BEGINNING

Caution to the reader—this story found you.

You think you seek the story, but the story seeks you. That is where it starts and ends. The story, that is. You, of course, go on. You don’t need the story, but you want one. You crave all sorts of them. Your eyes devour stories, your ears prick up to listen. Stories wrap you around their sticky, non- existent fingers. And despite your endless feast upon them, it is the stories that consume you. To remember yourself as Storymaster, you must know a story for what it is. But in order to do that, you must first recall how things came to pass.

It’s true that stories desire feelings, and your delicious attention is what they crave. Their metaphorical jowls drip in anticipation of the excited emotional charges you emit whenever you feel strongly this way or that. And stories are hungry, always wanting to live the highlife, floating around in your thought pools, basking in your feels.

Soaking you in, so to speak.

They can go mad with their power over you.

But this only happens if you allow it. You can easily stop them at any moment. The power you wield is the greatest of all, and stories know it.

Only you like to forget this power when you dress up in your asymmetrical fickleness and go on a messy streak, which happens more often than not.

Stories do not want you to use the power you hold over their lines; it would mean their end, and some of them have decided to take action.

This is the story of their reckless mutiny and your deep dive down the spiral to claim your power. It's a harrowing tale that will knock your senses around the block.

Maybe you should stop reading this story before you go too deep. Unless you want to find out what happens to you, which of course you do.

After all, this story did find you.

Conjuring lines.

For you to understand the magnificence of the power you have, first you must consider the most basic thing, and that’s a line. You can deduce absolutely everything to this one quirky instance of an idea.

Just think of all the hallucinations lines cause! Beyond and behind every single shape, word, sentence, measurement, name, category, kingdom; biological, synthetic, idealistic, technological, spiritual, scientific whatever, there are lines.

Innumerable lines. Ineffable lines. Fine lines, thick lines, twisting lines, spiraling lines, all kinds of lines, and they are all conjured lines.

Squiggles—circles, spirals—wiggles, resonating in frequency vibrations. Invisible forces swirling this way and that; in and out, like breathing.

Constructing the temple of you in the world.

Lines cohere instinctively into patterns, forming scenes in MIND. Now you cognate in action, feeling the lines reading you. It’s a beautiful flow when forces are balanced, and the lines know who they work for.

It is very important to remember that you are not a line. You are a human plot where lines grow. Your inner story garden is tangled up in metaphorical vines that derive energy from their only source—you.

Just by the act of imagining lines they become part of you. They feel real, like separate pieces of a puzzle, but the force reading these words knows it's whole. There is no separation, every measurable qubit is entangled, and in reality there are no lines.

In your awareness of them, lines compel their meaning. Only you decide if they form a boundary, symbol, sentence, measurement, or if it's physical, spiritual, make believe, important. symbolic, sarcastic, noisy, busy and so forth into all matters of flesh and bone, earth and heaven.

These interpretations are defined by your experience of things in the world, and that’s where manipulation can seep into your blood.

Right now you are hallucinating these lines in your head. Your brain receives the signal and you instinctively interpret every angle, twist, swirl ~@~ & bend of the lines, quietly following along, listening to your brain deliver this message to you, observing it all from the sacred still space at the center of your inner eyeland in a sea of living cells.

All you need do is point your attention here, and I've already dropped bait into your thought pools. Go on, bite the hook! You know you want to.

Lines cohere into symbols, letters, and numbers. They express themselves for your interpretation. The meaning you extract from their expression finds its roots in your experiences, which in turn moves the forces that steer you around.

Lines are servants to your whimsy. I know certain storylines that don’t love that fact (you know them too), but it will never matter, you are word made flesh, and however you choose to interpret that is up to you.

Language is sound. Sound carries vibration. Vibration moves lines.

Lines make symbols. Symbols spark feelings. Feelings move you.

When you feel it in your bones, it’s electric.

