We Free Prophets - Volume Two

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Chapter Fifteen

Writing The Solitary Man allowed me to express the struggle of converting a myriad of thoughts into logical passages of writing. It also enabled me to explore the anxiety I felt when considering my work may not have the impact I hoped for, and the notion my writing may gather meaning as time passes by, in a future within which I would have ceased to exist. A deeper consideration of this possibility resulted in a short story entitled Past Lives.

Past Lives

Not long ago, colder than ice, I felt starlight prickle my skin. The heat of moonlight was almost too much to bear as I fell gently, foetally, through time and space, to Earth.
From death I came, and through death I will depart. I have lived a thousand times, or maybe more. I know what it is to be loved, hated, embraced and rejected; a king, queen and outcast I have been, and countless joys and horrors I have seen. I have listened to the screaming and lamentations of the newly dead, while playing with my own skull. My ghostly fingertips explored curves and traced eye sockets, like I have made wine glasses sing.

And each time, just like the last, I have returned to play the eternal game. Once I had accepted the game could not be changed by me alone, resignation reigned, and the game became easy to play. Of course; the game changed, over time, but it was never in my control to evoke change on a planetary scale, not even when I was a king or queen, so I accepted the rules created by the Earth’s rulers, eventually, and lived each life as I pleased.

The horrors of the world would reach your very soul, if you knew. You would not be able to place them in the back of your mind, as so many do.

If you knew, falling in love would be a meaningless game to play, to pass the hours of dull days, because you would know pure love, and realise human love is poisoned with fear, insecurity and crooked desires, and exists within the shadow of hate, so it would seem pointless to take it seriously. Yes, how your life would change if you knew; if you remembered, as I do. And how the world would change if everyone knew; if everyone remembered.

But you do not know. You do not remember. You live with the knowledge that you will die, as though you are living one short life. You may believe in an afterlife or reincarnation, but you have no proof of anything. So you live in ignorance, and experience enlightenment when you die. The enlightenment will frighten you so much that you will scream with absolute terror, because all you know will be lies displaced by truth, so the life you will have lived will seem meaningless to you. You will not be able to help it. The newly dead always scream in terror, and then weep with sorrow, and then fall silent.

They weep when they sense the absolute peace; the pure love and the oneness, and realise the world they have just vacated is nothing like it is supposed be. They fall silent when they see the spiral of life, and life’s true meaning turning within. If the love were not so strong they would feel fear when they see the spiral, because they know they will forget everything when they are reborn, to live once more, as though for the first and last time, once again, and far outwith the realms of how life should be.

I won’t scream when I die because I know the truth. If I weep it will be because I know I will miss the pure love and oneness when I am reborn. I will only watch the spiral and wait, as I have so many times, with the knowledge the meaning of my existence will change dramatically when I am reborn.

Apart from me, the only ones who may enlighten humankind are the new-born and the dead. Of course; the dead may not enlighten us, for the simple reason they are dead. And the new-born are unable to speak, so we may not be enlightened through either, which is why the human race lives in perpetual ignorance.

Not all of the newly born may enlighten us, and perhaps it is an irony that only the silent baby has the ability. Most babies cry because they have slipped from one world into another, and they soon forget the world they have come from, so they become confused and afraid. The silent baby who does not cry remembers the one love and the spiral of life. In fact; they think they still exist within this peaceful, truly loving realm.

If the silent baby remembers the afterlife for too long, they may become insane as adults, because they grow to know life on Earth is nothing like it should be, which is a revelation so powerful it will break the strongest of minds. Yet, this is very rare. It is more common to vaguely recall a past life, but remembering the afterlife is very unusual, especially in adulthood.

Yet; all babies like mobiles turning slowly above their heads because it reminds them of the spiral of life. It calms them. They fall silent. But all forget, eventually, and the mobile becomes nothing more than an amusing toy.

