The city in the distance a compilation of wooden houses and cathedrals made of the dead branches shed from trees disassociating themselves from their parts they have no more need for. Like spears the sharp edges in buildings lend a jagged look to passers by – a clawing sensation delivering the message: “do not tread too close”. The dirt roads connecting inhabitants suggest watermarks from when the grey sky finally brings itself to cry – the days soon forgotten of when depression reaches its climax and suppression becomes something less to bare.

The well in the centre deprived of visitors a solemn testament to the cities establishers, once children of nature – now a band of wraiths unaware of their own plight that has seen them degenerate from humble settlers of this land to subordinates to their new found powers.

The outsiders story of this place describes a folk discovering the mystique and wonder within the ethereal energy that is found within each moment and the harnessing thereof without the knowledge of its cause – merely its existence. They have since perfected their art of conjuring up memories of such moments, basing all of their wisdom on the knowledge held in scrolls kept in their most revered church. These I am here to see.

I search the cityscapes flat horizon for the tallest spire and make my way to its vined garden – dark green leaves with yellow spots cover the outside in an overgrown hedge of wild nature, growing as it pleases only to be hemmed by the stone walkway leading to the churches entrance. A white flower with black rims springs up here and there invoking my intuition with a notion of its poisonous nature.

The walkway has a sundial in its middle – explaining the lack of a clock on the towers apex, leaving only a copper bell for sight – in the absence of sun a self defeating sight. Large rectangular wooden pillars mark the churches entrance with candles providing the only sign of salvation.

I enter with intrigue for the surprises I may find.

In view of the altar and the rows of pews by my sides I behold a giant flower of life in red and yellow colours being the object of the members’ affection. In the wake of this place obviously a blatant misinterpretation being the belief of its true meaning.

I am greeted by the hooded eyes of a priest making his way towards me from the far end of the hall, hands folded into a red and black robe dotted with yellow nuances between the intricacies in its patterns.

“You are a seeker”

“That I am”

“Which blessing may I bestow you with” his words of self righteous misguided conviction.

“My wish is great, so I ask thee with greatest humbleness and reverence of a view at your most precious belongings – the scrolls of the fathers which, you hold so dear.”

Bowing to one knee in respect to their highest beliefs as my tribute to their cherishings my words are honoured with the priest turning his back uttering: “Do follow me.”

On arrival in a side room his piercing words scrape at my soul “To these writings we attribute our saviour, here are the cornerstones of our culture set on parchment in ink imbued by the enlightened one we call existence; now tell me seeker – what is it that you wish to gain from this?”

“I wish to find the enlightenment within these words and synthesize the awakening origin within my soul. Fully understanding their purpose and fathoming what greatness brought them into being.”

“Ah young one, you have much to learn from these texts, it has been my study too yet their true greatness alludes me still – I fear the understanding of their fullness will never be discovered. Here you are”

(A fool in search of greatness swearing by fowl tools such as fear and the foiling belief of subordination – this priest is nothing more than a slave to his own failure. Calling me young one – the mark of idiocy in the face of equality, there is no other plain nor is there hierarchy.)

His words show a hellthy fascination of the text without any true understanding, a common symptom of the addiction to falsehoods without vision of truth through the hazing of the mind with misbelief. It did not take long for him to show me what his entire belief structure is based upon. A perversion of truth he held for the most sanctified – pointing to the bottom of a scroll he read:

“Through the understanding of one’s life shall one end up with the truth – forever resting in contentment with the past and the future simultaneously achieving victory over the false self with clarity and perspective in its rightful place. This Life is the illusion of separation – the only thing giving you fulfilment”

He seemed very proud of this verse although to the trained eye it was blatantly obvious that these texts had been tampered to give false meaning; revealing so many alterations that each letter replaced or added gave the entire scroll a new slant, not to mention the blatant reversal of some words into their opposites – lie into life and hiding into giving, without higher knowledge the belief of these words are fatal to lifestyle, perpetuating the illusion these texts were meant to remove. The creator of these falsehoods did not even have to work very hard when merely introducing these writings with proof of his own higher power, which he gained by introducing such crippling information to his subjects as spiritual law. Misinformation and the forced or feigned following thereof is the easiest way to rise in supposed power through illusion. I pity those robbed of their right to see in the name of more sight. They suffocate at the hands of their false saviours without the knowledge thereof – thinking what they have is what they want unable to know what more there is, unconsciously perpetuating the lessening of their circumstances in a downward and never-ending spiral. Defending their saviour to the death from the impartial light that is heavens equality perceived by them to be what they need to rid themselves of. The nature of opposites and paradoxes – chaos is a place very simply observed from the outside but near impossible to navigate when on the inside. Always ending, always beginning, never ending with a beginning that has never happened – it has merely always been like this. Solemn floating in confusion held for truth – so familiar for it is the same in all forms yet the furthest from the truth, for reality is bliss in personification, mesmerizing sanity so easily confused for insanity for truth is always stranger than fiction. The difference is that fiction is constant and truth is ever changing. The paradoxes go on, yet truth is relative to self, because chaos is only perceived when the true self is lost or corrupted.

The true self gives direction – take this away from your subject and you become its master for it is left without identity. This is why the law of free will is divine – it is the only thing that divides you between oppressor and free’ers.

Power is an illusion very powerful – the question is does one wish to dish it out or keep it. The answer is found in control – for control is an illusion just as powerful of which the illusion thereof is the only thing that gives it power for in truth control does not exist over others, only of actions of self.

Hence the self has all power.

There was no way I was going to reveal this information to the priest without being hung in the well for all to see, so I bode my farewell and flared off as soon as I was out of sight.

Ghost town indeed.