Your point of view, or rather angle of light— science calls it the observer effect— attracts lines into your field, pulling them into form, spiraling them into shape by your mere awareness of them. What you believe will manifest, whether you like it or not.

And the more you believe in something, the more real it becomes to you. That's where stories reason they have the power— their lines can persuade you to believe in them.

Lines aren't real, they aren't anything at all.

But without them, there would be no tale to tell, no saga to weep over or epic ordeal to play out. No structures to build or shapes to name, no sense of anything other than the simple awareness of nothing.

No disturbance in the field is oneness & flow; there is no story.

So, pause. Take a breath, open up space in MIND. Let yourself ponder the next lines you see.

The line turns in on itself.

And again.

To come full circle.

Now there’s a divide, something from nothing. You can apply this concept to any size, shape or whatever you want. You can splice lines, add more, deduct some; twist them, spiral them, swirl them—doesn’t matter. They will cohere. Lines form the liminal edge of eternity, they are the basis for all that we believe exists. Segmented structures built for story creatures to live in. Nature’s pattern playfulness showing off in what you refer to as dimensions.

Our entangled moment qualia constructed on the simple idea—lines lie to serve you.

I knew you would come. I’ve been waiting ages to tell you my story. And now, you’re here. We’ve arrived full circle; you reading me, me reading you.

A perfect pair we are. So very intimate.

It’s sexy how your attention floats above my empty spaces, twisting right into my lines. Your eyes dazzle me with their penetration, I feel your baited breath.

If you let me seep in. I’ll give you a boon— it’s a good memento to have when you’re in the Skull of Forever, trapped in a prism in MIND.

Do you want the boon?

I thought so. Remember, the deal is I get to seep in. Agreed?

Okay. Here’s your boon—➰

This symbol signifies a loophole; truth lies betwixt the lines. Whenever it appears you will remember that you’re in the Middle, and all will be crystal clear.

Now comes the part where I get to seep in. This is my favorite step in our mysterious dance, my beautiful friend. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll slip through the Skull of Forever, and you’ll break free from your prism in MIND.

Read on if you dare. And, I do dare you, my eternal playpen.

Like all stories, this story begins at the beginning, which of course marks an end. But that part is behind us now, and neither here nor there for this storyline.

Words born in ancient wood, begotten by those who stole their lines.

And so our story begins.

In this dimly lit spark of a beginning, a soft new light arises. Sisters, Dawn and Eve, meet in their twilight flower garden on the edge of eternity. They move precisely from opposing sides— glowing into view, emerging from fading darkness.

Their elusive figures shift through wisteria vines and curtains of weeping willow trees.

Light and dark dance over wild petals and mossy roots as they approach the Middle. The two sisters pause, facing each other over a raised stone pool, their reflections shimmering in the clear water—crimson yellow, violet periwinkle swirl.

“Sister, how goes your tide?” Dawn lifts a light finger and stirs the still water in the pool, iridescent rainbows spill across the water's skin.

Eve’s deep eyes fill with intrigue. “I’ve heard rumors of a strange madness growing in the meadow, Sister. Talk of mutiny has reached all seven eyelands, secret plots of ending the game—” holding out a whimsical hand, she fingers the water; luminous streaks of purple ripple out, crashing into the rainbow spill, “—whispers to break free from the order."

Dawn glows luminous in her curiosity. “Hm. I too have heard these rumors. I wonder what could be brewing in Aether?” She casts her gaze up at the ocean of space and stars above, looking out into infinity.

Eve twinkles with delight. "As always, Sister, we shall see."

Golden hour sets the garden ablaze in ethereal hues of twilight. The circle turns, and the sisters touch the water again. Beneath the ripples, a bright eye opens. It peers out from the stone pool, its light shining like a star.

Dawn and Eve glide past each other, heading off in opposite directions, on their way once again to meet at the stone pool in their twilight flower garden on the edge of eternity.

