Written By Abdun Nur

Chapter Nine

The Professor

“The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” – William Arthur Ward

Gwen painted all afternoon, she was still engrossed in her work when she heard a loud knock at the front door around six o’clock.

When she opened the door a tall sturdy man stood there in his early fifties with a very distinguished beard and expensive suit. “Whatever you’re selling I’m not interested.” She said abruptly, frowning.

“Hello my name is Tom Shepherd, I was asked by Cathy Green, she works at the university, to call on you, to look at your artwork. She’s been telling me a great deal about your abilities, and I’m intrigued.” Tom said.

“Oh. Yes. I forgot you were coming, sorry.” The old woman replied.

“Please, I’ll just have a quick look, more for curiosity than anything, if that’d be ok, I won’t take up much of your time.” Tom said.

She opened the door wider and gestured him inside, as soon as he entered, just as Cathy had, he stopped, he moved slowly along the hallway looking lovingly at one painting to the next, the old woman gestured with her hand, guiding him to go into the living room, as she closed the front door. “Do you want a cup of tea?” She asked him with a tone of forced convention.

“Please, white no sugar.” He replied as if he were in a trance. He entered the living room and he stood before a large six-foot square canvas of children playing in an Edwardian street with squalor and hardship carved in every brush stroke, and his eyes began to well up a little, he was overwhelmed.

When she arrived with the tea he was still stood there looking at that one picture. “How?” He said. “How could you paint so beautiful a painting of such terrible things, and of such wondrous things, the detail is breath taking, you’re a true master. Cathy understated your abilities. The composition and esthetic beauty you’ve achieved in every work, is quite magnificent.” He said still entranced.

“Well thank you, it’s a gift, and a passion.” She smiled. “Here have a nice cup of tea, you seem to be a little emotional. You must’ve had a stressful day, I’m guessing?” She commented thinking his actions peculiar.

“I’m sorry. Yes, I imagine I look a bit of a fool, I was just overwhelmed, it’s like finding Michelangelo.” He smiled warmly at her as he took his tea.

“Cathy told me that each painting has a story attached, could I hear one?” Tom asked expectantly.

Gwen thought for a few seconds. “Pick a painting.” She offered.

“What about this one.” Tom pointed to a scene of ancient murder, with horse and armour, sword and shield.

“OK, the story is historical not fictional for that painting.

I’ll just get the book with that story in.” Gwen said as she walked to the painting and looking at the number, before going to her bookcase.

With the book in hand she sat down in her chair by the fire and began to read.”Before the genocide orchestrated by the Vatican, the people of Albien lived in peace as artisans, they had no nobles, no lords, and no kings, no emperors and no man god rulers. They had no hierarchies of repression, extortion or exploitation, they lived anarchically free of all hierarchical sufferance.

The people needed no masters, and would suffer none willingly. All forms of usury were considered wrongful acts, so there could not be any tithes, taxes, ownership, rental, slavery, or interest on any loan. This was a problem to the Vatican and the Ashkenazi that existed upon usurious constructs, and they schemed to bring the land under their domination, as they had across Europe, using the tools of religion, feudalism and money lending.

The Vatican aided the feudal order, and the soulless of the Vatican, and the ruthless feudal gangsters worked in union, all funded by the Jewish money lenders of the Ashkenazi.

One feudal Lord was selected named William the Bastard, the parasites of the Vatican blackmailed him to their will, and organised the assault on Albien.

The Danes were settling as brothers in the northern regions of Albien, and so the Vatican sent a mercenary army ten thousand strong to diminish that threat.

At the same time, they sent the bastard to meet with the Germans who had settled as oppressors of the southern regions of Albien, with a great army. Over previous years the Germans of the southern region of Albien had been defeated by the Danes and were reduced to banditry roaming the forests, with only a single strong hold remaining, the walled city of London.

The master of the Germans with his small band of body guards went to Hastings to meet his ally the Bastard, shortly after the Vaticans army of scum and murderers landed.

