Niko’s Eye

Chapter 81.

Isis.

Black heavens are the perfect stage upon which the brightest of hues dance. I could watch the aurora lights for infinity and always see that it is new, a unique moment and beauty in all of existence. Aurora lights, green rivers in the black heavens, a congregation of stars, how they resonate with my soul.

Isis stood at the balcony of her bedroom, looking up the painted heavens. The atmosphere deepens through an ombre of blues until it reaches a perfect starlit black.

Her mind drifted to Aisha.

They say a bad parent was a traumatised child, caught in the fires of their own suffering, their thoughts more hurricane than poetry or soul. I guess that’s right. In that exists a road to forgive, a way to see the bigger picture and move on with your own soul intact, head held high. When we see it we can learn to heal, learn to love anew and be a person we approve of in a way that is deep and calm. Then we can become the good parents and start a new cycle that is loving and healthy, plant a good seed in the rotten wood and watch the new spring growth.

She casually strode over to the canopy that she was seated on and picked up the book that she had been reading before the aurora lights had showed up. She was independant now.

Becoming independent is an adventure for sure, yet one I want to go into with both eyes open. I can’t be one of those as the hampster on the wheel, or one who justifies their days as a way to a comfortable old age... there is so very much more to living: nature, joy, music, dance, friends and love. So as I take these steps to independence, it is with those things as priorities. I want to really live and be so grateful for a the opportunity to do so, not take the blinkers that come with so many "dollar bills."

Between the pages of Isis’ book, was a dandelion, pressed and flat. It had left a yellow stain that brushed over the ink like a gentle stroke of water colour. The petals are still sunshine in delicate lobes and the stalk still has the greenness of spring. Isis’ face splitted into a grin.

I trust myself to use a weed as a bookmark.

She had always been an intellect. One who always had her head dived deep into a book. She remembered a random day in class when she was still bright-eyed and bushy and trying to ignore the fact that she felt inferior in her own home.

So, quick question, sorry, I raise my hand so often. Busy brain, what can I say? So, is a "bachelor’s" degree called that because it is the study men were supposed to do before they got married? If so, as a woman, did I earn a "spinster"? If so, do records come with that, old vinyls and stuff. I could be a spin-stir. Though somehow it sounds less flattering than "bachelor."

She giggled at the memory. She also thought of her school backpack. It had been so unique.

The backpack had broad shoulder straps that feel quite natural even with the weight added. With it I walked a little taller, felt the straightening of my back and my head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having being free of it.

I actually had a normal life. Before Alejandro, and before discovering my mother’s shenanigans. Do I need to see a psychiatrist? I have been through an awful lot.

From the shadows comes a form. I know it’s Alejandro from the looping strides that almost look like a moon-walk. Somehow I think the gravity has been turned down only around him. I try to keep my smile on the inside only, he really wouldn’t like his gait to be a source of amusement. For all his casualness he’s paper thin underneath. He’d never lash out, only make a self-deprecating joke, but I see the hurt in his eyes the other’s don’t. It’s a good thing too, a bleeding heart gets you nowhere in this town and I kinda like having him around.

And I miss Zainab. My goodness. The truth is, you can only identify your friends by the content of their character, by how they love and seek to see the world through the perspectives of the oppressed, poor and hungry. Your friends can have any ethnicity and be from any economic class. So tune out the speech of hate and tune in the stories of tyranny and violence - then follow the development of trauma populations and see them through the lens of compassion. We are born to thrive together as one species and to both listen and see through our hearts. We do not inherit the sins of our fathers, but if we have inherited privilege then it is our duty to help others and remove power dynamics. I am only free when we all are. I only have peace internally and externally when we all do.

Sergio.

Carl ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed his father in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He snarled more than spoke. "Once I get a deposit together I’m outta here. I’m gonna be independent, get my own place, decorate it better than this s**t hole you provide. You’re not a Dad, you’re a fail, a loser. You don’t even make twenty bucks an hour!" His father dropped his gaze to the floor and hooked his thumbs into his worn jeans. These long years since Carl’s mother had died had been the toughest. Shouting at his son never worked and he didn’t have the chops for it anymore.

"Son, I will support you no matter what you decide, but nobody is independent, that’s just the biggest myth out there."

"No, Dad, it’s not. I make more than you already, I’m going and you can’t stop me."

"Son, I’m not stopping you, but I love you, and like I said, no-one is independent." Carl took a step towards his Dad, a vein almost popping in his temple and his fists tightly clenched. The old man stayed right where he was. "Everyone depends on someone, Carl. Someone’s gotta pour that concrete for your condo, someone empties the trash, someone grows your food. Hell, even if you go live in a mountain hut you still depend on the wildlife. I know you’re angry son, but you’re not the only one that loved her. I lost her too." Carl took another step forwards, now almost nose to nose.

