Let’s say that this image represents a supernova, a monstrous cosmic event which demonstrates gravity’s unstoppable nature when a massive star runs out of fuel and collapses in on itself en route to an ultra violent explosion resulting in the birth, among other things, of the precious metal we call gold.
Currency amounts to the blood of a nation, society, civilization—that is to say (via implicit extrapolation), resources must flow and circulate in a timely manner (in order) to promote and sustain health. Analogously by extension, hoarded riches become thick clots. Clotting portends systemic failure, advertising symptoms that may include social injustice, just for one historical and current example, which can plant eager seeds of civil unrest and stoke raging fires of political division.
Welcome to 2020!
We already know where this is going, and yet we act like we don’t. In other words, we dumb.
Treating solely the symptoms that compromise the integrity of anybody, especially poorly and under predominantly ill-equipped leadership (at every level), will not cure the ailment.
This is painful{ly simple}. Simplify the problem. Know the solution.
The disease that plagues humanity is inequ(al)ity.
The virus is greed.
In other words, overall, we’re sick in the head.
We don’t have to be.
Our cure has to be wisdom, and this must be spread by enlightened people.
Currency means time.
Time.
Money.
Worth?
Existence is like a ticking time bomb. Gravity imposes the same tax on all of us. We need to share the weight of our presence across the globe lest human civilization, along with our impressively diverse, positively bursting catalog of earthly creations, ultimately crumbles in a tragic comedy of pigheaded errors atop a cacophonous concert of contagiously willful ignorance.
In other words, don’t be greedy; rather, share.
That’s how we win.
In other words, it’s the only way we avoid loss.
People, we run the same race.
Life versus death.
Our variably tilted equation won’t solve itself—we have to correct the imbalance by smartly affecting the factors, by reducing waste, by redistributing power in every sense of the word.
Say hi to one of my favorite—and, as far as I can tell, most universally useful—mnemonic devices. With any luck, the above “name” can help you remember the reliable order in the kind of magic that happens, if you will, when light filters through a prism.
Red, orange, yellow. Green. Blue, indigo, violet.
Got it?
Good.
Bent by gravity.
But that’s just 7 of 9, though. Indeed, there are 2 more {electromagnetically matter-born} colors [numbers] that exist in essence—and in relation to human perception—as ghosts.
To be crystal clear (in case it’s necessary), your pupil(s)/brain are biologically/physically incapable of directly observing the outermost colors—ultraviolet or infrared—on either edge of a rainbow, at the barriers of light’s distinctive dispersion into hue-rich diversity, around the shade-filled fringes of our collective mind’s balanced eye.
Relevant aside: do you know why polar bears bear white fur? Key factors include the interconnected processes of evolution and natural selection. And it doesn’t happen overnight; these variables move slowly; for example, it took thousands upon thousands and thousands of years to turn wolves into dogs. Geography largely dictates both physical and mental fitness, impacting an organism’s chance of survival into a successful future. See, a dark-coated bear can’t exactly camouflage amid open arctic terrain, thereby enabling food sources [e.g. seals] to more easily avoid becoming dinner. This explains how and why polar bears are the color of snow.
(Albert was right; relativity is important.)
Here comes the point.
Compared to caucasians, people “of color” are born with a generationally earned, genetic resistance to the first and lowest band in any real rainbow, a.k.a. ultraviolet, which, to reiterate, is one of the only two prismatic wavelengths [again, along with infrared] that our oh-so well-rounded and middle-grounded eyes can’t see—the bookends of the spectrum that paints our world’s canvas so very gloriously full of breathtaking wonder.
Question. Could this deeply rooted racial difference influence {if only at a subconscious level} why so many white folks are so painfully blind to how black lives matter?
Only by opening (y)our eyes may you we truly let there be light.
Circular.
Please let in the light, people. We require it to be, after all, and we will become better as a whole as more and more of us grasp the total scope of its vital, unrivaled significance. (More on that momentarily.)
Plus, once we get a widespread handle on the thorny interracial tension plaguing civilization—in other words, when at long last we awaken and stop acting like stubborn, ignorant, childish fools—and resolve our currently ailing society’s counterproductive climate of self-destructive inequality, humankind may must push toward global acceptance of the profound realization, too, that sentient life actually shepherdsmatter.
Yeah. Life matters. The entirety of Earth’s colo{u}rful catalog{ue}. Every kingdom in each of Her three domains as well as all the species contained among the myriad ranks therein—it’s all here for good reason. One depends on another. We have thus far come up short in our thinking. We are bigger than this. We should be playing the long game.
