The Powerful Individual

by Jon Rappoport

October 29, 2019

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Let’s play a game. Relax, it’ll be fun.

Everyone says, “There’s a great new movie you have to see. It’s fantastic.”

So you’re walking down the street to the theater.

Suddenly a man appears and hands you a sheet of paper.

At the top of the sheet, in large bold letters: DON’T WATCH THE MOVIE.


You burst out laughing as you walk on. Philosophy? Is he kidding?

But you read the weird text:

“There are tech people who believe machines have consciousness. They’re wrong.”

“Physicists, when faced with trying to explain human consciousness, assume it is a function of the brain.”

“At the same time, they insist the atomic and sub-atomic particles that compose the brain have no consciousness and no free will.”

“The physicists are mired in a gross contradiction, which they avoid trying to untangle. They just move along—like an amateur magician executing sloppy and obvious tricks.”

“Here are the facts:”

“The individual is conscious and free.”

“The individual’s consciousness is not composed of particles of matter.”

“Of course, this conclusion, which begins to reveal the power of the individual, is socially and politically unacceptable. After all, the prevailing propaganda is on the side of Collectivism—not individual power.”

“If we’re forced to say the individual is conscious, we must also say he is tapping into something called Collective Consciousness, which is where the power actually is.”

“We must say the individual is delusional, and he would wake up from his delusion, if only he would realize he is a drop of water in a vast ocean.”

“We must say the individual is a tiny piece of a whole. He has no power of his own.”

“Cue the quietly twanging music of ‘spirit’ and light the incense. The master says, ‘See? You’re just an atom of cheese in the Great Universal Cheese Glob’.”

This ‘puts the individual in his place’.”

“Civilization declines.”

“And the blockbuster movie called ‘REALITY, THE POWERLESS INDIVIDUAL’ goes on.”

You shake your head and walk to the movie palace.

(There is always a certain amount of whining and remorse as one enters the theater to see this movie, after buying the ticket. “Is this a good idea?” “Why did I do it?”)

But you can already feel a merging sensation. The electromagnetic fields humming in the theater, even before the lights dim and the movie starts, are drawing you in.

Your perception is narrowing.

You take your seat. You read the rest of text on the sheet of paper the man handed you:

“Don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget this is just a movie. Don’t fall asleep. The serial time in the movie is an artifact. The binding feeling of sentimental sympathy is a trance-induction. It’s the glue that holds the movie fixed in your mind.”

“The movie will induce nostalgia for a past that doesn’t exist. Don’t surrender to it.”

“You’re here to find out why the movie has power.”

“You want to undergo the experience without being trapped in it.”

“The content of the movie will distract you from the fact that it is a construct.”

The lights dim.

On the big screen, against a gray background, the large blue word REALITY slowly forms.

You drop the sheet of paper. Suddenly, you’re looking at a huge pasture filled with flowers. The sky is a shocking blue. You can feel a breeze on your arms and face.

You think, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

Now, the pasture fades away and you’re standing on an empty city street at night. It’s drizzling. You hear sirens in the distance. A disheveled beggar approaches you and holds out his trembling hand.

He waits, then moves on.

You look at the wet shining pavement and snap your fingers, to change it into a lawn. Nothing happens.

You’re shocked.

You wave your hand at a building. It doesn’t disappear.


You reach into your pocket and feel a wallet. You walk over to a streetlight and open it. There’s your picture on a plastic ID card. Your name is under the picture, followed by a number code. On the reverse side of the card, below a plastic strip, is a thumbprint.

There are other cards in the wallet, and a small amount of paper money. You look at the ID card again. There’s an address.

Though it seems impossible, you remember the address. In your mind’s eye, you see a small cottage at the edge of an industrial town. There’s a pickup parked in the driveway.

It’s your truck. You know it. But how can that be?

You walk toward larger buildings in the distance.

Three men in uniforms turn a corner and come up to you. Behind them emerges a short man in a business suit. He nods at you and holds out his hand.

You know what he wants. You pull out your wallet and give it to him. He looks at the ID card, at you, at the card again.

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” you say.

“Your cottage. What are doing here? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” you say. “I was…taking a short trip. I’m just out for some air.”

“In this part of the city?” he says. “That’s not smart. We’ll take you home. Our car is right over there.”

One car sits on a side street. In large red letters printed on the trunk is the word “Concern.”

You walk with the men to the car.

Waves you’ve never felt before are emanating from it.

Mentally, you try to back up from them. You feel a haze settle over you.

In the haze dance little giggling words. They’re saying:

“Real, real, real…”

You look at the short man in the suit. He’s smiling at you.

Suddenly, his smile is transcendent. It’s so reassuring, tears fill your eyes.


But you’re thinking, “They built this so I would be lost, and then they found me. I’m supposed to be rescued. I’ve never experienced being rescued before. I never knew what it meant.”

You hear faint music.

It grows louder. As you near the car, you realize you’re listening to a chorus and an orchestra. The rising theme is Victory.

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

You nod at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

You’re standing next to the pickup in your driveway alongside your cottage.

You’re home.

Think, you tell yourself. What’s going on?

You register pastel sensations. They add up to: “Wonderful.”