"She was an angel and you cheated on her with, what was her name again? Was she someone you ’depended on,’ Dad?" The old man stayed still, it was bad enough that he’d never forgive himself, but to Carl it was like he’d killed her.

He woke up.

It was just a dream.

But it was the reflection of his fear. He was afraid that his children would find out everything about Aisha and turn against him.

The paranoid have learned how to see the "bad wolf" in everyone, even in those whom are family and friends, yet not learned how to see their inner struggle with their "good wolf" self. We all have this struggle and only when you can identify this triggering process within yourself will you see it in others and be able to make allowances for them, responding in ways that bring out their inner "good wolf," that enable them to switch back to their better self all the faster. To do this you must have let go of your own inner masks, you must know yourself as you really are, all illusions down. For those who fool themselves are easily fooled. Those who know themselves and learn how to become their best self can know and guide others to achieve the same. Paranoia can be beaten when you realise where you are and the battle you are waging.

When stressed and afraid, the human brain is only made better at learning and remembering things we fear - it locks us in with our demons and gives them longer claws. It makes us want to hide in the dark and make no sound, ready to fight if we need to. In this state we invent new monsters, we look for more, desperate to survive... though in truth the stress may have been caused by poverty... the result is that we amp up the fear of whatever we’ve been conditioned or directed to fear. We loose the ability of the higher mind to hush those fears and restore inner peace; all other types of learning need a more relaxed and calm state. They need a little light to show that the "monsters" are only clothes in the closet, that perhaps a fancy dress costume made an interesting shadow, but everything is okay. Calmness is as the dawn when the real world is seen, and the actors pulling the levers of fear are revealed.

"I think I’ve got to kill her," he whispered.

Isis.

The most radical thing you can do in this world, in this era of paranoia and hate, is to love without frontiers. When you love with a passion that defies logic, that is stoic and steadfast, the changes are far reaching and profound. So be a radical and radicalize others - we are a social species born to love and be loved. Love people of other races and use language that shows you love how they are, who they are, their culture and way of life. It is a psychological hug, a way to show what you truly see when your heart is your eyes. Tolerance is for idiots, love is smart.

Isis seemed to enjoy her own company lately, she thought. As she sipped on her Jasmine tea and smiled to herself. She looked around, proud of all of the work she had put into her room. A room with plants, with flowers in bloom, with calm pastels and soulful browns.

She sat curled up in her bed, reading a book.

If one can savour every page, can see the joy of every moment rather than hang your emotions on the last page, then you are a real reader. For life is the "in-between," it is all the emotions, the good and the bad. Living is the challenges, the triumphs, the losses and the come backs from smoking ash... the last page, well, that was never the end of the story, yet another in-between, only an in-between when the author chose to stop the telling.

To my heart and soul is a place that invites the most serene of dreaming moments.

Being rich in this world marks you out as a competitor, a winner, regardless of if you began in the slums or with a silver spoon. Yet I challenge you now, to see that the philosophy of money was always to set it up thus, with a few winners or "kings" and the masses as expendable to keep down the costs of labour and production. In this system, there is no escape from cruelty or suffering, we can only change who wins and who doesn’t. The system was designed to centralise wealth. It was born of the socially darwinistic Victorian era. Its opposite is the love-nexus, a system more akin to Star Trek societies, the academic and striving adventure movies rather than the dystopias. It is egalitarian and kind. It is intelligent and democratic. It can take care of creation so that Earth thrives... with all that that brings for the future of our species. So, you winners, you rich people, you are the captains of this ship, revolution will kill us all... can you evolve us into a love-nexus? Because if you can’t, nobody can.

Being rich is a responsibility as much as it is a benefit. When you have all that, you have a moral duty to use that time and advantage to "level up" the rest of humanity and safeguard creation. You wanted to be "royal," well, that comes with all this. Good luck.

The waves are an ever changing mosaic of the blue made so glorious by their watery-crown splashes. Their movement is in so many directions, yet to my soul I feel the entire scene as if it were some soothing movie. I could watch the rain in the sea all day, stand here with the water on my skin. It is so sweet sometimes to let the calmness within feel so secure as the wind blusters of its own accord all around, tousling my hair in its dancing ways.

Zainab.

