Numerological Enlightenment – Curtis Eggleston

        After accidentally searching pronoia, I´d been categorized online, advertised to, offered the advantageous opportunity of my destiny translated out of matrix code and into Portuguese. For not even fifty reais, and with insomnia, and the looming pressures of apartment departure and a life or death need for sobriety, and with no job, and limited cash, blowless, you know I had to sign up. 
        Here is what I learned: God is everywhere, no matter how you conceptualize Him/Her/They/It, whether through simulation theories or reductive atheistic reliances on physics, you must account for the beginning, the creator, or great instigator who suffused every aspect of your no-matter-how-you-label-it world, and that includes and is especially relevant to numbers. Each numeral, one through nine, carries its own energy, aura, just like how the LeBron-talent psychic can tickle your mother from Singapore, each number, revealed as calculation or if your third eye’s open not-so-random license plate, delivers messages, or you could see it as, serves as keyhole peek into God´s locked loom-room. The Judaists have known this shit forever, as seen in their ineptly pronounced Gematria calculations, which apply numerical values to every Hebrew letter, and apparently, the entire Torah reduces to thirty-three, the highest vibrating master number, representative of spiritual paragon.
        When I say reduce, that´s what I mean. Every aspect of the ever-fatter universe can be slenderized into those nine numbers. This simple form of fatidic addition has been used in ancient Egypt and Babylon and Greece, or by Chinese philosophers and in Kabbalistic studies of Jewish mysticism I assume or else all this I´d read wouldn´t be very trustworthy.
        As I peered over the city and counted lit windows as to derive the numerological energy of woke or environmentally fancy-free neighbors, I paused, and debated the website’s validity. But I´d spent nearly fifty reais and forgotten sunk cost fallacy. I checked my phone, 9:47am. Nothing to do with the nine, the repetitious forty-seven could only mean one thing: this was my angel number. My personal digits of affirmation, demarcation of fate. I felt my angels then, flapping outside my apartment, checking in on me, nodding their assertions that I was chosen, and with every new insight and trust in these lessons of enlightenment, one step closer to Heaven.
        Continued learning: fatidic addition. Mad easy. 212, for example. 2+1+2=5. That´s it. The numerologically reduced value for 212 is 5. 796. 7+9+6=22. Oh shit. That´s a master number. If we´d used 797 and our digitsum had been 23, we would have added 2 and 3 again to reduce until reaching a single digit. But lo and behold the random example I chose added up to masterfully twenty-twoing 22. So, master numbers: if you reduce to 11, 22, or 33, you stop there. No need to further reduce. These numbers carry double vibration. 11, the power of double-strength 1 and, since if it were reduced, 2 as well, 22 then carries both a fortified 2 and still contains the aura of 4, 33 emanates twice the energy of 3 while also containing 6, you get it. Basically, if your life path number, which one can -easily or not-so- achieve through fatidic addition based on your birthday, adds up to a master number, you´re better and worse off than everyone else. Why? Because the double vibration life path requires more of you, providing the chance to acquire superpowers, but meanwhile the harboring of two different numbers generates competition, friction, like a single body with a Siamese soul yearning toward two different fates. 
        So master 11´s are like psychic or something, a famous 11 master number life path is like, Michelle Obama, David Beckham, Jennifer Aniston. They carry emphasized vibrations of the numerological value of 1, which obviously means like leadership qualities and paving the way and stuff, they want rule, they want control, stubborn and purposeful, they are predisposed to unity, and their 1 power doubles as viewed in the number 11, but unlike the average 1, the classic Michelle O´Beckhaniston also vibriddles their 2´s, to which 11, if not for its masterliness, would reduce, and 2´s inclinations include oration, politics, striving for serenity, non-confrontation, all forms of diplomacy. This is why the master number life is tough. Contradictions reside within those born to master life paths since nativity. 