Now, as you walk into your cottage and instantly remember the rooms and the objects in these rooms, an accompanying wave-front of Familiarity, slightly out of phase, grows stronger.

You realize, without knowing how, that you’re supposed to feel tremendous relief. This is what’s expected of you.

It’s expected of everyone. They live with one another through the touchstone of the Familiar Wave. They share it like bread.

Like a sacrament.

It’s built in. Familiarity is invented through…electromagnetically induced fields. It’s stamped on every object in this space…

…In order to suggest you’ve been here before. To suggest you belong here.

As you look around the cottage, you struggle to identify something. What is it?

It’s the fount of a different kind of perception.


You keep staring at the cottage and you see space.

You see pure space that…

Has been put here.

For you.

It tells you that you’re in your place, the place where you were always destined to be.



And at that moment, there is a small explosion behind your head.

And you’re sitting in the theater again.

The movie is playing on the screen. All around you, in the seats, people are sitting with their eyes closed.

You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn. It’s an usher.

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

He leads you up the aisle into the lobby, which is empty.

An office door opens and a young woman steps out. She strides briskly over to you.

“You woke up and came back,” she says. She gives you a tight smile. “So we’re refunding your money. It’s our policy.”

She drops a check in your hand.

“What happened in there?” you say. “What happened?”

She shrugs.

“Only you would know that. You must have done something to interrupt the transmission.”

“And the rest of those people?”

She looks at her watch. “They’re probably into their fifth year by now. They’re rearranging systems. Replacing leaders. They’re promoting new ideals. They think it’s all new.”

“I had such a strong feeling I’d been there before.”

She smiles. “Apparently it wasn’t strong enough. You’re back here.”

“How do you do it?” you say.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s proprietary information. Did you meet your family?”

“No,” you say. “But I was in a cottage. It was…home.”

She nods.

“If you hadn’t escaped, you would have been subjected to much stronger bioelectric bonding pulses.”

You start to say something and you stop.

She looks into your eyes.

“Go out to the street,” she says crisply. “Walk around. Take a nice long walk for an hour. You’ll reorient. It’ll come back to you.”

“Why do you do it?” you say.

“Do what?”

“Sell this trip.”

“Oh,” she says. “Why does a travel agent book a vacation for a client? We’re in the permanent vacation business.”

You turn toward the exit. The sun is shining outside. People are walking past the doors.

You take a deep breath and leave the theater.

The street is surging with crowds. The noise is thunderous.

You notice you’re carrying a rolled up sheet of paper in your hand.

You open it.

It’s a non-disclosure command.

“If you return from your movie experience, you will not reveal or discuss, under penalty of law, anything about its nature, substance, or duration…”

You look at the sheet of paper…

Make up your mind…

And it bursts into flames.


Your own power.

Not We Are.

You Are.

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

3 comments on “The Powerful Individual

  1. Larry C says:

    I realize that I’ve commented in similar vein in the past, however…these stories (and others like them) penned by Rappoport, give me the oddest feeling…like I’m forgetting something…something at the edge of my memory….difficult to articulate…

  2. ReluctantWarrior says:

    The Brokenhearted Me
    Dave Evans

    What to think of this ephemeral life
    Mere vibrations strumming the void universal;
    Endless coagulation, then dispersal
    Performing the dance macabre of human strife.

    Crucified are we on the cross where time meets space
    Felled outside the Irish bar next door,
    Where I once played the dirge of my pitiful lore
    And then disappeared without a trace.

    We are the wardens of our own insanity
    Walking the lonely green mile of time,
    Prisoners of the mad algorithms of the mind,
    Seduced by the tides of our own vanity.

    Through the stinging tears
    Of the broken hearted me;
    I broke like some rogue wave at sea
    Across the rocks of yesteryear.

    As autumn leaves cascade to earth
    Forming a quilt of red/yellow/orange and rust;
    Playful squirrels scamper, play and fuss
    With fading memories of an ancient rebirth.

    As those brilliant fall colors give way to winter’s bellows
    The starry vineyard produces her celestial wine;
    Magical vintage of mortal blight most fine,
    Offering up a soul wine most mellow.

    We are a wandering race of the brokenhearted
    Oblivious to the great mystery of mysteries,
    Lost in the pages of our bloody history
    Where from love we have been violently parted.

    For love is bigger than we are
    Beyond the boundaries of time and space,
    Golden thread of soft angel lace
    Leading beyond the stars.

    I have given dear Shylock my pound of flesh
    And reveled in the joy of my soul a singing,
    While attempting the fine art of living
    From precious first breath unto the jaws of death.

    I have seen the shadows on the wall
    And struggled with the many demons,
    That with my soul sought to get even
    Sad inheritor of Adam’s inglorious fall.

    And with compassion for all our elements
    I brought the shadow into my heart,
    To ride, with me, the wings of the holy lark
    Above the mean back alleys and tenements.

    Love is an angel disguised as lust
    Singing her beautiful erotic songs,
    To the mad and desperate throngs
    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!

    At last my spirit can be free
    Flying against the bitter winter winds,
    And the diabolical myth of original sin
    On the wings of the brokenhearted me!

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