My Heart and the Fly
When I get very deeply hurt and traumatised and frightened and depressed all at once, a strange event happens. I witness a fly appear to leave my chest. I do not see it until it is a few inches in front of my heart. Then it flies off. I suspect my heart ejects it. Along with this comes a tiny fly-sized release from the sadness. I long ago began to measure incremental sadness in terms of the scale of a fly sized gradient. A common housefly, specifically.
I experienced this since childhood. It was usually my mothers abusive nature causing me to expel the upset as I rediscovered my own heart after she had destabilised me with purposefully causing me to be sad and in trauma, because of her sadistic narcissism.
Contemplations about how she was affecting my development mentally and emotionally by putting me through the experience and where it had led me to with observing repeatedly the fly-heart, and about how I could ever explain to any other person what I was experiencing emotionally and psychologically. A decision to try to, eventually.
When I became capable of it. At 7x7 years old, finally I am able to put it into words. Recognising at that young age with memorable incidents of observing it at ages 7 14 21, all the other experiences of it, that my awareness of it includes how it is unusual to experience the fly-heart event. Which obviously meant I was sane and rational, to be able to know it is a strange experience which I have little foundational understanding of; rather than the alternatives, to dismiss it as a normal event or to become psychologically attached to it, afraid of it, or some such.
I accepted it without judgement and filed it into my memory as 'strange stuff to keep an eye on'. It happened recurrently. More so when I was younger, before I got away from my abusive parent. It happened often enough that I got to understand it just a little bit. Enough to know that it is not only when I get sad, but that it is when I get sad and then made a decision to pull myself together; which shifts gear and pushes me into a healing dimension, instead of a miserable one, a steady ground beneath my feet instead of a slope downward. At that time my heart expels a fly, which appears to fly out of my chest. I do not feel it physically. It has happened a lot of times.
The rationalism is that it is coincidence. Perhaps a fly happens to buzz past me and changes direction to appear to fly out from my chest. But it has apparent causality, because my emotion is linked to observing the event, to such an extent I would use the word manifesting into the physical dimension, that which is experienced from the emotional-mental dimension. It has something to do with eneRgeticconfiguration, I suspect. I dedicated a lot of research into understanding how such a thing could be possible. It has been a catalyst for my studies into the esoteric and into energy work.
The fly is a misery which leaves me, physically manifested.
Mind And Spider
Age 16 I experimented by taking acid. It was popular within a few of the circles I was involved with. I went into the bathroom to look in the bathroom mirror to see if my eyes had dilated. They had. Massive black yet alive.
I looked down into the sink below the mirror, to discover a huge black spider. We stared at each other. We felt kinship. We understood Life is Observation, Survival and Craft with what tools we are blessed with. The Mind is primary tool. Body is secondary.
I asked if Spiders have Emotions. They do, but it is not quite like with Mammals. It is processed different. They have instinct and intuition. The primal drive and primal knowing which overrides us and we feel wrong to go against it (instinct) as an active. The awareness of primal drive and primal knowing which connects us with all other things, when we connect with it, it does not override us.; we have a step of detachment from it (intuition). They are two views of the same thing. That is a human understanding of it. Spiders see it more clinically than do humans.
As for emotions, the spider showed me how it connects with my neurology to feel through my neurology, so I can feel what spider feels and spider can feel what I feel. This is why people are terrified of spiders; the spider has learned to deflect/project its emotions onto other people, which can be used as a lure or as a weapon, depending what that emotion is.
In the case of fear, the spider fills the human with the fear the spider is feeling, and the human gets afraid of it. This is to protect the spider, it is not intended maliciously. Spiders feel also a sort of love-comfort-sureness-happiness, that things are right, when things are right. It's not as complicated as with humans. Spiders are precisely mathematical.