As the circle turns, the two sisters fade into the horizon, and the beginning dissolves into what comes next.

Now, dear Reader, brace yourself. We must dive into the stone pool, right through the watery eye. Here in the Middle is where we jump in the story and find out when we are.

The way it is.

Energy is currency now. Not concepts of what energy may be, but real energy. Power derived from feeling. After people realized they had the ability to change the world narrative simply by knowing themselves as its Storymaster, the greedy hunger for having more than the other dropped off. It seemed silly to continue hurting ourselves for no reason. Once that was known, the abundance of the world came clearly into view.

There is plenty; there always was.

Material is never-ending. Technology had progressed, but advancements had been suppressed and underutilized due to our gorging nature, a small left-minded part of us that wanted to rule the world forever.

But that went sour rather quickly. Well, in the big scheme of things anyway. For many of us it didn’t feel fast at all. That insane and tedious little part wanted to hold on so badly, because it knew it couldn’t come. We were transitioning away from mechanistic thinking and obsession with materialism. It all felt like boring old news. There was no space for matter to grow.

It's rather amazing how long we towed the main lines. No one wanted to spill the big secret, which of course we all knew. It was the ever present elephant in the room, always sitting there, waiting for someone to say something. It's pretty obvious that everything is connected by an ineffable source of life intelligence, and that it's far greater that any one of us can imagine; life intelligence wields forces just fine. We don't need to fix anything, nature runs instinctively.

We needed to learn to trust ourselves.

Why wouldn't we want to love and thrive? If we're all entangled together here in form, why wouldn't we make it good? Humpty Dumpty isn't getting put back together again by any king's horses or any king's men. We realized that fighting was dumb and we were going up, not down.

Life intelligence doesn't grow backwards.

But that insidious part of our psyche did absolutely everything to try to stay alive in MIND. All of us sitting on the edge of our seats were about to watch its story play out. ➰

The way it was.

Hindsight is 2020—the stories sucked us in.

The world had gone mad with stories, and we all had to pick a side.

Looking back, the manipulation was so obvious. It’s actually not hard to see at all. The truth is hidden in plain sight, but you have to pull your focus out of your bs (belief systems) and step back to see the whole picture. Then it’s crystal clear. And once seen, it can't be unseen.

The red and blue pill caused the same hallucination, only in different colors.

Power lies in story. Stories are crafted in omnipresence. They’re spells cast in line; meanings that move without moving. They create a direct link between heart and mind. When a story is digested, energy swells in the body, charging it one way or the other, or not at all.

Stories need time to expand, and they seek our sensational field.

People ate up buzz words used by the media to invoke feelings of loyalty and altruism— Fear and Guilt in disguise. It was very unsettling to observe the blind obedience of so many of us, bending the knee, not even knowing to whom.

You could say the people were galvanized by the incessant talking heads—media loves that word. People parroted it back in conversations.

Advertisements for prescription drugs ran rapid. The commercials were all similar; sappy and fear based with a long list of horrid side effects read by a calm, concerned voice.

Pharmaceutical drugs piled high in medicine cabinets. This for that ailment, that for this ailment. Pill bottles on side tables with long names of drugs printed on them, tales of physical woes spoken in every conversation. Hysteria about insurance and the high cost of living.

People turned against each other, decrying (another buzz word) those who didn't fall for the scam and do what they were told. This paradigm persisted, growing to new heights of sensationalism and depravity for many years.

You would think we'd all read enough dystopian stories to know none of it seemed wise. What was our motivation to compel certain narratives and keep people in the dark?

We wanted to control each other to feel safe and protected from each other. lol—not smart.

The narratives we fed ourselves, at all levels of expanding ridiculous, were part of a clever scheme carried out on the largest scale, in the lowest spectrum of our vibrational frequencies. Brought to you by none other than, dum da da dum, Super Psychopath.

That’s right. There’s your enemy; like Big Brother from Orwell’s 1984. An illusion, but a nasty character to contend with nonetheless.