I have not had any more children after my first, many lifetimes ago – a silent baby, who grew to hang himself when he was just seventeen, even though I tried to convince him that he wasn’t mad, and had just remembered the afterlife and the life he had lived before his reincarnation, as I had. I don’t think he was exactly like me, though. He didn’t speak of other past lives – only the one. But then; he didn’t say very much at all. Anyway, I don’t think he remembered his life with me in his next reincarnation, otherwise I’m quite sure he would have found me, somehow.

I thought I was insane for many lifetimes before I realised I was not, but only remembered that which all forget. Life after life I remembered the one love and the spiral of life, and my memories of past lives grew with every life I lived.

It took some time before I realised my memories were real, and I was not insane. I didn’t become insane after my first reincarnations; before speech developed, because I didn’t realise I was experiencing an unusual phenomenon. I only vaguely recall those lives, of grunting and shouting, and experiencing a crushing inability to express myself or understand others. The cold. I remember the cold most of all because I died a few times because of it. And then the fire came; the warmth, and then speech – of being able to understand one another and express ourselves, at last. It seemed like a miracle, although I was the only one who saw it as such, since I was the only one who remembered life before these gifts.

Yet; the gift of speech gave birth to common knowledge, and the knowledge led me to understand I was the only one who remembered living after death, and the lives I had lived before being reborn. As the world progressed increasingly dissonant with the loving oneness of the afterlife, the knowledge drove me insane. I was the only one who knew for sure there was life after life; that death was nothing more than a door to pass through, with no more attention paid to it than when one passes through any door, since it is only the rooms one enters and leaves that are of any consequence. I was the only one who knew of the eternity of existence, and it took many lifetimes before I accepted my unique individuality.

Once I had settled into a sense of relative sanity, and realised humankind was heading for self-destruction, I screamed the revelation to all I saw. But they locked me up and threw away the key. Hung, drew and quartered me; as a heretic, an anarchist, a subversive and a rebel. And I grew tired, eventually. I knew there was nothing I could do to save the world, so I vowed to only observe the forever changing face of civilisation and live each life to fulfill selfish desires, while I waited for the brief, yet glorious respite of the afterlife.

But I am tired of living these pointless lives, with endless hot baths, drugs, music, loveless sex and consumerism the only things to soothe my soul and pass the time of day. And after each life I am reborn with a choice of more possessions, yet, within each; a dwindling quality and questionable worth. Each life has seemed increasingly meaningless, because the dissonance with the afterlife – the oneness with which we should all exist – has increased with every new generation. So, I will break my vow, now, and for the last time, perhaps, try to teach the living the secrets of the dead, with the hope the knowledge will change the world, before it’s too late. For the last time, I will open my heart and care for heavenly souls in their Earthly form.

I suppose my optimism has been rekindled in this lifetime because there is a new phenomenon that will allow me to reach out to the whole world – the Internet. Or half the world, at least, but if I am believed, the word will spread and the world will change.

I have created a blog, and sit with my fingertips poised above the keyboard of my home computer. I know pointing a finger at politicians is oversimplifying the issue, although those who have governed the world have certainly been the most culpable when it comes to creating the divided planet, and those who govern today are responsible for maintaining these divides. But the problem exists within us all, and I must attempt to reach out to the collective consciousness of humankind, rather than turning the majority against a governing minority and causing a violent political revolution.

We must all understand the truth of our existence and the challenges we face, including, and most especially governments, so they may orchestrate the construction of a new world without losing the power to do so, for love will be the power of government, and shared equally among the people; a true democracy.


‘when love rules, there is no will to power, and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other’ – as Carl Jung said.

So, I write. I explain that when we die, each unite within the consciousness of the afterlife. The One Love; the One God. I explain there is no need to search for God when one passes to the other side, since we are immediately aware of being at one with the source of life – with God – and it is then we know we are never separated from it. I write that when we die, we do not consider God as a separate being, because we realise we are an element of God. When we die, we understand existence could not exist without God, and God could not exist without existence, for all that exists is an element of the One God.