Instead of finding a friend, Harold found the bastard, who ordered the murder of the German master and his men, he mutilated their bodies to demonstrate his dominance. This was the beginning of the genocide.

History is mostly lies, just as today history is reinvented by the victors to give justifications to their thefts, murders and rapes. The Vatican invented a fictional history after the genocide of Albien’s people, of hierarchical conflicts, lords, kings and nobles, of battles that never happened such as Hastings, and of claims to a throne that had never existed until they invented it for the Bastard.

The Bastard murdered, raped and robbed without let for over twenty years, when his soulless reign was done, he was replaced by another soulless creature, who continued the horrors. That is a painting of the true battle of Hastings, which was in actuality an encounter of betrayal, one feudal bandit callously murdering another feudal bandit king, before marching on the only remaining German strong hold and laying siege to it, that is how an ally is treated by a Feudal bandit. The bastard, once the city of London had capitulated, built the world’s first prison, the Tower of London; prisons of course are only needed for usurious hierarchical cults. Quickly torture, mutilation and executions made the Tower’s reputation, instilling fear as it was built to do. The Bastard established hierarchy and usury as the basis of the imposed slavery of the few who survived the genocide.” Gwen explained.

“How can that be?

What did they have if not ownership?” Tom asked.

“Allodium. Ownership is a form of usury; it can only exist through hierarchy. The natural model is the allodial one. A slave cannot own anything, everything a slave has is borrowed from their master, which is why a citizen, as the owners of state mafias labelled a slave, cannot own, they are tenant, guardian, keeper, custodian or user, everything is held as the eminent domain of the owners.

The ancient anarchic concept requires consent, this means if you wish to use the land in a certain place, you must provide your direct neighbours with a unilateral bond of behaviour. This provides predetermined and binding relief for any action that breaks the bond, which is a written, witnessed and inherently sealed with thumb prints, the neighbour holds this as a guarantee, granting consent for you to utilise the land freely through the security of the bond.” Gwen explained.

“I own my house, my car, the money in my bank account.” Tom countered.

“The deed for your house is a deed of tenancy, you must pay the owner annually otherwise they will evict you from your house and sell the tenancy to another economic slave. The annual rent is called rates, property tax, or land tax. You register your car to the corporation which transfers ownership to that fictional construct, so they may take your car if you break their invented rules. The money in your bank account is the banks, if the bank goes bankrupt your money is their asset not yours, further the money is fiat, which means its value is purely constructive, having no true substance or value other than the authoring of the State corporation of a granted monopoly to another corporation to issue certificates of debt.” Gwen explained.

Tom pondered what Gwen was saying, it annoyed him to hear it. He sat silently feeling unclear as how to respond in rebutting the information Gwen was claiming true. “What about the evidence of the battle of Hastings, the archaeology?” Tom rebutted.

“There is none. The only item ever unearthed was a single axe head, if 20,000 men had raged in battle there would be a lot of evidence in the ground of the battle field.” Gwen replied matter of fact.

“Arh. The coinage unearthed shows kings before the conquest.” Tom retorted.

“The anarchic used the terrente model, terrente means someone down to earth (terra), realistic and sensible of mind, referencing a system of arbitration for those with the peace of this state of mind threatened. This model had no hierarchic structure. It needed no laws, or policies, a wrong was determined by the soul wronged, who when the peace of the mind is disturbed or threatened seeks arbitration through their peers, who establish relief of that mental distress if a wrong has occurred, and relief for the wrong doer also. If a claimed wrong-doer refused arbitration, the wronged would get a written declaration from the arbitrator and seek a rex, the word rex means ‘to put right’. The rex could be anyone chosen to execute the writ or written declaration. The rex was paid by the wrong-doer, even if the claim of a wrong proved unfounded, as the accused wrong doer had refused arbitration and brought the need of a rex into play. Coinage was a reflection of this system, if for example an army of bandits attacked communities, then those who stood to put right this wrong were paid as rex’s, and coins were minted naming the wrong that was put right, not the name of a king, but of an event. This was why the term rex was after the events name not before. The Germans in southern Albien borrowed the term Rex, but placed it in front of their bandit chiefs name, however their coinage came only from their main stronghold, the city of London.” Gwen explained.