We (humans) really should party up. Immediately.
We are all connected.
We must band together.
The time to act is now.
We need to mentally separate our sense of self from the bodily burdens we carry.
Who are you? Do you even know? Have you “personified” your identity?
Look, you are not merely a complex collection of atoms—you’re the other thing, the stuff that shines.
Understand that.
And listen, we’re the same.
We have to lighten (our individual loads).
We must share the weight of our existence.
We need each other.
We have to allow our consciousness to evolve.
We were born to be what we are.
We need not be heavy.
We need to be light.
Be cause.
True love is weightless, and…
…light…
…isgod.
That’s who we’ve always been, who we still are, and who we could, would, should, and will be someday, but only as one.
Matter is not the only thing that evolves. (Duh!)
There is another variable on the right side of the equation.
Imagine a fair-skinned towhead, an older (male) toddler who twirls eyes that pierce into your soul with an array of facial expressions that shouldn’t be possible, broadcasting a degree of wisdom belying his years, advertising an eerie, almost alien intelligence.
This is Atlas Knight at age 10. He looks maybe 2 (and a half).
Now picture a librarian. Good job. Close enough. You (may) have just caught your first imaginarily physical glimpse of Eve Lynne Quinn {a.k.a. “Elvyn”}. She’s in charge, and rightly so.
Belanoc Studies & Surveillance Institute [“Bessi”], 1929
In broadly limited strokes, a small classroom setting floods your imagination. What do you see? Don’t (feel compelled to) answer. Let me handle (some of) it (for you). Minimally furnished, this room. Few desks. A brutalized blackboard. No windows—we’re underground down here, folks. Clean space, safe place. An environment that evidences years upon years of hard-ass learning. Two beings present: insanely brilliant teacher and dumbly apt pupil. EQ and ARK.
This was the day she informed me of the particulars surrounding my highly unusual lineage.
Softly, Elvyn echoes a request from earlier: “Are you ready to tell me about the dream?”
“Nightmare,” Toddler Atlas corrects his loyal guardian with the spoken inflection of a wise old sage. How eerie, indeed.
“What were you doing?”
“Metaphorically speaking with a tinge of literality, I was decapitating monsters.”
She can’t help but smile at: “‘Literality’.” I mean, hell, that’s barely a word.
It just popped out. So much does.
For some reason, I doubt he’s employed the term since; not sure why!
Mind you, this exchange predates the coining of the term Galacia (and all its children). The Belanoc were old(ish) news.
And let’s get one thing super straight. EQ embodies a living angel. To know this, no, I don’t need to have had the pleasure of making her acquaintance in the flesh. I’ve read plenty of her words and heard a lot about her from reliable sources. Her life’s work roots itself in a steady stream of steadfast advocacy for humanity’s cause to spite a snowballing pattern of effectively self-destructive, outright idiocy (in a collectively survival-oriented sense).
“In the nightmare, why did you choose decapitation as your method of elimination?”
“Brainstem severance.” Off his educator’s narrowing eyelids: “Only way to be sure.”
This is, in fact {as I’ve recently learned}, the standard method of dispatching g/b from their cold mortal coils. Atlas had not been taught it in any official capacity—he simply worked it out. Always mentally ahead of schedule, never a physically early bloomer, sometimes an emotionally retarded stumbler. [But he’s getting there, I swear.]
Again, at this point, Atlas appears to be a tiny human having aged no more than 3 years, and his insightful conversations with Elvyn are as surreal as they are stupid. A fucking baby, basically, talking like a renowned {and appropriately confident}, field-pushing, trailblazing physician. Framed another way, at 10 years old, he’s already smarter than almost everyone ever. Nonsense!
Nonsensical.
The Second Day of July, 1941
For context, the world is at war, and it’s terrible. Recently fought on Syrian soil: The Battle of Palmyra—don’t let the hyperlink imply hidden significance that encourages your sleuthing; it’s just not an event about which most people have heard, I’m presently reckoning, so I’ve elected to save (some) people the trouble of inputting keystrokes [or screen-taps] which facilitate the collection of clarity on this subject.
Anyway. Summertime. 1941. The United States of America has not yet been (fully) roped in to the Second World War. [Pearl Harbor happens six months later.] {Pardon me, history buffs.} Still, galacian has yet to be defined.