These moments pass as photographs, each morphing so perfectly into the next. My inner eye sees each water-petal among the many, airborne in the briny breeze as translucent confetti. Then as if the almighty pressed "play" - they continue their journey in real time, companions in companionable silence. For in this time of rain, sky and sea become one.

Zainab loved rain. The island’s soil had been drenched for the past few days and she enjoyed every moment of it.

These drops are only rain until they reach the sea, then they become a part of the briny blue, moving with the waves as one. I guess starlight is the same, shining as scattered seeds of perfect light until the return of the sun. Perhaps I should seek the shelter of the beach hut, linger in the cozy walls, wrap cool fingers around a warm chocolatey drink, but instead I’m mesmerized by the patterns, countless ripples overlapping in choreographed chaos.

That which evaporated from her briny waves returns as pure water from above, sending perfect ripples ever outward. This rain comes as if by divine request, to bring a freshness to our weariness, to remind us that we are connected to our world, that she reaches out for us. And so I stand on the bow and watch billions of transient crowns appear and fade, only to be made anew.

The rain gives of herself unto the ocean, each fragment becoming apart of the body of brine, of the waves and sea-lace. I hear each watery gift, softer than the patter on a rooftop, moving in subtle waves of its own according to the wind. I wonder if this is how music began, how mankind thought to conjure song and dance, by hearing the natural rhythms of nature. Upon the sand, the rain is almost silent, enriching the hue from cream to ears of summer maize.

Colours arc into a bold sky, stretching as open hands reaching for the sun-kissed rain. I watch and allow my spirit to fly to the peak and glide down the other side toward the horizon, my feet may be right here in the puddle-adorned street, but my imagination needs all this room to play. Perhaps one day soon I’ll see a double rainbow, twin arches into that silver-velvet above, I hope so, I really do.

Belvia.

Our movies are elevated just by being in this simple theatre. No script writer could hope for better than to have their art on our silver screen. Though the chairs appear old they are bespoke, designed to reflect the style of classic cinemas. The curtain that falls in generous pleats of thickest red velvet with deep burgundy tassells lends grandeur to the occasion. Only a few years back it was tatty with an ever-present odour of stale popcorn. The refurbishment was kind, tasteful, elegant. Crackling sound is a thing of the past, movie star voices call to us in surround sound with faces magnified in high definition. Snow and rain may fall to us as we hold out our dry hands, and smile under our 3-D glasses. Truthfully, they are only partly stories, they are experiences, rides of adrenaline and release.

The refurbished dwellings gave Belvia a sense of unease. She’d grown up just a stone’s throw from where the once near derelict structures had lain abandoned for as long as she could recall. Over lunch that day she’d talked non-stop to Gregor, fussing over the age of the beams that gave them structural integrity. He’d simply smiled that easy smile of his as she pushed the food around her plate. "Autumn, you worry too much. They’ve been passed by the city engineers, their fixtures are every bit as glamorous as the new builds further out and they have that allure of being closer to the city core. Just sell them, baby, sell them. Easy money. Now, are we having dessert today?

The loft apartment was a refurbished textile house with windows that let in every ounce of sunlight. It could be no brighter sitting in the middle of the room than outside, yet of course the drone of the London traffic was dulled. The kitchen had enough appliances to cater for a small army and everything glistened. The colour scheme was autumnal, the reddish-brown of the wooden floor echoed in the brick walls. Every window was the original, mullioned panes that were thicker at the base than the top; though quite invisibly they were doubled up with new glass on the inside to preserve the heat in winter.

There are elements of reality that are beyond human abilities in terms of imagination and science, yet we shall tell it as if it were no more than two puddles of liquids, each seeking to expand its boarders. Let us say that one is blue and the other is yellow, where they bump into one another there is a green hue, a blending that neither puddle is comfortable with. This green is the battle frontier. Your world is in such a frontier. The puddles are the god force and the evil force, as such your world is a confusing mess of love and emotional indifference, of profound beauty and profound suffering. In short, the sooner you learn how to pick a side and stick to it, the sooner it the battle will end. When you are conscious of this battle then victory is a matter of time. Every species that awakens choses love. The question, alas, is if the dominant species wakes up in time to save themselves. If not, then the "match" is reset, as callous as that sounds, we are fighting evil itself. That is your reality. Your myths are trying to get you all to that point of comprehension with different settings and names for characters. If you can save creation then you have generations to enjoy thinking about how those myths knit together and what they all mean. Right now, focus on the reduction of suffering, protection of your planet, and increasing love. Think pragmatically. Use science. Think with philosophy that is rooted in love. Once Earth is won, we in the other realms can move on to renovate more hells into heavens. It’s what we do