Tom felt frustrated by her replies. He pondered a while. “Well what about the documents dating before the conquest?” He declared.

“Almost all documents are forgeries created in the thirteenth century by the minions of the Vatican corporation.

We could chat about history all night, but I feel it’s upsetting you.” Gwen said.

“No, no. But let’s focus on your work, history can wait for another time.” Tom smiled. “Cathy tells me you’d be willing to take on a student?” Tom asked a little passionately.

“Well, I said that more to be polite at the time. If I did it would depend on the student.” She replied.

“Would you consider teaching at the university?” Tom said hopefully, his enthusiasm returning and a surge of excitement at the prospect of working with such a great artist running away with him.

“Me?” She was surprised. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, no, no I couldn’t do that, wouldn’t have a clue. I’m just an old woman who likes to paint.” She replied.

As she said that Tom’s eyes hit upon a sculpture, it was made from different coloured marbles, it was a head and shoulders of Hilda’s granddaughter Cathy, it was beautiful. He stood up and putting down his tea without taking his eyes from the sculpture, he walked over to it, and caressed its surface.

“You sculpt!” He said. “In marble, you’ve used different marbles and connected them together to give colour, that’s interesting, the eyes especially, you’ve given them almost a living sparkle. This is Cathy. It’s beautiful. You made this from memory?

Without her modelling for it?” He asked.

“Yes, she is a beautiful girl, I thought to give it to her as a gift.” The old woman smiled.

“This is amazing, it’s as if you’d cast her, yet enhanced her beauty, while animated as if frozen into stone.

You have many sculptures?” He asked.

“Yes. I had a studio created many years ago to indulge the art of sculpting, I tried clay, but marble seems to live, and the beauty is more within, so you simply expose it, while clay, seems to work the opposite, so I prefer marble, granite and stone.” The old woman explained.

“You’re a true genius, as Michelangelo said. ‘The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short; but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.’

Your mark is unattainable for virtually everyone else, and you aimed only at expressing your gift, aim higher, let the adventure of life flood into your world.” He said intensely. as if talking to Cathy’s sculpture, he continued to stroke the stone and study the work.

The old woman huffed out a small laugh. “You think I’ve aimed low, but I’ve lived through expression, I’ve sailed the high seas as a pirate queen, and drunk ale in the taverns of the dens of hell, I’ve weathered the storms of raging war and fallen in love in a gentle summer meadow, I’ve stood upon the field of victory and suffered the desolation of defeat, I’ve wandered through history and all cultures as an adventurer, a philosopher, a lover, a lion.

I live through my work, and my work empties those adventures out of my soul for me to give them life.

What is life, but the thoughts we experience, and my mind lives in imagination.” She smiled.

“May I bring some friends of mine to see and talk with you?” He asked.

“Why?” Gwen replied.

“Well, you’re the holy grail of the art world, genius is bandied around very often, especially in art circles, but your work.

Your work just brushes all that pretentious nonsense into the bin.” He looked around the room at all the painting stacked and hung.

“How many paintings have you done?” He asked.

“Thousands.” She replied.

“Cathy told me you don’t want your work known, but I could present your work without anyone knowing where, or who, you actually are, we can create a pseudonym, in that way the world can marvel at the majesty of your creations, while you’re left to work undisturbed.” He explained.

“Well, these paintings are my world, but I was recently feeling guilt-ridden as I reflected, because some of my painting haven’t been gazed upon in 60 years or more, and that’s for a painting, a very sad existence.” She answered a little sadly.

“What do you mean?” Tom said with a small laugh. “How could that possible?

I’d say we’re around the same age. Sixty years you say?” Tom looked puzzled.

“Yes, I’m older than I look.” Gwen smiled.

“I’ll work with you, with total loyalty and concern, I don’t wish to take advantage of you, or to see you lose what you hold valuable.