        Think of David Beckham, whose 11 life path doubles the masculine 1, a bulldozing warlord of a man, yet this headstrong aggression belies his base 2, his femininity, his non-competitive, peacemaking attitude whose pulse was long oppressed beneath his blood red captain´s band. Master number life paths take longer to reach their full potential, they tear themselves apart inside as they struggle to condense two fraternally oppositional twins of soul into a singular, focused, and meaningful goal, which is why it makes complete sense that Beckham meandered through so much of his life, internally tearful, seeking meaning as a footballer, before conceding to destiny, and conquering fate as an underwear model.
        Not only master life paths hold world-shift potential. Any number, if one knows themselves well enough, can discern their purpose, and vibrate on a supernatural plane, it´s just that some must face more adversity than others to claim their true selves. Just to run through them real fast we got:
         1: The leader, the innovator, pioneer, masculinely energized, whose chink is insecurity, their tendency to hear critiquing inner-voice can strip them of their power, leaving them defensive and ineffectively aggressive, dripping cold, heavy-cloaked in doubt, pathetically inversed to the legacy we´ve come to expect from them, think LeBron´s Finals performance in 2011, but he, as a paradigm life path 1, met his inner self, and achieved redemption.
        2: The peacemaker, lover not fighter, of feminine energy, who rarely seeks the spotlight, instead finding worth in providing for others, exemplified by lovely Emma Watson, outspoken feminist so fervent in her activism as to outshine her role condoning bestiality in Disney´s live action remake of Beauty and the Beast, which leads me to number 2´s weaknesses, obsession with giving and heightened sensitivity that regrettably can lead to co-dependence, and not just zooerastially, but seen in 2014, when Emma expressed at a speech of hers in Uruguay not only a desire but a need for an increase in female participation politically.
        3: The creative communicator, brilliantly expressive, tumescent with ideas, and often the life of the party, 3´s can seem to be good at everything, so multi-talented they trouble with deciding on how to apply themselves, resulting in shotgun-scatter focus, and capricious swings from elation to depression, yo-yo highs and lows, at their best undeniably inspiring, at their worst engendering genocide, our model 3 here is Hillary Clinton, who, while certainly precocious, could use a little nudge toward a singular devotion, as records show during childhood she dreamt of becoming an astronaut, but after being informed women were not accepted into the program, she abandoned her dreams, and decided instead to align a path toward her presidency, before wantonly changing her title to social climber, marrying a likely male candidate, and within this time period, tried her hand at authorship as well, and no knocking Hillary, at every pursuit she proved her worth, from lawyer to diplomat to humble demolitionist, the tragedy remaining the what-could-have-been had she chosen one route and committed.  
        4: The strategist, the systems builder, teacher, the workhorse of the world who tends toward rationality, taking themself too seriously with care for practicality, 4´s crave a stable home, and their greatest challenge lies in their fear of taking risks, changing routine so that they may outdo themselves, our example here being Adam Sandler.
        5: The shape-shifter, the seeker of freedom, the one who hunts for stimulation, lured by sensual pleasures, constant reinventor of self just for the fun of it, the downfall of 5 though, susceptibility to addiction, seen blatantly in the life of the great pilot Denzel Washington, whose documented love for flight was only equaled by his taste for fermented beverages.
        6: The reliable, the nurturer, the magnet for those in need, the 6 we are inclined to open up to, as they love to protect, offer therapy, and through their compassion, beautify their surroundings; their weakness, feelings of superiority, that their ideals are right while others are misguided, perfect 6 examples include George W. Bush, Meryl Streep, John Oliver, and Michael Jackson.
        Since you get it by now:
        7: The inward thinker; Marilyn Monroe
        8:  The money man; Curtis Jackson
        9: The harmonizer; Hermione Granger
        11: Already explained that shit. 
        22: Pretty much God. 
        33: I didn´t read anything about 33 because I found out my life path was 22, but I do know Einstein and John Lennon were 33´s, so we can only assume it means proclivities for genius and wife-beating.
        Pause: Wow, twenty-two. Shouldered with Sir Paul McCartney and the 14th Dalai Lama. Made sense, because the staple of the all-powerful twenty-two is not only telepathy but application of energy into a tangible reality. I thought at first maybe it meant that with some training I could mad-dog a spoon into a backbend.