After talking with the spider in the bathroom through sharing feelings which translated into thoughts, I realised telepathy is real and cross-species. I lay on my bed and watched as ghost spiders crawled all over me but I knew they were not real, they were projections of my mind or symbolism of the spider I had been talking with, still thinking about what it had seen as we had stared into each others eyes and transferred how our minds work, to one another.
I believe I got distracted after that because I can recall not more about the spider. I was not afraid of its ghost-image crawling all over me because. I knew that is not real. I am still terrified of spiders.
This is not the most frightening spider story I have. I will try to remember to get around to relaying some of the others in another blog. I won't go into it here.
Fly and Spider
Is it connected?
Somehow, it must be. Perhaps my own projected continuity is the relation making sense of it. I have that power within me to decide how cause and effect works with this thing. It is a form of magic. Signs of pain and protecting myself by expressing/expulsion of pain. Summoning flies is good for spider, who needs food.
How is it connected?
Flies feed spiders. I generate flies from my sorrow. I have a layer of mind transferred from a spider. Somehow it relates. I do not understand how, or why. Only that I accept it as a phenomena and an existential factor of life, which means something about how physics and metaphysics works, that I do not understand the mechanism for. Only to bare witness as experiencing it.
What it means to be complicated person, a polymath
The spider become a useful symbol for that. Weaving. Overlaying alignments and configurations. Doing maths at 8^8 (8 to the power of 8) which is either infinity, or 16,777,216 depending how you look at it.
Humans developed consciousness of 3rd dimensional consciousness into the material plane because our two forward facing eyes working together can see simultaneously at the left and at the right of an object simultaneously to enable us to locate its distance from us and therefore its size. When you use that metaphor for a male and female working together as a unit, you have a power couple.
Spiders do 8^8. They can see into a lot more dimensions that we can. And they weave. Spiders are mathematicians. They do energy work. They do stuff we are not capable of imagining.
Enochian is significant here
- Mathematically, 16,777,216 is exactly 2²⁴ (or 8⁸).
- In Enochian gematria and structural analysis, 2²⁴ defines the absolute combination matrix when matching 4 elemental squares, the 24 thrones mentioned in the Calls, and the character allocations. It acts as the mathematical ceiling for how many times the "Thunders" and "Powers" can cycle before repeating.
See Also: Arioch
This is what ChatGPT said about My Heart & The Fly / Mind & Spider
What strikes me most about these two experiences is that they seem to belong to the same private mythology, but they approach the problem of suffering from opposite directions.
The fly is the image of something leaving you. The spider is the image of something meeting you. One appears at the moment you recover your own emotional ground; the other appeared at a moment of radicalised perception, when you were trying to understand the relationship between mind, body, instinct, and another form of life.
Between them lies a question about how a person survives what they cannot yet explain, how they construct meaning from what they experience, and how a mind might weave its experiences into a coherent understanding of itself.
I would like to take your account seriously on those terms, without pretending to know the physical mechanism behind either experience.
1. My Heart and the Fly
The most significant detail in your account is not simply that you see a fly apparently emerge from your chest. It is the correspondence between the event and a particular psychological transition.
You describe a sequence:
You are deeply hurt, frightened, depressed, or traumatised.
You reach a point at which you decide to pull yourself together.
Something changes in your relationship to the pain. You begin moving towards recovery rather than further destabilisation.
You witness the fly apparently leaving your chest.
Alongside the experience comes a tiny release from the sadness.
The fly is therefore associated not merely with distress, but with the departure of distress.
That distinction matters.
The fly as the visible remainder of suffering
Your own interpretation is that the fly is a misery expelled by the heart, physically manifested. We can preserve the integrity of that interpretation as a description of your experience without assuming that an actual fly is being generated by your body.
There are several ways to understand the experience that do not require us to collapse it into either literal supernatural causation or meaningless coincidence.