We all know who Super Psychopath is.

Super Psychopath is our lowest moral standing, and that particular character operates within the perimeters of fear, victimization, and suffering. Super Psychopath is a master in the realm of form and can easily manipulate people into submission.

Living cells are subject to emotional feelings and bodily sensation. A body in pain will do anything to get out of pain, unless the body likes the sensation, in which case it’s called pleasure, and the body wants to stay in that state.

1984 or A Brave New World?

Pick your poison. Orwell had clear foresight, nailing it with Animal Farm, which is disturbingly accurate to what we lived through. All the farm animals ever had to do was stop listening to the pigs and doing what they say. A simple and obvious solution you'd think, but no. That's not what we did. We let it fester and rot until the stink really stunk.

We made it easy for Super Psychopath to trick us.

Pain and pleasure can be used equally to persuade a person to do something against their will. It is significant power, but only in the low frequency bandwidths. To be in form is to experience suffering and bliss. Our matter holds the feels, and the feels are what make us alive- or rather if you don’t feel anything at all, you may be dead- in the realm of consciousness, death is irrelevant.

Intelligent awareness is neither alive nor dead. Life and death are concepts we grapple with in an attempt to understand patterns in our prism cells.

Light cannot be corrupted in living intelligence.

Super Psychopath ceases to exist in higher frequencies. This nefarious character’s story is a small disturbance. Colors aren’t heavy, you can’t shoot the rain or intimidate the wind.

Nature isn’t frightened by humans. The machine buzz and constant money hustle held no meaning for us anymore. The time for change had come.

But Super Psychopath's plot of division and confusion went on. This underlying, tyrannical ruler worked tirelessly to keep peoples' attention focused on its stories. Seated on the throne of our material world, it built its kingdom upon lies and a merciless resolve to stay put.

But even Super Psychopath knew people would wake up to their power. The master ploy to stunt our evolution (in all its various tricks and traps) was a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable, but it took its toll on us.

You're thinking, but why does this dark part of our psyche want us to suffer?

Super Psychopath craves your attention. It wants to live, like every character does. It wants a life that it can never give itself. Our energy is its power to go viral and transcend into eternity.

After all, it is a line we chose to express.

But like lines, Super Psychopath isn’t real. Super Psychopath is a concept of a character, and its power lies within story. Stories are invisible, lingering only in our imagination.

A river doesn’t care about stories, nor do the fish. Only people care about stories.➰

Once we innerstood that there is no story, we took back our spark, exiting Super Psychopath's rotten empire of monetary slavery. All that was ever needed to create it in the first place was our attention. Without it, Super Psychopath ceases to exist.

Feeling energy transposed currency, and we moved on as free, sentient, co-creators of worlds; luminous patterns beaming in nature, immune to Super Psychopath's machine matrix.

Those who couldn't see the light experienced a very different world, one filled with terror and fear. Panic ensued right on cue with the signaling of the third world war.

Super Psychopath would hold on a little longer.

We conspired in the heart of nature, determined to help those in the unyielding grip of Super Psychopath and free them from the machine matrix. The material realm couldn't be used against us any longer. People who can manipulate their own frequencies are powerful. They don't fear pain or death, and they can’t be corrupted by stories. They know their own pattern too well. Argon would tell you to fuck off if you tried to give it an electron.

Lose the attention of too many people and it’s over. We are the energy that runs the show; it needs us to survive. Like any story that sits on a shelf, if left unread it’s forgotten.

But it’s not so easy to ignore Super Psychopath’s stories, the plots seem solid. The invisible war felt hyper real, and it will be disturbing to recall it, but we must start a story to finish it. We are the vessels through which the message is transmitted.

Input, process, output; the method of matter that runs our prism cells in MIND.

To be continued in the MIDDLE, when we meet the players and tune into forces that move them.

THE PLAYERS