Last Thing On My Mind. part 7
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The moment for transmutation had come. There was no other way out. The stranglehold had choked all but the last moment of life from the informant.
All that was left was to separate the spirit from the flesh. The method used was the same as by the ancients, imbibing the sacred constituents. The concoction flooded the pineal gland with di-methyl-tryptamine whilst simultaneously starving the brain of oxygen. The last moment of life exploding like a star birth into the super conscious. Our bodies dropped to the floor in unison whilst our souls took to the great expansion, aware of who we were, aware of what we had learned and what we must teach to our future family not yet born for eons to come, whilst the planets cooled after the Ever Ending war. We would be the only survivors of our strain, spirits of data waiting to take our place in history once again.
It was the longest time waiting for the planet to cool. The war was but a pulse, one blast from The Gun and it was done. Everything in the solar system was cooked to over a billion degrees, just for a second, one pulse and all life was taken. But for one hope, the hope we had planted as our last chance, knowing that this moment would come. It was a spore of mycelium, the first cell of a single thread, buried deep, encased into the darkest corner of the Blue Planets core. If it would survive the pulse, we knew we could survive, we had prepared it as a dream, and dreams don’t burn.
So we float in the energy fields, homeless ghosts, waiting for the conditions of growth to come. We had calculated that it could be anything from a million to a billion years before the time was right for our return. So we wait. The existence of our being relies on us using the tiniest amount of ephormal energy to hold the pattern of our selves together long enough for The Blue Planet to grow again so we can once again be home.
We needed the data to know who we were, we needed all of the information, all of the joys, fears, hopes and hates, we needed the poems and songs, the philosophies and the dichotomies, the justice and the corruption, stupidity and wisdom the piety the party the purity the parity the rage the mourning the humor and the jealousy the disease and the cure. We needed it all.
We had learned that with our days spent meditating, contemplating the self and drinking the tea from the mycelium, we could unravel the knot that binds the soul to the body, the knot of self-containment. We could cast the vision dreamed into a psychic memory bank, here we deposited our data encoded with the vibration common only to the one soul, ready to be withdrawn when the time was right.
This is how we escaped our dying planet, rats plunging from the burning ship, from one form to another. This transmutation transformation was an irreversible action… but for the thin hope…
The thin hope that our calculations were correct. That faith and fortune would combine, that the next breeds to inhabit this Beautiful Blue Planet would be compatible. The thin hope that these strains would be sufficiently evolved to discover psychic travel, the ability to transcend the physical form and connect with other like minds. The thin hope that they would pick up on the vibrational watermark that their pre-pulse ancestors had cast into the ether their data as a soul sent to teach the future the lessons needed to avoid the fate that had destroyed us, but for the thin hope.
We knew that the chance of a humanoid species becoming the new parent was likely; we hoped but did not dare to care, as long as their cerebral development and advancement occurred with the consumption of the fruit of the mycelium spore that we had planted. This would be enough. The piety created as a result of growing from the fruit was a close enough vibration for us homeless ghosts to lock on to and come home…
They thought they could hide from us, hide in time and hide in space, in the ether and in death. They could hide but they would be found. The destruction had been total the sterilization complete.
We hated them, everything about them, their smell, their taste, their fragile disgrace, their peaceful ways. They amounted to nothing but a prayer; a lie told so many times it became belief.
We had to cleanse the system, it had become contaminated by a virus that fed on life, a vampirical entity devouring all in its extensive reach. It was a worm, a time worm; it was the spew of the black hole opened by the informants when they discovered the power of unison. They did not know what they were doing or what they were dealing with. They opened the vault that released the scourge, the banditos from another dimension, the great worm.
We were defenseless against it, our only option was to lure the demon into a trap and use the highest power pulse, the big bang, the ultimate destroyer, the creator, the setter of time.
The trap required bait and the bait were the informants themselves, the meddling psychics that had invited this desolation.
We knew that we could survive the pulse. We had designed it. Our bunkers on the moon of a distant rock would keep our elite safe. To relocate our species is the only way to save the strain from the life-consuming worm.
The informants would perform their last rite, they will die and we will be rid of them. When they pass, the worm will come for the energy of the unison death, its greedy blind side will be its demise. The pulse will cremate it, and everything… So be it… We will prevail in time our strain will survive.
We know they plan to trap us, we know that they will do what they will do. Our choice therefor is to follow our instincts and our beliefs. Our choice is to join the unison and die in synchronization. We know that it is our choice to lead the evolution from the future, our choices being ultimatums but with hope, not The Ultimatum.
We know that the worm will pursue us; we know how it will persecute the great expansion and us through time space. We know it will guard the gates at times horizon and we know that they will attempt to twist the habits of the new parents away from the mycelium. Yet even as we know this, we also know that the vision of a dream once created can never be un-created and that the hope of a dream becoming reality is a potential worth believing in. So with the evidence discovered from our experiments with the mycelium and meditation, we are prepared to leave our earthly bodies and commit our souls, our information, our data to the chase…Had we a better option, a more convincing choice we would have taken it. They denied us the technology, the equipment, the vessels to evacuate the Blue Planet. So from here we travel together, as one, on the longest journey.
Horizon splits the difference stretching from infinity left and right forever.