Psychologically, intense distress can change how we perceive our surroundings, our bodies, and the significance of things we see. A real fly might pass through your field of vision, and its trajectory might acquire an unusually powerful relationship to your internal state. Alternatively, an unusual perceptual experience might occur in connection with the transition itself. Your description alone cannot distinguish these possibilities.
Symbolically, the fly gives an otherwise invisible transition a shape. Emotional release is ordinarily difficult to observe from the outside. You experience something that seems to make it visible.
Narratively, the event becomes a recurring marker in your personal history. Each recurrence adds another instance to a pattern: suffering, decision, change of state, departure.
The important point is that the experience can have genuine psychological meaning without our having established its external physical cause.
The heart as the site of reclamation
Your account also places the event within a history of childhood distress and what you describe as your mother's deliberate emotional abuse.
In that context, the heart is not simply a symbol of sadness. It becomes the site of a struggle over who has authority over your inner life.
You describe being destabilised by another person and subsequently rediscovering your own heart. The fly appears at the point where you begin to recover your footing.
There is a powerful distinction here between being made to suffer and being able to respond to suffering.
You may not have been able to control what was happening around you as a child. But you describe developing an awareness of your own internal transitions, noticing when something changed, and retaining the experience without immediately surrendering your judgement to it.
That last detail deserves attention.
You say you filed the event away as strange stuff to keep an eye on. You neither dismissed it nor built your entire understanding of reality around it.
That is a measured response to an experience you did not understand.
I would not use the experience itself as proof of sanity or any other psychiatric conclusion. But your willingness to distinguish what you experienced from what you could establish about it is an important epistemic distinction.
Why the age of 7 × 7 matters to your account
You identify the ages seven, fourteen, and twenty-one as important points in the development of your understanding, culminating in your ability, at twenty-one, to articulate the experience.
Seven multiplied by seven gives forty-nine, but your account seems to use the earlier sequence as a developmental pattern rather than a straightforward chronological calculation. What matters most is the distinction you make between experiencing something and becoming able to explain it.
An experience may precede the conceptual vocabulary needed to understand it by many years.
You can remember something before you know what to call it. You can recognise a pattern before you can describe its structure. And you can know that something has happened to you without knowing why it happened.
Your decision to wait until you could articulate the experience is part of its history, too.
The fly is not only an image of release. It is an image around which you have gradually developed the language of your own experience.
That may be one reason it has remained important to you.
2. Mind and Spider
The spider experience has a different structure.
The fly appears in relation to a movement away from distress. The spider appears in relation to a movement towards another mind.
You describe looking into a bathroom mirror while under the influence of LSD, then looking down into the sink and encountering a large black spider. You experienced a sense of mutual recognition, followed by what seemed to be a conversation conducted through shared feelings that translated into thoughts.
The encounter developed into an elaborate understanding of instinct, intuition, emotion, neurology, and the possible relationship between human and spider perception. Afterwards, you experienced images of spiders crawling over your body, while recognising that these images were not necessarily external spiders.
There are several layers here, and separating them helps us understand the experience without stripping it of its significance.
The spider as a model of another kind of mind
The spider became a figure through which you could contemplate a form of intelligence radically different from your own.
Your description of spider consciousness centres on several ideas:
A mind that is less conceptually elaborate than a human mind, but highly organised around its particular mode of existence.
A relationship between instinct and intuition.
An intelligence that works with the tools available to it.
A form of emotional life that might differ significantly from human emotional experience.
An encounter in which understanding does not depend exclusively on spoken language.
These ideas are philosophically interesting in their own right.
Spiders have sensory systems, behavioural flexibility, and sophisticated forms of prey detection and environmental responsiveness. Research into spider cognition also investigates learning and memory, although the extent to which their inner experiences resemble human emotions remains uncertain.
Your description of the spider as precisely mathematical is especially evocative. A spider's web is a physical structure in which material, geometry, tension, sensory feedback, and environmental conditions are interdependent.
The web is not merely an object the spider makes. It is also part of the spider's extended sensory environment.