Once more, we’re in the classroom, a sanctuary which finds itself, aside from (ab)normal wear and tear, curiously reminiscent of its state over a decade prior. Herein, scientific theories/methods have seen more action than a{n} __________ [insert whatever makes you giggle; pretend the blank space is a long as you like; I can’t be arsed to be inventively sophomoric at the moment].
“Aside from your twenty-first birthday,” Elvyn begins, arresting Atlas’s textbook-devoted attention, “do you know what today is?”
Now he probably looks about 7. I dunno. Hard to keep up. It’s just so darned weird.
Verbally, he answers not; however, with a telling glance, he invites the immediate continuation of her just-announced thought-path. She suggests, “What say we hike the perimeter?”
One of my favorite (impromptu) activities {back in the day}.
Normally these hikes were planned ahead of incoming precipitation, particularly snowfall. Spontaneously taken hikes took/lasted longer thanks to the careful application of extra caution toward covering tracks. Are you relaxed? I hope so. Because Bessi was/is literally buried deep in the Rocky Mountains. I’m not tipping our hand; every g/b on (or off) the planet already possesses this knowledge. But they don’t know where—at least not exactly. The mountain range in question? Vast (enough). Trust me {unless, from personal experience, you’re aware of the world’s second densest mountain range’s lofty majesty}. The base is hidden very, very well. Our enemies might find it one day, but not because of anything contained on this (web)site.
Unless we clue them in purposefully.
Very rocky is the path which leads to the front door of our esteemed, secret fortress.
Screw you, fate.
It’s hard to believe that I know this kind of shite. Were I to require the confirmation afforded by the act, I’d pinch myself, probably.
Oh, Earth. You marvelous slut. Love your face and core!
Walking Bessi’s jagged perimeter used to be our hero’s form of church, a merry jaunt through nature’s grasp. The altitude. The panoramas. The thin air.
Ahh…
Firstly, as I’ve been told {and have no reason to disbelieve}, completing the trek implies an inhuman level of fitness. [Racists!] “How many klicks?” you may/might (not) wonder. As of now, you can’t know; you’re not allowed; it’s a current security issue. Forget the rock-climbing aspect—suffice it to say that a handful of dangerous leaps were involved.
In the meantime, while immersed in this noteworthy day’s iteration of the oft taken journey around their home, Elvyn and Atlas embark on an important and diverse discussion which, in my estimation, has still yet to reach a satisfying end. Handful of highlights incoming. [I’m glad you’re used to jumping around in time. Fun, isn’t it.]
“Why do their eyes change color?” Atlas wonders.
“A defense mechanism,” Elvyn responds then quickly supplements, “a display of power.”
He pauses for a moment. More so to himself than to his teacher, he mutters, “A conduit of fear…”
She nods. “Well put.”
Kinda disappointed in himself, I’m imagining, Atlas edits his choice of noun [the one meant to precede “fear”]: “Conveyor.”
I liked the sound of “conduit” better. Still do. Arguably, it’s less accurate but more…colorful.
More electric.
Suddenly Elvyn recalls an example: “Remember the serpent we encountered last summer?”
You can fill in some of these blanks, yeah? The summer prior, they ran across a formidable viper—a rattlesnake, I correctly assumed {and perhaps you did, too}—which prompted a brief fascination with “hamadryads” [doubt you assumed that], also known as Ophiophagus hannah, a.k.a. king cobras.
Damn, his brain. What a messy dandelion.
Turns out, however, that on this rare occasion, EQ was mistaken. We’ve all been wrong at one time or another, haven’t we? Makes you wonder if we’re botching something awfully obvious (as we “speak”) now, no? Anyhow, g/b eyes change color when they apply their infrared filters, one of the signature differences between us and them [like hinged fangs connected to venomous glands, not to mention ridiculous muscle fiber density, among other advantageous characteristics]. In a blink, their eyes may/can change color. Drastically. Now, granted, this ability could be activated defensively if not involuntarily. “How do they make it happen?” Hmm… Know how you flex a{ny} muscle? That’s how. Want that put in other words? Fine: how do you mindfully expel urine from your urethra? That’s (kind of) how they apply their ocular enhancements. They sense a need, and then they just do it, goddammit.
Quite strangely—and in a painfully obvious twist of truthful perspective—a brain sends urgent signals to certain parts of its body.
How (in) the hell else would any living creature ever know what to do?
Atlas figured it out [the infrared detection attribute] a few days later. Elvyn kicked herself for not sorting it out on her own much sooner. The most profound eurekas evoke head-slapping “duh” moments, don’t you know?