You ‘have’ my solemn oath your privacy will never be compromised.” He told her, they chatted for a short while longer and Gwen agreed he could arrange to call the following afternoon with some friends; she too was beginning to feel Tom’s excitement a little, it was contagious.

“Could I see more of your work?

Especially your sculpture work, if possible, sculpture is one of my personal passions, I’d love to study under you, learn your methods.” Tom said excitedly.

The living room door swung open and a very grubby figure stood holding onto the door casing looking very weak. “Water please.” He said, almost at a whisper, in a dry coarse voice.

Gwen stood up and went to help Phil to a chair as Tom watched in silence, Phil’s body odour was almost eye watering, her face contorted in disgust as she guided him to a chair by his arm.

Tom just stared silently at Phil totally bewildered. Phil looked uncomfortable, and pained. “Are you OK?” Tom asked as if he were talking to a child.

“Don’t ye hear th’ voice?” Phil replied hoarsely.

“I’m sorry, no I can’t hear anything.” Tom fought back a smile, thinking Phil a crazy man.

“I was led to believe you lived alone Gwen?” Tom asked.

“I did, well I sort of still do.” Gwen replied as she left the room to fetch some water.

“Ah hear yer pain.” Phil said, Tom began to feel slightly uncomfortable.

But Phil alone heard the voice. “There is a storm raging against all life upon this Earthly perception.

A storm beyond any other of the past.

The storm roams the surface leaving a wasteland in its wake. It batter’s life relentlessly, without mercy, without any regard, and it leaves devastation.

All life is in fear of this senseless and premeditated insanity; there are no safe places from the menace of this perpetually generated storm. Spawned through the power of imposed hierarchical monopolies by a few soulless creatures, and so all life is abused.” The voice said.

“Th’ powerful guide th’ storm, bit surely th’ souled who act under their direction ur even more at fault, how could those who reason change that situation ‘n’ dispel th’ storm?” Phil asked.

“The ecosystem cannot be protected through violence, or begging the soulless, it would be protected through education, empowering souls with truth; ‘truth’ is the greatest fear of all to psychopaths; once souls understand the real situation the power of lies would dissolve, releasing the mind from the grip of indoctrination and allow it to, at last, consider alternative models of trade, use and conduct free of hierarchies, usury, monopolies and parasites..” The voice answered.

“That’s na an easy task, th’ lies ur deeply held, ah mysell am realising this more ‘n’ more within ma own mind, I’ve still nay mastered th’ pain ‘n’ suffering o’ ma brief life.” Phil replied hoarsely.

Gwen arrived with the water, she handed it to Phil who drank it down quickly, so she poured him another glass from a jug she’d filled, she left the jug on the coffee table near him.

The voice spoke again. “The suffering of the souls, it’s a great burden to all soul, such suffering is a sadness that festers deep within my core; to stand by as so many souls scream in pain, horror and desperation.

I see the child callously torn apart by hate, murdered in celebration, and my heart aches in painful empathy, a sight so intense to my soul I would try look away to ease my pain, but truth prevents me.

I see innocent faces tormented inconsolably at the loss of all they loved and knew, taken by those who revel in murder, and my fragile heart breaks, I must look away, for I’ve no power, but my love to help them, but my compassion prevents me from turning away.

I see the fear, the utter terror in the eyes of souls with no escape from the slaughterhouse of the soulless creatures of the worlds, and my heart bursts, I must look away, but my love prevents me. Nothing helps the flow of emotion, as the suffering is within me and upon me, I’m bonded in unity with all loving souls, my relief is to lift my thoughts, and hope unity will answer, to ease our pain.

I see the filth covered youngster, abandoned and unloved, no hope of escape, no hope of rescue from a short life of suffering, and my heart can take no more, is your soul as dead as the soulless who dominate the world’s?” Asked the voice.

“No.” Phil replied.

“No?” Gwen asked puzzled.

“Ah was answering th’ voice o’ th’ bairn ah murdered Gwen. Sorry. Don’t ya hear him?” Phil asked.

“Can’t say that I do, no.” Gwen replied, Tom looked on even more concerned and perturbed.

