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After 72 hours on her feet, rest was coming to greet her. The blankets embraced her like a warm mother, diluting her aches and her anxieties. She had made it, and now she was allowed to sleep. The smell of tuna never left her fingers, but she didn't care, at that point. Survival had become a full time job, and she was becoming extremely good at it.

Just when she was slipping into a placid state of blissful relaxation, the noise began. The depository of all her love was also the source of all her stress, and the affection given was returned in the form of screams and fetid refuse. She pushed a pillow over her own head, hoping she would quiet the screams, but it was not working.

The high pitched wailing struck her body like a lightning, leaving that acrid taste in the roof of her mouth. She was, again, wide awake, trembling, and feeling her life was being drained through her eardrums. She stood up, and walked towards the little angel. It had been born with teeth and hair; huge, grotesque, misshaped. It had broken her on arrival, and destroyed her life afterwards. And she was supposed to love the screaming beast. She pressed a pillow against the gaping hole of its mouth, and didn't move until the noise was long gone. She felt a cold finger tracing her spine, but the noise was gone. She went back to sleep, to relax, to forget. Silence hugged her tighter than any blanket, with its cold breath whispering "Murderer" in her ears.

She was surprised to discover that a whisper inside her head was so much powerful than a scream from a cot.

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The world of Theatre of Souls; Basic World Information
Topic Started: Feb 18 2016, 12:02 PM (228 Views)
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At the beginning, there was chaos. Darkness gave way to light, in an explosion that created all things. Time itself came to be as a result of that explosion. The universe was created, as a whole thing, one great single entity that existed in the middle of nothingness, purposeless, meaningless, all encompassing. Its own lack of sense was quite apparent, and IT, the sum of all things, decided to become THIS, each separate thing. And, thus, the plural existence began. The great ball of everything tore its own flesh to pieces, stripped its own bones off its very substance, throwing the bloody pieces away, scattering its own fragments across the empty landscape. Each of the fragments grew roots, and grew from the infertile soil of the vast nothingness. From the fleshy chunks of IT, the trees of life appeared, germinated, grew. Each nearly identical to the rest, varying only in size, and small details; each tree made of ten branches, one trunk, and ten tendrilous roots digging the ground, longing for nourishment. From the Trees of Life, the Souls bloomed, and matured. They grew red, green, orange, and purple; they became all the colors and shades of the world. Then they felt constricted, and cut their ties with the trees. The fruits fell to the ground, and grew legs and wings. The Souls were born, and they were free. They were godlike in their conception, for their very substance came from the flesh of IT; the sum of all things, and they had been fed of the nothingness that composed the Nothingness. The Souls were born with the creative prowess of their grandfather, and they made use of it. They imagined worlds, and cities; they conceived civilizations, and cultures; the dreamed of languages and cultures; they raised armies of ideas, and joyfully massacred each other's conceptual battalions in violent games of peace; they wrote charts of laws, and stones with rules; they drew the lines of beauty, and assigned values to forms; they created heaven, Earth, and Hell, and many more worlds.

One among them was jealous of the rest. They say he was IT, what remained of IT, who couldn't stand his creation's joy, the way they wasted their seed in pointless entertainment. IT wanted everything to become whole again, and came up with a plan to ensnare the fruits of his flesh into a timeless trap. He grabbed the lowest branch of the biggest tree, and twisted it. Every Tree of Life reacted in consequence, as they were all in harmony, screaming their pain upon the violent attack. The Souls reacted in numbers. All together faced IT, and demanded him to stop. But it was too late. IT had stretched the branch, and turned it into an infinite rope. He threw the rope around the Souls, and trapped them all with a knot. All the lowest branches of all the Trees of Life reacted in consequence, throwing themselves at the Souls, and tying themselves around them. He spat on the mass of branches, his saliva loaded with his creative potential. The branches grew around them, and became a web, and then a sphere, and then a ball, and then a world. The Souls tried to break free, but IT's saliva was dry, and had become hard as metal. They were trapped, crushed against each other, forced to coexist in an ever shrinking space. They resolved that, in order to survive, they had to make themselves smaller, or risk suffocating each other. So they did; they shrunk to the size of a lentil, and tried to find their space inside the trap. They became so small, their own light did not fit their new bodies. So, their lights escaped, fading off in the air.

