And, no, this is not a play on “the Final Solution”, so calm your tits.
It was nigh time to depart for the freezing north. I’d been thinking about it and preparing for it for years, wondering when it would arrive. As with so many things during this rough and bumpy Phase 2 era, it came with a rush, and that strong “sense of urgency” the Marine Corps ‘tools’ had always talked about.
I saw this in a vision ten years before; in 2002, I knew I’d be headed up into Montana sometime during or shortly after 2010. (That was what my series of comic-like short-stories entitled The Wolves had been about.) Sure as ever, I found myself making quick time there with the law on my heels, not one year later.
Refugee and fugitive status was about to begin, as unfair things were demanded of me by authorities who had gone mad where I was departing from, but that was the price that had to be paid by me in order to leave on time; to stay would have meant being forced at gunpoint to give into the extortion of that ‘blue gang’ (police) claiming their illegal authority, and I needed the precious few dollars I had for gas and food, not to mention rent and a security deposit. I only weighed those two options for about half a minute… and then left. Thankfully, I’d learned by now, through many hellish trials with the most abusive of scummy Americans, to keep everything packed and staged for such occasions.
I had no idea about the Mayan calendar/schedule at this time, but I’d find out later, realizing this had been cast into ‘the stars’; it was fate –or destiny; whatever you want to call it. I just was never meant to get along with the humanimals, as I call them, due to their default-rude and pointless (mis)behavior. I was meant to stay mobile, see the world, and always escape from their ongoing attempts to lessen, label, rob, and control me.
I think I pulled into my war-brother’s driveway just two exhausting days after having left –and after nearly flipping my vehicle when a dumbass deer walked out and stopped to hang out in the middle of the unlit highway just before the Montana-Wyoming border. It took a while for me to calm back down up there, but I managed. I did.
The finality of my decision became clearer in the weeks and months ahead; there was no way I could afford going back, and I’d certainly be thrown in jail if ever I did. I’d also moved too far away to ever find lucrative work again; I was really out in the wild and wilderness now, staying in ‘pioneer towns’, and sometimes wondering how I would find ways to eat. I had traded a life of being disrespected as a modern slave… for one where only survival and innovation were possible; there was nothing left for me to do now… but resume my work on the design of Inisfree. Such finality was bittersweet in these transition-days; The Shift had come so swiftly, mercilessly, and with permanence.
…I’d also made the final decision to go through with The Rapture campaign I’d spelled out. It didn’t happen at the same time my visions for it had, but the more humans I met, even out here in the most rural of areas (where people are, at least, a few degrees nicer), the more I realized it was soon coming, and bound. They were sealing their own doom, anyway, so it soon seemed to me that my decision to finally let go of them all, officiated with my leaving the Deep South to relocate up here for the long haul ahead, was final in so many ways –even terminal, at least for them.