“Listen to your heart Phil; it’s the souls native tongue.

Hear the voice of suffering, it’s not separate from you, it’s your soul’s peril.

Understand that your soul is one with all souls, what happens to one soul affects all other, to celebrate the suffering of another soul is to celebrate your own suffering.

Can you not feel it?

Can you not feel the suffering upon the earth?

Feel it Phil.” The voice said, as he filled Phil’s mind with emotions beyond anything he’d ever before experienced, the anguish, the desperation, the hatred, the fear, of a vast ocean of life, poured its collective suffering into him, he felt the insanely unbearable pain the collective souls on the Earth endured at that exact moment.

He couldn’t think or function, it was as if only the pain existed, and it suspended all other forms of cognition, he was beyond overwhelmed. Tom and Gwen watched as Phil appeared to them to be in contorted agony, they attempted to help him, but his suffering was totally consuming, he was screaming without a sound, every vein in his body bulged with pressure, his eyes were wide; suffering was painted in every fibre of his being, his contortions of pain had twisted him to the ground where he writhed and thrashed. Every second seemed to increase the suffering, Gwen and Tom stood over Phil feeling helpless.

“Shall I call an ambulance, Gwen?” Tom asked alarmed.

And then it was gone. Phil lay there panting hard. “Phil, are you OK?” Gwen asked concerned, feeling guilty for putting him through the hardship of a prolonged time in the machine.

“Suffering is th’ overwhelming emotion, ah felt th’ souls on th’ Earth, ah felt yer soul Gwen, I felt th’ whole planet.” Phil answered.

Phil couldn’t see, his vision was blackness permeated with tiny specs of light, the light slowly returned and the room reappeared to his sight. Phil spoke to the voice again. “How kin ya suffer such pain endlessly?” He asked.

“Only the walking dead could not, but it’s not suffering, it’s empathic involvement, all souls are one.

Answer your soul, the price of ignorance is heavy, the Jinn wars have raged far too long, through the soulless domination revered and worshiped in adoration of the death cults of hierarchy they administrate.

My soul suffers, and all suffering must end.” The voice fell silent.

“So ya cannee effect th’ situation in anyway, to ease th’ suffering?” Phil asked.

“How can greed be cured?

Greed festers within the multitude and generates an insatiable appetite, twisting the mind to narrow focus of selfish ambitions.

How can a love of hatred be purged?

Hatred is an insane lover, it fires the passions of the mind to revel in the misery of other souls, it perverts all actions and intentions, it clouds reason and strips away all equity and virtue.

How can contemptuous neglect become unconditional love?

Contempt for other souls spawns the monster that supports the cold and callous suffering of the vulnerable and destitute.

The soulless root to dominance over all souls is usury.

The soul’s self-imposed path to suffering is conformity.

The illusion of the greatest of all evils feeds ravenously on the flesh of children, and dominates the ignorant.

Usury; making soul’s perceptions blind, their emotions dead, their intelligence senseless; transformed into thoughtless subjects and empty worshipers of its authority.

The beast of usury is nothing.

It does not live.

It’s but a shadow upon the mind that must be nurtured, as its existence takes breath from your living thoughts.

The Beast has no power, it’s but a construct, the power is your gift bestowed upon its altar, of either greed’s avarice, or fears conformity.” The voice replied.

“The jinn; soulless phantoms o’ perception, ar’ responsible fur these hierarchies o’ usury, could these empty perceptions o’ th’ soulless nee be stripped away?” Phil asked. Gwen and Tom just watched Phil talking to himself, unsure what to do.

“These perceptions are perceived, therefore exist in perception. Everything is dichotomous, for every yang there is a yin. If you have the souled, you then have the soulless; but as all dichotomies originate from the source, the balance is naturally almost everything on one side and almost nothing on the other. The soulless feed on the flesh of the souled, draining the life blood, grinding their bones, they strive towards the wanton hatred of life.” The voice answered.

He pondered a second. “Th’ souled seem hypnotised by ‘em.” Phil replied.