        “Be careful of your thoughts, Master 22,” it said, “for what you think will manifest, into reality in ways you could never imagine,” which I thought was a little contradictory. I immediately accidentally thought that I was going schizophrenic. No, I´m not. I remained uncertain regarding the comparative future altering energies of knee-jerk vs. corrective thoughts. Nice, I thought. Safe. Optimism. Sanity. Sanity, optimism. 
        Continued: So it´s pretty simple. Oh, you were born January 1, 2000. Easy. 1/1/2000. 1/1/2. 1+1+2=4. Something more difficult. November 22nd, 1966. You reduce the day, month, year firsthand, stop when the individuals are masters. So, November=11. 22nd=22. 1966=22. 11+22+22=55 and 5+5=10. 1+0=1. So that person would be a one. Numerologists across the map argue whether this method, or the more direct alternative, ex) Nov. 22, 1966 would be 1+1+2+2+1+9+6+6=28=1, which in this case produces identical results but in my case, or the case of record breakers like Bill Gates, or Dale Earnhardt, would result in their being 4´s, not 22´s. Good luck breaking that news.
        Further research of Master 22 confirmed I was basically God with longer loading times, as in my thoughts would become reality, though I couldn’t manifest visualizations on a schedule of my own, as in I couldn’t pull lightning tines at will from clouds’ cupboard, not instantaneously, anyway, but the theory remained untested, of whether I sat there long enough, envisioned supplicatingly, applied focused energy to the picture before me, could I add lightning bolts to real sky like brushstroke scars down canvas. But God would be my moderator. He would only bestow upon me a power so great if necessity embedded the act. 
        Perhaps, if a homeless supplication came by way of desperate shrieks, not for coin or bread but merciful passage, I, born with the ears meant to hear him, could, as messenger and soldier of One most divine, channel my inherited responsibility into a white-creased spear of lightning, as a bridge for the poor soul whose vessel lacked the constitution for either healthy livelihood or suicide, so that it may rise freely and meet the Boss for forgiveness, rest, and eventual further direction. 
        I couldn’t see why not. It wasn’t so long ago I’d left behind a life, elected for Brazilian eclecticism (jungle, city), and sitting at a wobbled table, visualized someone important sitting to join me, to further alter my fate. Minutes later the kid Laze sat down, and while I’d been certain the life changer would’ve arrived formed brown-skinned, voluptuously female, sometimes God hands you a flesh-made mirror to prove a necessity for change. So I could manifest the end goal, but God would lay the brick of the path.
        In an attempt to dramatically mark epiphany, I tried to deeply, nasally breathe, but clogged sinuses altered my plan to instead abstract from puissant imagination a future comprised of decongested passages apt for histrionic respiring. As if plucked like a harp by some cherubic savior, my vocal chords tickled out of nowhere, I coughed lips-sealedly, pressuring my woes into a snotty ejection, followed by satisfying crimson seepage. I had no idea if there were tissues in the bathroom. Tilting my head back let the blood run back down my throat, the other drip steady surface tensioning my top lip and mouthward, like simultaneous sacrifice and reception, I tasted my sacred red letting of self on the hall walk, meanwhile picturing, holding dearly the image in mind of a floral tissue box placed conveniently atop the toilet back, white blooming silhouette prints on solid lilac, thin cardboard cube with a tufted offering of absorbent facial tissue for facile expulsion of nasal mucus and/or concomitant heartswept fluid, without a memory of having traded cocaine for one, turning into the bathroom I looked down the half invisible bridge of my nose to, practically boasting like treasure confirmed at the exact spot a map had x-marked it to be, the exact lilac floral box of tissues, and yet, lifting the box overhead and flipping it revealed a container as empty as the heart of a three-quarter-century-aged atheist widower with left living children expunged from his will. That is, one tissue remained. I plucked it, the elderly widower’s heartbeat sang its last refrain, I used the tissue to wipe two tears welled in either eye, trembling and shmalzy, for vividity of dream had palsied my ability to differ between reverie and touchstone reality, dabbed a bit of bloody stream and trashcanned the absorbent, one tissued square many short of my necessity, wondering if had I imagined more specifically a tissue box full instead of with a single remainder, would it have appeared, or did God intend for my leakage to coagulate naturally and beforehandly drip where it would. 