Later, after a usual period of silence during the most challenging stretch of terrestrial obstacles in the thoroughly mapped orbital stroll, Atlas concludes [probably muttering to himself again], “The Belanoc must’ve inspired vampire mythology.”
See, throughout his early days as a blossoming messiah, in favor of making statements, Atlas rarely asked questions. In a nutshell, virtually, he was (almost) never wrong because he asserted no claim to which any weighty fleck of uncertainty clung.
In other words, he waited for positivity.
Nineteen & Forty (Plus Two+)
In other words, the year has eclipsed the marker of 1942.
On a sunshine-soaked day, a childlike {in appearance} Atlas sprints up a steep snowy incline followed by a version of Ernest who, even as fast as he moves, and despite appearing to be physically superior to his running mate solely due to being on the other side of puberty, has no chance of keeping up. None. Whatsoever.
Atlas is fucking fast. I’m a capable runner myself. But were you to witness his sprint speed at full tilt, you’d doubt your own eyes. The blur is real.
Conrad, at this time looking fresh and spry, waits at the unmarked finish line, whereupon the clocked {uphill} sprinters arrive. Atlas breathes easily while Ernest sucks wind. “Getting faster,” a noticeably encouraged ICQ notes.
“We better be,” Ernest coughs. “Otherwise fuck this shit harder than damn hell.”
He hatedhates hated cardiovascular exercise.
“Our training regimen needs a minor update,” Atlas declares matter-of-factly through an even-keeled rhythm of careful pronunciation. Conrad waits for the prodigal “child’s” inevitable elaboration. “Less aerobic exercise; more hand-to-hand combat training.” Remember: picture a boy on the cusp of adolescence.
“Why do you reckon?” Conrad questions, genuinely looking forward to the answer.
I imagine Conrad’s accent as somewhere between that of a New Zealander and a South African. I’m sure I’m wrong. The Quinns were/are all over the place. Ernest’s accent has changed three times since I met him the other day.
“I understand the importance of conditioning,” Atlas acknowledges, “but I think we could afford to cut back on that aspect of our training and devote the leftover time to honing our skills in the arena of swordplay.”
“Please,” Ernest wheezes, halfway kidding but also pleading in firm agreement, sure hands gripping his relatively untested knees. “I think I’ve plateaued. Today. Just now.” He pukes.
Funny. Ernest never cared about cultivating a proficiency in the art of close-quarter combat. He was born to be a supportive assassin from afar with shitty stamina.
“Sir,” Conrad addresses Atlas while ignoring his youngest (living) brother, “your endurance will never be as good as it needs to be.”
“I can run a mile in under two minutes.”
“So can hundreds of thousands of belanoc.” [Bet he paused dramatically after “hundreds” and before “of belanoc.”]
To his astute point of fact, I had no retort.
“Laddie, you need to accept the possibility that there may come a day when you will need to forget all your combat training in favor of running for your life.”
Yeah. He called it.
We’re fast-forwarding, okay? To a time when The Empire of Galacia has been uncovered for, oh, about a quarter-century or so.
Bessi, October, Day 25, 1979
The intersection of two long corridors bustles as busy agents move to and fro. The environment has been modernized since our last incomplete tour: eighties technologies, seventies clothing. Something’s in the climate-controlled air today. A problem that needs to be solved. A crisis, even.
Conrad enters his mother’s well-kept office, a workspace fit for regality {as if such a notion should exist}. One (of these two) looks close (in age) to the other. Given the mother/son relationship, it doesn’t make sense. Fuck it. This is how it is. Earthly affairs are even weirder than you yet know.
“I just got off the telephone with the Queen herself,” Elvyn informs her right hand. “Lovely as ever, that woman. Such grace under pressure.” Conrad waits, knows there’s more. She hasn’t enjoyed enough sleep recently. Nowhere near. Regardless, truly a trooper, she marches forward. “A particularly barbaric pack have been terrorizing the London Underground. Blimey. We should’ve been notified a month ago.” [Here, a belabored sigh seems likely.]
Did she actually utter the word “blimey”? How could either of us know? Should I ever get the chance, I’ll be sure to ask. I’m doing my best here.
Though he knows the forthcoming answer, Conrad seeks clarifying confirmation: “When you say terrorizing—”
“Yes, I mean eating.” She’s tired. Of course she is. Her job is heavy. “The belanockian authorities have very diplomatically denounced their kindred’s unsavory actions, naturally, but have deferred to us, yet again.” Conrad rubs his own weary eyes. Stressed, cynical, bloodshot. His mother continues sarcastically: “At least this time they have kindly granted us with permission to use deadly force, but only if necessary. First they’d like us to attempt to negotiate the overindulgent pack’s peaceful relocation. Peaceful, it was said. Allegedly. Can you believe it? Peaceful?”