“The ignominious souls worship sovereign masters, and aspire to attain all forms of usury obsequiously, every dictate, every desire, they ingratiate deluded.

Those who would refuse the domination of the soulless are forced into conformity by minds who love the mental slavery of a master, the house slaves of the soulless, they live vicariously and will subjugate the field slaves to conform to their masters bidding. Mental slavery is, of all forms of slavery, the most dominant, it gives those dull minds the illusion of independence, making them trust their imposed masters, they’re so inured they stand in defence of their oppressors, making those who would free them and lift the lies from their minds, hated souls, vilified and derided.

The constrictive world’s invented in perception, imprisons all, both sovereign and subject, the power is illusion; the illusion is devastating upon the awareness of truth.” The voice replied.

“What’s th’ answer?” Phil asked.

“Freedom I declare, is simple to achieve, evidence overwhelms verification of its truth.

Through your actions ‘refuse any sovereign, refuse any form of usury, and you will be free, this is achieved through coming together in unity, and forming anarchic bonds of cooperation!’

Those working to impose hierarchical monopolies endeavor to prevent people from being exposed to any alternatives to their hierarchical constructs. You’re born slaves and die slaves, while the chains and cages of your servitude are only perceptual, they’re self imposed and self destructive.” The voice went silent again.

“What’s th’ answer to th’ suffering?” Phil asked.

“Common unity; we’re one soul fractured. But all community is lost by design.

Unity has departed, all souls suffer isolation, holding all down; divided they seek subjugation and wilful conformity, they act through indoctrination and conditioning, they seek to inflict the same zombification of the soul upon every new generation, they themselves forge the chains of slavery, and shackle themselves to their prison wall; there they feed heartily on the most succulent lies, consumed with ravenousness appetite, excited and eager to hoard and seek conformity.

When the Earthly shared perception is apperceived, the sadness has only one thing to temper its cold resolve, a powerful rage at such betrayal, dishonour and abuse soul upon soul, empathy ruptures my very life force, I see the suffering and am powerless, I see the path souls are traveling and feel incensed, I see the values souls hold and feel betrayed.” The voice answered.

“How kin unity be achieved?” Phil asked.

“Like all things change the perceptions of the mind. But all hopes of change are crushed within a statist mind, all challenge baffled upon that insurmountable barrier.

Only through unity can this manifestation of Jahannam, a stagnant place, be transformed into its conflicting reality, Jannah, an evolving place of growth, and only then can my gentle aspirations be tenable. The Earth has become Gehenna for the jinn, the soulless psychopaths, a place that expanded from a small valley, until it has encompassed the whole planet.” The voice replied.

“Jahannam is stagnation, ‘n’ Jannah growth, A’ve heard o’ thae terms. Ah thought thay meant heaven ‘n’ hell? ” Phil commented.

“The subjugated soul, this servant of sovereigns, this wilfully ignorant being of statist patronage, this indoctrinated mind, this conditioned thought, this callous emotion of consciousness, this is the barrier, this is the insurmountable partition, the impenetrable views of mindless souls, who have media constructs as their opinion, and stand in violent defence of imposed conformity.

So the sadness poisons my harmony of exaltation, it cultivates a swell of negative force, the rage filled revulsion of the soulless is the fruit of the deep-set ache.

So I sought you out Phil, we’re connected through death, and brothers through life, and maybe we can plant the seeds that will grow, clearing the valley of Gehenna of the death cult of soulless psychopaths.” The voice answered.

“Th’ majority ur statists, so why would ya still care aboot us after all we’ve inflicted upon ya, ah murdered ya fa God’s sake, I’m at a loss, why ur ya helping me?

Th’statists have made the Earth a dumping ground, it resources ur extracted ‘n’ contaminated, its oceans filled wi garbage, its air sprayed wi toxins, its soils treated wi pesticides ‘n’ weed killers.

How could soul’s remove th’ suffering, what could a single soul do against a sea o’ statist minds?” Phil asked.