I say that together, in the afterlife, we are love. We are God; omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent, and we should be the same together on Earth, but our philosophy of living renders us increasingly separate, so it cannot be so. I explain that we are irrevocably interconnected, without being aware of it, and to pull against this oneness is against the laws of nature, which is causing almost all the problems on Earth. I write that it is our challenge to reunite; to become one force, on Earth as it is in heaven. To be as though God on Earth. That it is God’s wish as it is our subconscious wish, since each are one and the same. I explain that God’s consciousness can exist on Earth as it does in heaven, and that paradise may exist within both realms of existence.

I tell the world the secret of happiness is to have compassion for one another; to love and care for one another – to create an equal, fair world for all, without borders, so we may intermingle as all other species and as nature intended. I tell the world that when we may fall asleep untroubled, as children do, we will find peace of spirit and the true meaning of our existence. Children sleep easy when they believe the world is a kind, fair, loving place, and we may do the same when this becomes knowledge, rather than a lie we tell children to hide a terrible truth.

I write of my endless incarnations; history through the eyes of a witness. Each mistake we have made and its consequences. How the world should have been, and could have been, if we would have passed through time treating one another with the respect God wishes us to express. I describe the horrors of the slave trade, and write of the atrocities committed against Africans, Aboriginals and the American Indians. I write accounts never recounted, and in a manner never heard, because I was there as a moral bystander, and write with the gift of hindsight.

My fingers grow blisters, which burst and bleed. The keyboard becomes sticky with blood, but I cannot stop. I thirst and hunger, but know I must write, for in doing so I will change the world. I hear a fearful pounding in my head, and think it is my heart. I hope I do not die before my writing is complete.

The pounding becomes a crash, and there are shouting shadows running across the room towards me. I am thrown from my chair and pinned to the floor. My hands are being twisted behind my back, and my wrists wrapped in cold, iron circles. I am hoisted to my feet by my elbows, before being dragged through the clutter of my apartment and out into the street, where a crowd of people have gathered.

“We’ve been reading your blog!” – one shouts. “We are beginning to understand! Will you write more?”

Before I can answer, I am pushed into the back of a police van, where a cold stare meets my tired eyes, and in that instant I know there are many who haven’t been reading my writing, or haven’t understood, if they have. I begin to cry. I have cried like this before, many times, many lifetimes ago, when I cared, as I do now.

I am un-cuffed and led to a ward on an asylum, where I am escorted towards a television room by a young female nurse. A group of patients sit in neat rows, staring vacantly at a television. They lift their heads to briefly acknowledge my presence, before returning their attention to an American soap.

I sit upon a steel-framed plastic chair – secured to the tiled floor – and try not to react to an overwhelming sense of sorrow in my soul. I attempt to focus on the television, but my vision is blurred with tears, so I lower my head and stare at my bloodied hands.

The nurse returns with a small, white plastic cup and a sheet of paper. I swallow the pills impartially, and pretend to listen as she barks instructions, while pointing intermittently between the sheet of paper and a distant door. She grasps my hands, tut-tuts, mutters something and hurries off. I study the raw tips of my fingers and think – ‘never again. That was the last time.’

As the pills start to kick in, and anxiety releases its grip, I begin to wonder whether I am insane. Perhaps my recollections of past lives exist only in this life? Maybe I haven’t lived before, and I am only delusional?

The more I consider the possibility, the more uncertain I become until I am convinced it is so. The pill’s calming effect vanishes with the realisation, and my soul releases a sob of pure anguish. Now I am sure; I am insane. A massive fear rises within me. I can hardly breathe.

On impulse, I raise my head, and see an elderly man hobbling into the television room. He makes his slow, laborious way towards me, with his kindly eyes fixated upon mine.

When he reaches my chair, he stoops over me, grasps my wrists in his cold, weathered hands and says – “don’t cry.”

A flood of fresh tears well into my eyes and spill down my cheeks when he smiles, and says – “we will change the world together, mother, in our next life. If it isn’t too late.”

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