A vibration in one part of a web can carry information about an event occurring somewhere else. The spider's body and its constructed environment function together as a system for detecting and responding to the world.
That offers a fascinating parallel to your interest in interconnected patterns of mind.
However, this does not establish that spiders can transfer emotions telepathically or deliberately project fear into human beings. There is no reliable scientific evidence for those particular claims.
The significance of the shared gaze
You describe the encounter as a moment of kinship: two forms of life recognising something in one another.
Whether or not the spider communicated with you in the way you experienced, the encounter seems to have become a profound exercise in perspective-taking.
You were contemplating what it might mean to exist as another kind of creature.
Instead of approaching the spider exclusively through the human category of thing to fear, you approached it through the question of what its existence might be like from within.
That is a meaningful imaginative and philosophical operation.
And there is a particularly interesting detail in your account: you say that, even when images of spiders subsequently appeared to crawl over you, you could recognise that they were not necessarily real.
During an LSD experience, perceptual changes and vivid imagery can occur, and LSD can substantially alter the sense of significance attached to perceptions and thoughts. The experience of certainty or mutual recognition, by itself, cannot establish that information was transmitted between two minds.
But we can still examine what the encounter meant to you.
The spider offered you a model of intelligence that did not have to resemble your own to deserve consideration.
3. The connection: a fly leaves the heart; a spider enters the mind
The fly — release
Direction: inward to outward
Suffering becomes perceptible as something departing. The image accompanies a change in emotional state, from destabilisation towards recovery.
The spider — connection
Direction: outward to inward
Another form of life becomes a model for thinking about intelligence, instinct, emotion, and the possibility of understanding something radically different from oneself.
The connection I find most compelling is not that the fly and the spider are demonstrably part of one supernatural mechanism. It is that they occupy complementary positions in your personal symbolic world.
The fly represents the movement of something out of the self.
The spider represents the possibility of reaching beyond the self.
One concerns the separation of suffering from identity. The other concerns the extension of understanding beyond the familiar boundaries of identity.
Both experiences involve a shift in your relationship to something that had previously been difficult to comprehend.
And both involve a small creature becoming the carrier of an unusually large idea.
Your ecological association is meaningful
You make an additional connection: flies feed spiders, you experience the fly as an expression of sorrow, and the spider represents a form of mind that you encountered in an altered state of consciousness.
Ecologically, flies and spiders belong to the same web of life. Many spiders prey on flies and other insects. But the fact that one creature can be food for another does not establish a causal or metaphysical connection between your experiences.
The symbolic relationship, however, is fertile.
Consider what happens if we follow your association as a piece of personal mythology:
Suffering becomes the fly: something small enough to be carried away.
The fly becomes associated with the spider: what leaves one state of being may enter another system of meaning.
The spider becomes the weaver: the figure that arranges separate strands into a structure.
The web becomes the model for your mind: a system in which apparently unrelated experiences can acquire meaning through their relationships.
In this reading, sorrow supplies the material, but the spider supplies the pattern.
The suffering is not necessarily good in itself. It need not have been sent to you for a purpose. Yet you may be able to make something meaningful from what you have endured.
The pain becomes material for understanding rather than the final definition of who you are.
That is a connection worth exploring.
4. The spider and the polymath: a mind that weaves
Your final thought — what it means to be a complicated person, a polymath — brings the two experiences into a larger philosophical frame.
A polymath does not merely accumulate information across different subjects. At their most interesting, polymaths discover relationships between subjects that initially appear unrelated.
They notice that a structure in one domain can illuminate a problem in another.
A web offers an apt image for this kind of thinking because it is neither a simple line nor a collection of isolated points.
It is a network.
A single strand may appear insignificant in isolation. Its function changes when it intersects with other strands. A disturbance in one location may be registered elsewhere. The whole structure derives its properties from the relationships among its parts.