“The land is abused shamelessly, viewed as a commodity, owned and exploited, but land is for the community of all life, to which your brethren belong, threat the land and its life as a commodity and you destroy the beauty of the land, along with life and the soul’s expression of love and unity. A single soul must become love itself…to “be” love, a single example would be enough.” The voice answered.

“Love’s th’ gift o’ oneself, how could ya become love if it’s a gift ya express?” Phil asked.

“You reap the harvest of your labours, if you sow love, you grow love, if you only consume the fruits of your labours, you become love.

I’ve seen your souls torment and it’s time to let it heal.” The voice explained.

“Love’s still an elusive thought.” Phil replied.

“You’re many things together, and must master many things, when you’re the act, the very essence of speaking the truth, you have mastered intellect, when you’re the act, the very being, powered at the core, and bursting with love itself, then you have mastered emotion.” The voice replied.

“Why’s truth so important?” Phil asked.

“There are two elements to the truth, the first is the truth itself, what is innately true, the other is the expression of the truth; speaking the truth is not enough, speak the truth in full without emission, always spoken equitably, in kindness, in gentle tones, softly, with grace, as without such expression the truth carries the burden of undertones and inferences.

The dichotomous element is in the nature of great lies, they’re commonly built upon fundamental truth, if that truth is unearthed, and set free, the lies can no longer claim a foundation, their perception as truths cease to exist, the structure of deception is evident even to those who love the lies, as the truth spreads like a shockwave of revelation, the worlds of deceit crumble, and its power reverberates upon perception for generations.” The voice replied.

“Love’s very powerful, it’s possibly th’ most powerful force upon th’ mind, ‘n’ so upon actions.

Love then mus be innate, why’s that state, sa very easily lost, it seems abusive when it’s sa valuable?” Phil asked.

“The new-born is love embodied, love knows love, unconditional and invasive, dominating but nurturing.

Love is lost because love is not mastered; community feeds growth, while isolation, through the denial of community starves it. The adolescent rejects love in confusion, they see fleeting novelty as love, hypnotised within their self-perception, confidently held, of unfounded worldly wisdom.

The sleeper invests every drop of innocence in putrid bile, used and cast aside, love is lost, its potential reduced.

Without the bonds of unity, experiencing self-delusional love, scars the soul and blinds the mind to unified love, what’s never considered is unrecognised and always instantly rejected, misinterpreted.

The love of idols may fill the void; vicarious love of abstract thoughts fogs all reason.

The jaded adult rejects all loving unity, holding lust alone as truth, physical pleasure the yardstick.

The bitter years of loveless thought, in some, can realise the understanding of love again, in other it remains always pure confusion.” The voice replied.

“Ya keep th’ love alive within yur soul even fur th’ statists?” Phil asked.

“We’re one fractally expressed, always and only love for all souls.

The question is, is a fearful slave culpable for the dictates of their master; is a soul that’s intentionally filled with the confusion and manipulations of a contrived web of lies rational, so then fully culpable?” The voice asked.

“Slaves?” Phil replied.

“It’s not your peers that wish to destroy the beauty and abundance of life, it’s the soulless psychopath, those who’re the walking dead. The souls act upon the lies and manipulations of their masters. the Earth is suffering a global psychopathocracy.

We’re companions in a state of transformation, it’s the nature of a significant transformation that great upheaval, that is often destructive of the old, must take place to allow the transition from one state to the next; destruction of the old is self-destruction, the old must perish as it become something new.” The voice answered.

“We’re transforming?” Phil asked.

“The nature of perception is synchronous; this can be on an individual scale or a global scale. At present billions of souls are suffering, they are crying out in torment, fear and anguish, in poverty, in want, in hatred. Billions of souls are in misery and begging to be released from that wretchedness.” The voice explained.

“Begging who?” Phil asked.

“The collective song of all souls that suffer, is a part of the Great ocean of fractal Soul.

Suffering is the localised outcome of the collective will, which forms the shared perception, the main requirement for suffering to exist, is wilful ignorance. Madness would be the expression of wilful ignorance, you could be a great intellect while being utter insane, the more insane the better you would function within a hierarchical prison.

