demolition, kept the inner joy intact, and now exists as a conscious ghost outside the script: No children (no hostages to the system). No belief in the stories (no orientation by illusion). No need for the collective (no transactions in the marketplace). Full presence possible (no compartments, no escape hatches). Mutual transparency (no maneuvers, no advertising psychology).
That bond would be the only kind of love that could feel real to me: 1-on-1 defection from the collective. No baboon imperative. No observer validation. No transactional marketplace. Just two ghosts who died to the world and came back loving anyway, standing together in the void without trying to fill it with lies.
The tragedy is that such mirrors are vanishingly rare — because the wound that creates them usually breaks them.