        Head remained tilted, I returned to my room, and prior contemplations of a homeless man’s scream and hypothetical lightning bolt savior. He would deserve Heavenly transport. For a moment I prided myself on an enfouldred sky of my own doing. But the enlightened man finds lessons of humility in gained strength, and I balanced myself with realism’s counterweight: there had to be, however rarely, other Master 22’s, unlike Sir Paul McCartney, subtly crooning their talents. It wouldn’t make sense for Him to send His entire Master 22 infantry to fight the good fight sans camouflage, even situationally appropriate bolts of lightning made manifest may eventually attract eyes unbefit for third-eyesight. Returning to the homeless too physically weak and spiritually fortified for suicide, and the obliging of myself via transubstantiation of mentalization via instant-bureaucratic up-the-line affirmation from God, I realized if a homeless man screamed and I accepted his request for mercy, acceptance’s approval would result less likely in a bright electric crashing than a miniature invisible one, at the then silent level of the homeless man’s own caught heartbeat. God was experienced with us by now, as we were with Him, neither party needed excess, a glossing of the homeless eyes and a meaty collapse onto concrete would deliver the point more effectively than would a succession of blindnesses and thunderclaps to all those near. 
        My lesson now balanced with confidence and realness, I attuned to reality, and learned a true situation had earwormed into my subconscious, the screaming man no mere example but quite literally outside, grounded, pleading for death. Head back, bowling my blood, I closed my eyes and wished to grant the man deserved release. His screams went silent. I climbed out the window, tipped my vision over beyond the ledge, blood-teapotted empty space, watched droplets fall and disperse through the rising soul, onto his quietly relieved remains.
        Thinking back, I’d manifested my futures since birth, and the old adage, “be careful what you wish for because it’ll come to pass in a weird way you didn’t expect exactly because the wish granter knows what is actually best for you and will provide you with said wish via ironic lessonry via sarcastically twisted interpretation of your mental wording” turned out to be true. Like the time at seven years old at ten one night, grappling with life’s earliest bouts of insomnia, lying on an elbow, excess cheek skin keeping palmed while jawbone leads the slide-it taut, focus slipping, childish tiredness slipping unfinished sentences wished through a windowpane to Colorado night boasting stars against no city there to cull the dare to dream, I saw a star, fist-sized, shooting itself into gone, with a long fulgid tail for those who couldn’t sleep to ponder as its fade left night sky bright before darker and I hadn’t understood the why for couldn’t sleep, only that the space between God’s pores, like an echo caught beyond a mirror’s brink urged invention of a sound to pair a movement far to see and never heard, a stir of empty yearning in a kid is what, a want to understand ahead when they’re so young they yet remain much closer in reverse to like the fall of a meteor, an iris glowed gold until a wink I’ll see you later made me felt known and wished for somewhere, I decided at seven every shooting star wishes on you, the urge you feel to oblige it while you watch flash still inside you like a mimicry of movement only how, small, human, still, I yelled, promised I would do my best to fulfill its wish on me, that I would be the fastest in the world, seven-year-old vagueness of pledge ensures the bill gets paid, and I leapt from my sheets, went running through my parents’ master door and round their room heroically asking if to them I looked faster, and Dad yelled even though he knew exactly what it was I was doing, what he meant to ask was why, not running, but ignoring the two critical rules of bedtime and knock before entry, explanation got me nothing but a shrugged defense of Mom’s he’s just a kid, and as I remorselessly sprinted back to bed, heartbeat elevated shudders humming blurs, I began to picture my own unfocused future to the casual eye, lacker of high-speed camera, vaguely how, as I was no track star, a fact become apparent next day after challenging the second grade to freeze tag, and getting caught by Lewis Lewis, this future circumstance, one I’d not passed through on linear time, notified my intuition, led my late night twin bed envisioning to include varied uses of speed, I was already a skier, maybe I would carve our country’s glory into downhill history, perhaps the wish would result in overdeveloped quadriceps and I’d win not as a Usain Bolt figure but in a race of walking backwards, or why, as my seven-year-old contemplations put it, must speed be reduced to physical velocity, why not mental swiftness too, why not game show champion, video game record breaker, or fastest monk to still, achieve enlightenment, and now you can see exactly what I’m fastest at, rushing through this, not unproud of what has come of this so far, given time constraints and my lack of general practice but I’m making this about me now, this is about you, us, briefly, until you, bright and able to derive likely futures understand I have long manifested mine, forget those examples, once I biked home, starved for a peanut butter sandwich, and neatly paper towel snug on the kitchen island lay one, unlikely Dad at work all day and never home before eight, and Mom who had been home, would have cut that bitch corner to corner, my first lessons of gratitude, curiosity’s unneeding of definite explanation, and tendency to wish for realistic outcomes. 