The higher fractals beyond this perception are formed of compaion souls in combination, but unlike the simple fractal of the material perception the fractals of higher consciousness are infinitely more complex, as fractal consciousness builds ever higher, presently forming eleven dimensional planes. All consciousness exists to transform to higher states, but if stagnation dominates consciousness as it does presently here upon this perception, growth ends, even becoming devolved, and as we’re one, this is a terrible reality of consciousness to both endure and witness.

Love is growth through the mastery of emotion, just as white light is all colours in combination, the infinite fractal attributes of emotions combine to form love, the Great Collective Fractal Souls can be conceptualised as the cells of the body which combine to form more than the sum of their combined parts. Every soul holds the whole, the drop in the ocean is the entire ocean if the could only realise that infinite unity.

Consciousness functions on the song you sing, if a billion souls are singing a song of suffering, then the response is synchronous to that song.” The voice explained.

“Phil. Would you like something to eat?

I can make you a cheese sandwich?” Gwen asked, both Tom and Gwen had been sitting watching Phil talk to himself, not sure how to react.

“Thanks. Yes. That’d bi very good of ya.

Gwen, ah realise it’s a very big request, but, I’m na longer th’ Phil o’ yesterday, ‘n’ th’ smell o’ ma old self is burning ma nose, wid it be possible to ave a bath, ‘n’ fur ya to find mi some old clothes to wear that haven’t th’ smell of th’ devil’s underpants as their signature scent?” Phil asked with a weak smile.

Gwen thought for a moment. “Yes. I suppose you deserve at least that, I think the machine has affected you, as it’s designed to do, maybe when you’re clean we could get a taxi to the hospital Phil, what do you think?”

“Ma mind’s never bin as clear, ah see th’ perception anew, what ah had yesterday was a mind that perceived almost nothing. Thanks to ya, mi mind now perceives unexplored potentials, infinite possibilities, I’m awake ta th’ great adventure, ah thought wrongly my yesterdays were a nightmare.

Sa thank you Gwen, ah think th’ eternity o’ self-reflection has freed me from the barriers o’ false perceptions.” Phil sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. “It’s good ta be back. Ta see clearly at last. Ta smell ag’in, the feel, to see, thank ya.

Death’s not th’ end fur a “living being” o’ soul, in that is comfort.

Th’ “living being” is exposed as existing empathically through every act ‘n’ expression, ‘n’ exposed as nee existing psychopathically, which for me explains a lot.

Only a being o’ empathy is truly a living being, one without constraint beyond th’ constraints they place upon themselves.

But empathy is a high state.

It’s all too easy ta let th’ darkness of ignorance, hatred, envy, ‘n’ greed consume ya, when your light never shines, or th’ silence of cowardice ta return when ya voice is never lifted in defence, support or compassion, or th’ stillness o’ fear ta return when ya never act; empathy exists only in its expression, just as love.

Now I’ve found empathy’s true expression ah can move forward Gwen. This is what I’ve been taught in the darkness.” Phil explained.

Phil was interrupted by a knock at the front door, Gwen went to see who it was.

Gwen opened the door and Sill smiled at her. “Sill. Good. Phil’s awake, could you deal with him for me?

He wants a bath and something to eat.” Gwen asked.

“Sure.” Sill closed the door as he went inside, and they both headed to the living room.

Sill led Phil to the bathroom and found some old clothes, there was nothing Phil’ size, but he made do.

Tom was bewildered a little by the strange events. “Cathy told me you lived alone, and solitude was your greatest treasure?” Tom said feeling slightly confused.

“It’s been a very strange week.” Gwen replied.

“Well, I’ll have to be going, it was lovely to meet you, and I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow Gwen.” Tom held out his hand.

Gwen tentatively took Toms hand, Tom was having none of it, he didn’t want a timid connection, he grasped her hand with both his hands. “Thank you Gwen.” Tom said earnestly, then made his way out of the living room to the front door and left.

Later Gwen fed a sweet smelling Phil, and set him up in the cellar with Sill; her house was becoming a busy place.

Click Here: Chapter Ten

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