No end to that beach, it is all there was, all there ever has been.
In that moment nothing existed save the sand and me.
All is yet to be created.
All is yet to be seen, the first atomic seed yet to be sown, the first probe of mycelium yet to seek its chaotic path to the complete.
The sands structure melts in to the horizons relentless stare.
The first gate to our time, the first border on this side.
The worms appeared like shoots from an unearthly bean stalk, they grew a thousand miles then stopped, stooped and peered down at miniscule me, questioning as to my presence there on their sand, sitting , alone, curiously. I.
The unknown beyond
The starless twilight sky, the perfect blend of blue
The question and the answer hidden beyond that crack in time
The place where the gatekeepers keep the line
Rise they will for they protect when threatened by strange intellect.
Question and probe to find what they need to know, and then they let me go.
Let me go to the reverse flight, backwards time, racing to the future.
Tubular spiral of colours twisted like candied rock. Eternity achievable.
Realizing each colour is a thread, bright for joy dark for pain.
This information bound by a vibration unique to each variant, each and every thread part of the pattern of life, part of the chain of events, each one a life in its own right, each one determined, each one mapped on the ancestral line, each one a story that can be read and understood, each one a prediction of what’s to come.
So beyond the endless horizon, what bides there?
Maybe the guardian worms that hunt the seed
the core, the informant.
An eon ago when the informant was threatened with extinction.
All that could be consumed in their thirsty quest for knowledge and power had been consumed.
With nothing left to feed this hunger a choice had to be made
Between body and soul
Between flesh and thought
Between eternity and death, choice and inevitability.
In this age of being, the advancement of knowledge was acute.
Just as the human being of now has learned to harness silicon as memory in order to open the door to the quantum.
And nuclear fission as a power and a weapon.
The previous owners had done the same, but their lineage was a lot less aggressive, so they advanced much further before they imploded. They had calculated and experimented beyond the limits of conscious imagination and had learned how to separate the soul from the flesh and survive.
The price however was high, once the detachment had taken place and the physical world had consumed the last morsel, and the last flame of the last candle had died with a final puff of blue smoke, the separated soul was lost, a half being, a ghost. Feeling love with nothing to love, crying with no tears…
The wait was long but predictably, eventually the correct circumstances befell with last the opportunity to once again be complete.
The method is to plant the seed of light at the beginning. Within the light the informant can carry the soul and the knowledge to the new parent, to infect the mycelium with the self and be born again with the ancient knowledge remembered and used by the future creators to help them evolve towards the perfect being.
We wait, for our moment, for our love to come home, for the question to be answered, for the revelation, for the change. Our patience is eternal our submission is complete. My void grows everyday without you, the chasm of loneliness becomes wider whilst the hill creeps down to the river. My heart a twig on a tree at the top, awaiting the wind to pluck me away and send me on the chaotic journey to the unknown beyond this comfort zone, this thing you call love, beyond the daily rations of affection eked out to monopolize my time, my precious time I hold so dear, every crack and line becomes an accusation, every ingrained fear becomes an escape plan and every kind word becomes a passionate release.
We want with every ounce of our being to be complete. I want you to complete my plan, to submit to my will as I to yours, to be the river my heart falls into, to be held by your watery embrace and to drown in your love.
When did the rain stop pouring? You would think that I would have noticed the patches of nothing growing in this garden. I saw something rather than nothing…
How I wish I had noticed before it was too late…
Learning and knowing are two different entities; rote and repetition have their place.
The chain must be broken. Habits have become addiction. Every link has a negative impact. We are so accustomed we don’t react. Elements converted. Intention subverted. Caged slaves content to consume. Terrors loom. We sit and smile, as the fire gets hotter. Distraction is our fodder. The chain is getting weaker and must be broken by strong hearts intent on positive impact.
The pulse is the necessary moment. It defines time. Our moments become synchronized, which converts to a power. The power of unity, which on the one hand I detest and on the other I see it as absolute necessity. What a conundrum, what a distraction.
How beautiful your eyes, Saturn’s rings tears orbit your heart.
How delicate your hands, slim and strong to lead two lives to the fore.
How damaged is your love and its need to heal and embrace again life’s joys?
Your stories ring of loss and treason, searching for a reason to stay in this place.
I listen; it is all I can do, to the tales and intricacies, the delicate tit bits I can devour, I can de-flower, picking the petals one by one.
Is there hope in this cruel place for one to trust again?
We recover in time, the pebbles tumble, pulled by gravity, back to the river, back to the falling water, back to the cleansing grace.
I would fall with you into those pools with the sunlight dancing on the surface warming the fish, drawing them closer to the catch. I would swim with you in those murky waters not knowing what was below, our next breath from the foggy air the only important thing.
The trouble with this place is that the wind doesn’t blow and the sun doesn’t shine. The flowers don’t grow and nothing is mine. All is yours, belongs to your ego that disbelieves what it sees, it creates its own force field that lets nothing in and everything out, it is exasperation itself. Defeat is the inevitable consequence. Locked in the righteous tower, trapped within the binds that tie heaven to hell, sky to ground, root to soil, tightly bound by lies the instruct able pattern flows in and out of focus, its self awash with the multi timbre colour, itself a vibration awaiting the buffet of hopeful harmony but attracting only dissonance.