        Awareness may bait ego into ruin, but a humble acquiescence to responsibility redeems fulfilment. To help others, achieve enlightenment, would require habit – routine. I checked my phone – 4:47am. You can’t master anything without proper study, especially achieving a God. The mere numerological basics wouldn’t do. It turned out I wasn’t alone. Those blessed of 20/20 third-eye vision could not only read the matrix code outlining the numerological energy of any given day, but see what God called “Angel Numbers,” numerical affirmations, cairns for the soul, assuring us gifted we were on the chosen path. 
         How numbers led you depended on the reduction of any multiple of digits. It goes without saying, 4+7=11, another master number, of caretaking, of the psychic. At its base this 47 omen ran one of my Master parallels, an eleven numeral to a twenty-two bipedid, added together to the highest teacher, perhaps foreshadowing inevitability, but summing this 11: 4, 7, numbers unfit for neglect. The 4 related obviously due to its base for Master 22. Its repeated appearance could very well have been a signature, or more accurately, maybe, a universal address to myself. You may recall, 4 is militant, and its energy compels those into pursuit of structure and eventual comfort. Having poisoned myself with cocaine and distributed illegal drugs for personal gain, this rapid fire 4 repetition could be seen as a salute, for my achieved sobriety, and eschewing my, though accidental and necessary, habit of substance dissemination. Each 4 then stood in for a salute to my overcome past and auspicious future, as long as I kept privy to the crumbtrail, angel-lain. 4 sought justice. 4 was a police number. When they said militant, they must have meant the manner in which true justice helped those receptive to the message. Surely, I wouldn’t be getting arrested, as that couldn’t be just. Learning from mistakes would pay debts, mine owed to the karmic side of things, having neither qualm nor query, with nor for, the São Paulo police department. No, 4 was about truth, and in Buddhism there were four of them, quite noble ones, the latter three based upon the first, dukkha, claiming suffering inherent to existence, mudaya, the next level of suffering’s truth, one of conglomeration, a coming together with dukkha and tanha, a desire or longing, mental or physical, leading to nirodha, the cessation or letting go of this tanha, and finally, magga, the path to renouncement of all tanha and cessation of dukkha. Only through magga can for-now-we and soon you liberate from samsara, the infinite cycle of rebirth, and enter nirvana, by following the Noble Eightfold (4×2) Path, aka doing everything right, or eight very encompassing things. Y(our) following them ideally leads to the end of craving, only through relinquishing all desire will any of you ever be happy, and since I then wanted desperately to help people, like Laze find friends or keep Turtle from succumbing to addiction, or my landlord to withdrawals, I would have to cut that nannying right out, as hard as it seemed, good karma would come from allowing the suffering, as only through pain could anyone relinquish desire. That said, if the numbers marked it necessary, I would help. Perhaps they’d message to ignore a crime in action, that would require considerable reserve, but I could see then the potential, the distant effect, of the positive energy with which I could inject a longer future than the one cut off by my dive-shielding a stranger from multiple gunshot wounds. 
        I sat there, wanted for nothing. Suddenly, popped up an email. The confirmation of the ticket I’d purchased to Rio de Janeiro. Time of departure, thirteen minutes less than five hours from now. Plataforma: 47. License plate: S4R799.