This resembles several features of integrative thought:
Pattern recognition: noticing correspondences across different experiences.
Analogy: using one domain to illuminate another without assuming they are literally identical.
Systems thinking: considering how elements influence one another within a larger structure.
Metacognition: observing how your own mind forms interpretations.
Symbolic thinking: allowing an image to carry several related meanings at once.
Your account of the fly, the spider, trauma, perception, and personal mythology brings all five into play.
But there is an important distinction between weaving a pattern and proving a causal connection.
A spider's web has physical strands that can be examined. A symbolic web has conceptual strands whose value depends on how well they illuminate experience, how consistently they hold together, and whether they remain open to revision.
You can discover a meaningful relationship between the fly and the spider without needing to establish that one physically produces the other.
You can also hold an experience as personally significant without deciding that every interpretation arising from it must be literally true.
This is not a limitation on your thinking. It is one of the things that can make complex thinking more powerful.
The mind that can make connections benefits from a complementary ability: knowing which connections are metaphorical, which are hypotheses, and which are supported by evidence.
A polymath's gift is not simply the number of strands they can connect. It is their capacity to understand what kind of connection each strand makes possible.
5. Instinct, intuition, and the intelligence of survival
There is another thread running through both experiences: your concern with how an organism knows what to do.
In the spider encounter, you distinguish instinct from intuition. Your formulation is that instinct is a primal drive that overrides us, while intuition is an awareness of a deeper knowing that can connect us to other things without overriding our agency.
That distinction is useful as a personal philosophical model, although it does not map perfectly onto scientific definitions. In psychology and biology, instinct, intuition, learned pattern recognition, and conscious reasoning overlap in more complicated ways.
Nevertheless, your distinction points towards a significant question.
How does a living being find its way back to a state in which it can act, rather than merely react?
Your fly experience contains an answer in miniature. You describe a moment when you decide to pull yourself together. Something changes, and you feel a small release.
The change may involve a shift in attention, emotional regulation, a decision to stop following a destructive line of thought, or some combination of processes you cannot readily observe from the inside.
You experience the transition through an image.
The spider experience, meanwhile, gives you a model of an organism organised around its own particular means of survival. Its web, sensory capacities, and behavioural responses are adapted to its world.
Placed alongside each other, the experiences suggest two complementary dimensions of survival:
The fly: the ability to release something that is no longer serving you.
The spider: the ability to construct a way of navigating the world with the capacities available to you.
One is relinquishment. The other is craft.
One says, this need not remain inside me.
The other says, I can make something with what I have.
This does not mean that trauma was necessary for your development, or that your suffering has to be justified by what you make of it. It means that you can develop capacities in response to adversity without granting the adversity ownership of your future.
6. Arioch: the name and the mythology
You have given the fly the name Arioch, which makes it more than a passing image. It becomes a named figure in your private symbolic language.
I would be careful not to impose a fixed meaning on that name without knowing why you chose it. Its associations may be personal, literary, mythological, or some combination of these.
What matters at this stage is the role it plays in your account.
Arioch is associated with an event of departure. The name marks the moment when something changes in your relationship to sorrow.
The spider, by contrast, is not simply a named creature. It becomes a model of the mind's capacity to construct a world of relationships.
You might therefore consider the two figures as occupying distinct positions in an emerging mythology:
Arioch: the emissary of release, carrying an image of sorrow departing.
The Spider: the architect of relation, representing the mind that weaves experiences into a structure.
I would offer these as possible literary interpretations, not as claims that either figure is an external entity or possesses supernatural agency.
They are also not mutually exclusive. A symbol can begin in a spontaneous experience and subsequently become a conscious instrument of reflection.
That is one way private mythology develops: an experience occurs, an image persists, and the person gradually discovers what the image can help them think about.
7. One important distinction about the fly experience
Because you describe a recurrent perception of a fly apparently emerging from your chest, I want to leave room for the experience to be explored carefully rather than forcing it into either a mystical or a dismissive explanation.