Millions of years passed, and the lentils forgot their purpose. They forgot who they were. They lived their lives as dark seeds, unable to remember that, in fact, they were Gods. These lentils, the Souls, evolved in their own trapped way. They became humanity. They became us.

But the trap of IT is not perfect. Rays of eternal light crawl their way through the spaces between the branches, and drops of saliva, still wet, fall into the world without giving notice. Men escape the trap every day, and madness receives them on the other side. Some climb the trees, and hug their favourite branches. Some fall to the ground, and are eaten alive by the lusty roots. Few manage to ignore the lure of the branches and the heath of the roots, and make their way to the trunk, where everything is clear, and the Soul is safe. Some even try to turn the trap into their armor, and make the prison their palace. There is no right answer. The few that escape try to find IT, to seek revenge, but it appears IT left, bored of his own creation, to explode again in a different world, in a different time. Meanwhile, the trees creep with insects, and humanity tries to find it's place.

This is the world of Theatre of Souls. Welcome to the prison.
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Here you are. You have always been here, but you don't know that. You still hold appreciation for your mortal husk, the flesh and bone garments you wear now. That's understandable. You don't remember. You have been thousands, millions of people, and each and every one of you had the same problem. You fly like a confused moth, crashing your delicate body against the walls of this prison, over and over again, through time and space. Once you are crushed, either by your own ambition or by some other's, you drop down, and your corpse rots. From the dung of your carcass, a new moth is born. The same moth, but not quite. That moth doesn't know, it doesn't remember. But it flies against the wall with the same enthusiasm, willingly splattering its innards against what's indestructible, in an endless dance of self destruction.

You are born anywhere in the world, from any possible background. You might value your ethnicity, or your culture; you could be enamoured with the idea of wealth and prosperity, or set in a path of duty and honour; maybe you are obsessed with your own pleasure, or with other's joy; your divine light, dimmed and shy, still glows inside you. Every time you create something new, every time a new connection is made, every time you find the solution to a problem, or every time your heart grows to embrace another soul's heart, every time you imagine what's not imaginable, and every time your rage blasts like a super nova; all of these times, your soul's light is active, propelling you to the heights of divinity, giving you godlike wings that generally die in raging tantrums, attacks of vanity, or waves of pleasure that leave you feeling alone and miserable.

Along history, many wise men have tried to enlighten each other, sharing their understanding of the nature of our existence. Occult systems, such as Tarot, Astrology, Kabbalah, I Ching, and much more, all answer to the essential questions of human nature; they try to come up with explanations for our souls. Similarly, every religion has its origin in that same questions. These are so overwhelming, even science stands as a way of giving meaning to what's hard to understand. Suffice to say that every system, and every answer, is wrong in a different way, while retaining a grain of the truth. Seekers of the answers still abound, although they hide their messages in the most unexpected places, as the prison that surround us is not only material, but also spiritual, and many are the agents of that prison, whose only goal is to make sure we never break free.

You have had a glimpse of the truth. It's possible that you have not even noticed, but something in your way is telling you that the world you know is a lie, and that creatures from another plane of existence are actively trying to stop you from seeing the light. What you do with that piece of the truth, that's up to you. You can take the easy way, and forget you ever saw it. The prison itself will make sure you are rewarded, and taken care of. Or you can fight, and try to peel the layers of what's real and what's not, risking being labelled as a madman, and losing everything that defines you in the process.

I wish you luck in your journey. As for me, I will be waiting for you. I hope you'll come around. Find me there, at that point where the branches become roots, and the roots become branches; in the grey area where our lights can shine, and we can at last be free.
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