As one of the intellectuals of this journey, I am entitled to certain comforts that are otherwise unavailable to the majority of the population. Where most people have to care for their own belongings and well-being, mine is always cared for. But, as such entitlements have it benefits, it gives my mind free reign to wander, to reminisce and recollect things that I’d much rather forget. For in the darkest hours of our lives, the mind often turns to despair.
I’ve seen this happen before, driven to suicide by the self-destructive forces of the underbelly of our consciousness.
To avoid such an outcome, I have volunteered to participate in the emissary missions and extend an invitation to our grand exodus. Though these encounters are immensely interesting, and above all, time-consuming, I’ve learned that these people are not only ignorant but also superstitious.
Deeper into the forest and closer to the mountains, the natives refer to the land as the land of the dead. The land where the souls of the regretful live, haunted by ghosts and wraiths that wander aimlessly and destroys anyone alive, for they are envious of the living.
Despite the horror stories engraved in them since birth, little convincing needed to be applied, for it was clear that they had no choice but to brave such superstition and hope that their tales were untrue. For the true land of the dead now lies behind us, millions upon millions that are dead and will never see their remains attended – to forever haunt the wastelands of their former homelands.
Read the rest of the series here: The Exodus Journal