Astutely resolute—or “resolutely astute”; however you wanna look at it—Conrad proclaims, “I’d like to take the new recruits.”
“Well, good, because you must—it’s come to that—but that will not be enough. We might have to pull from Spain. Perhaps even France.” [I like to imagine a sort of delirious chuckle here.]
Emboldened by newfound moxie [another story, I’m sure], Conrad claims, “It will be more than enough if we include Atlas in the operation.” Right about then, EQ must’ve shot her eldest child a glare which elicited his response: “Mum, he has aged over 59 years and has no idea what he’s capable of. Nor do we.”
I like Thierry’s willingness to change tenses on a dime. Breaking rules can be a liberating riot, eh?
Conrad cleans up his last assertion as if he may have launched it in haste: “Not to imply that we should know what he’s capable of by now…”
His mama appreciates that. Calm, cool, and collected, she thinks aloud, “It sounds as if you’re implying that I’ve been overly careful with him.”
“I don’t meant to imply it,” entreats her firstborn. “I mean to make it clear.”
“Connie, I mean no offense when I say this,” begins EQ, “but he is more ready than you are capable of understanding.”
“I don’t doubt that for one second. But by the same token, I am certain that not nearly is he as ready as he could be.”
To this, I must imagine, she could muster no reasonably grounded retort.
Not normally known for his intellectual prowess—and by no means considered daft {relatively speaking [you know, flanked by unrivaled genius and all]}—Isaac Conrad Quinn seems to have had a way of making airtight points outta flippin’ nowhere.
October, Day 28, 1979
Visualize a setting which feels like a governmentally top-secret cafeteria. We’re still inside the bowels of Bessi. You with me? Envision it already. Formed an evolving image in your head? Great!
Battle-weary yet businesslike agents operating on the heels/shoulders of ground-swelling, reality-bending, clandestine knowledge break bread together. Not literally. We all gotta eat, though, ya know. Their diets {did and still do} consist mostly of plant-based foodstuffs and as well as healthy doses of nutrient-dense protein by way of seafood, namely bivalves. (It’s probably how we should all be/start fueling our organic bodies.)
Atlas—now pushing 60 and personifying a physically primed adonis—grabs a seat beside Ernest, who bears a recently applied cast on his left leg below the knee, upon which simple doodles dot its length. Anyway, by now, it has been decided: Atlas will be traveling abroad. To contextualize the gravity of this decision, up to date, he has visited (all of) 5 states. Tomorrow, though, he’s off to the U.K. For imminent culture shock, he is prepared.
And I’m not even born.
With absurd specificity, I remember being terribly uneasy about the prospect of Ernest’s absence.
Must’ve been emotional.
By that time, Ernest’s presence was the only one to evade any temporary instances of Atlas’s calculated exemption from Colorado’s borders.
Wow, self, that was a confusing way to inform readers that prior to the incident in London, Ernest was the only semi-person to have accompanied humankind’s hesitant hero to the other 4 (neighboring) states he’d visited previously.
God! Words are hard.
Atlas plainly states, “Something about your logically unavoidable exclusion from the roster on this incursion bugs me immensely.”
“Eh,” Ernest casually dismisses, “I’ve been to England. Their yogurt tastes funny. Peanut butter, too.” Atlas must stare a hole through his “BFF,” off which EQ2 adds honestly, “Underground, you don’t need my skillset. You know that.” The gaze-dug hole grows. “Think about it.”
I had thought about it. We didn’t need him. Easy conclusions form easily. That wasn’t the point. I wasn’t sure what the point could’ve been; therefore, I let it go. I kept my mouth shut. I ignored my gut.
That must’ve been a difficult lesson to learn. Not unlike you, I can only imagine.
Intuition beckons the trust of oneself.
“Given the mission, I understand that we don’t require your ability to hit targets at great distances,” clarifies Atlas, “but I feel like I would benefit from your presence.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.”
“Is it?”
[I really didn’t know.]
With one eye squinting and the other’s furry brow raised, Ernest follows up with: “Maybe?” ARK shrugs. EQ2 adds, “Also, as is so often the case, I don’t know what you mean anyway.” Atlas gets that. [Hell, I get that and it’s 40 years later.] “Do youeven know what you mean?” [Can confirm (via firsthand experience) Ernest’s impressive observational capacity.]