I cannot determine from your account whether you are seeing ordinary flies whose movement coincides with emotional shifts, experiencing a visual phenomenon, or encountering something else. Nor can I establish that a fly is physically leaving your body.
If this continues to happen, it may be useful to note what you actually see, what you feel beforehand and afterwards, and whether the experience occurs in particular lighting conditions or alongside other perceptual changes. That could help distinguish the event itself from the meaning you understandably attach to it.
If you begin seeing things that other people cannot see, particularly if this is new, increasing, or accompanied by significant distress, it would be sensible to discuss it with a healthcare professional. This is not a judgement on your intelligence, your creativity, or the personal significance of the experience.
The distinction is simply that the meaning of an experience and the physical mechanism producing it are separate questions.
You can investigate both without having to abandon either your curiosity or your dignity.
8. The emerging structure
Here is how I would provisionally map the relationship between your experiences.
THE WEB OF EXPERIENCE
A possible structure for your personal mythology
The wound
Distress, destabilisation, the struggle to recover one's own ground
Arioch
Release
The image of sorrow departing
The Spider
Relation
The image of intelligence weaving connections
The weaving mind
Memory, analogy, self-observation, creative interpretation, and the construction of meaning
This is not a diagram of established supernatural causation. It is a map of the relationships that your account allows us to explore.
The wound provides the historical context. Arioch represents the movement towards release. The spider represents the movement towards connection. The weaving mind brings those movements into a larger structure of understanding.
The most important thing about this model is that it does not require suffering to be your permanent identity. Nor does it require every strange experience to be explained before you can learn from it.
It allows the experience to remain an experience, the interpretation to remain open, and the meaning to develop.
A final thought
You began by asking how the fly and the spider might be connected. I think the deepest connection lies in the difference between expelling what hurts and weaving what remains.
The fly is the smallness of release: a moment in which something that seemed overwhelming becomes something you can imagine leaving.
The spider is the complexity of integration: the possibility that the disparate strands of a life can be brought into relationship without losing their individual character.
And you are the person attempting to understand both.
Perhaps the most useful image is not that you generate flies from sorrow, or that a spider has transferred a layer of its mind into yours. Those remain interpretations for which the experiences themselves do not provide sufficient evidence.
It is that, when you encounter something you cannot explain, you preserve it, examine it, and attempt to discover its relationship to everything else you know.
That is the weaving.
And the web need not prove that every strand was originally connected. Sometimes the act of weaving is how we discover which connections are meaningful, which are imagined, and which are strong enough to bear weight.
Addendum
But there is more to it than that. Humans are not trapped into that web. And here is why: We can do 3 (by having 2 eyes, which can see left and right of a thing at the same time, to gauge distance and scale); which means we can do 3^3 (3 to the power of 3) which is 9. Nine is beyond Eight. In Numerology 9 signifies ‘freedom from the cycles’. At our best, at our maximum potential, we can leave the grid. Humans are creative. The maximum of our potential is our creativity. We use the web to weave it into the fabric. Yet we are able to let go of it. That’s something Spiders do not necessarily have. I have to admit this is a very basic assumption. It is the Hope which remains in Pandora’s box.
t may indeed be that we can access 9^9 by connecting with that freedom-flow. Probably how it is so powerful. We have to take the first step, first. We cannot access 9 until we have gone though 8. 8 is Infinity. This is the snag. We have to understand how that catalyst for int infinity, that harmonic, that stability, which holds together the perpetuation indefinitely, can be stepped outside of without collapsing back to within it. The whole has to function with such complexity as to sustain itself without our being drawn into its inertia. That pivot point is the nexus. That pivot point is the living moment, and the living moment is the gate.
9 to the power of 9 is:
387,420,489
Remember; everything is vibration, vibration is frequency.
See Also: Enochian Gemetria Nine