By now, Atlas has grown accustomed to being misunderstood. He reroutes the conversation: “I’m not sure about the new guys.” Knowingly, Ernest nods. Atlas expands upon his worry, “They’re overeager.”
“Aren’t they always.” Taya Skeeter joins our boys. [“Boys.” Ha.] She’s like…over 200. And sneaky, too, evidently. Clearly she’s no more than half human, right?
Luminoc. Rare bird. Almost as rare as me, the world’s lone luminate (until further notice).
Essentially, TOS [O for Ophelia] serves as Elvyn’s “lifeline.” No field work; body’s too old for the strain. But upstairs, she’s all there, contributing purely in an advisory capacity. View Taya as Atlas’s dearest grandmother’s dear grandmother. With reverence, Ernie and A. Ray await her sure-to-be (in)valuable input; however, while she works on a mouthful of tough, leafy food—and hampered by a population deficiency in the realm of naturally grown teeth—Brackett and Riley, a pair of young humanocs [less than 10%, my trusty cohort guesses], join our “Table of Fate,” if you will.
“A team of six?” Riley questions skeptically, addressing Ernest directly. “Is that accurate?”
“That’s accurate,” confirms Ernest, underscored by an understanding nod from Atlas.
“Why not more?” Riley expands frankly. “Just to be safe.”
Another important tidbit in the timeline: only five agents know who Atlas really is; the rest (allege to) believe him to be an Upper Internoc {just like their currently on-assignment colleague, Xalvador Maru [more on him in time, undoubtedly]}.
The concept of protection defines its own importance.
To have what’s ours, we must guard ourselves.
“Don’t get us wrong,” Brackett interjects. “We’re not questioning strategy. Just curious about the philosophy behind the tactics.”
“We want to learn,” Riley adds with apparent sincerity. Brackett nods in staunch agreement.
Ernest relishes the opportunity to educate (the newbies) while Taya’s eyes silently roll. “Fellas, in general, as an organization, would you say that we’re undermanned?”
“What if we’ve been misinformed?” Ernest poses. “What if it’s a trap?” Can’t you just hear his smart ass? “Ever think of that, bois?” [He didn’t use those words {to my knowledge}, but I’d wager that, for all intents and purposes, he was thinking the crap outta the general sentiment.]
“Gotcha.” Yep, now they get it, those thirsty rookies. “Makes sense.” Fast: assign the dialogue to either; it fits both ways.
Ernest goes on unnecessarily, “The fewer we deploy, the fewer we chance losing.”
Taya changes the subject. To what, (right now) it does not matter. Truthfully, I have no clue whether this conversational shift prompts another story. It might; time’ll do its thing (unless it doesn’t)!
Two days later we, us, the human race, lost a lot.
I lost (almost) everything.
But…
Given the devoted passage of timely effort, losses leads to (nothing if not) gains.
Does this image match anything or nah?
Abruptly, (y)our reality barrels toward an ending.
Feels like a solid spot for a slightly new spin on a thematically re(oc)curring, friendly reminder, don’t you think?
Umm…
Thinking about feelings—such a strangely wonderful, unnatural (cap)ability. Have you ever really considered the power of being able to ponder your emotions after the fact?
A part of the BODY, the MIND is not. The BRAIN is the body’s part that (electrically) conducts OUR mind. THE “mind”—collective consciousness—is part ofparts from ALL (sentient) bodies {through which light filters}.
#facts
Including yours, mine, and ours [Earth].
Despite our myriad {of} differences, WE are the same.
Really, we are!
Messed up, right?
Just wait until somebody (besides me/us) tells you that he’s/we’re/I’m not wrong.
Quite briefly, let’s revisit the post-Halloween fallout of ’79.
Imagine that your next birthday will be your fifty-eighth, you’re literally one of a kind, sporting a monstrously massive brain, entrenched in your (physical) prime and, for the first time, you are completely on your own and all alone in this big wide world. Ready for that?
No.
Who would be?
During his emotionally exhausting, emergent egress from The United Kingdom {and en route, (co)incidentally, to Scandinavia, I think}, Atlas discovers a handwritten note zipped inside the least-utilized pocket in his favorite tactical britches:
Penned roughly midway through 1938.
This tale—our story—is far from over. It has barely begun {but seems ready to unfold (soon)}.
Is your “self” braced? Yes? Good. No? Brace it, then, you silly goose.
Embrace (the) truth. Because either way, it will come.
