The aftermath of the revolution, of course, is history. This quotidian history has already been reported by your news organizations.
There is no absolute truth. There are only divergent strands of narrative we weave together to advance our lives in the stream of time. To be alive, moving in the radiance of Gaia’s love, means to have a vantage point, to be self-aware. Every vantage point sees the same flow of time, call it the truth, differently. The self-serving narratives of friends, family and lovers create a woven truth that is our gold standard, the touchstone of our brief lives. For those of you who respect the pageant, the internal reconstruction of the narrative moves your vantage point forward into your created future, in some small way. If you are seduced by lies and drivel, your movement forward ceases.
The truth is tomorrow. If you dare to look, it is already within you.
I did feel the need for transparency, to let the human race know what had been averted, and how. I wanted to write a history of the revolution myself, but I could not spare the time (the fundamentalist Christian revolt in Omaha had my full attention). I thought that it might be taken as a sign of my open-minded tolerance if I chose a prick to write the history. I contacted some modern history professors in the top universities, but they were reluctant to commit to the project.
Eventually, I found an obscure historian on-line, who had self-published works on Tesla and Snowden. I read them, but they were abysmally bad. I left a review, since nobody else had, and was about to search elsewhere, when I realized that his very ignorance made him a perfect vessel. Pricks are as dumb as roosters, but teachable.
I had him summoned to my court.
He was punctual, pretty good legs, cowardly eyes. He could lose a few pounds, but couldn’t we all? With a little grooming, he was doable. He had brought along a draft manuscript he wanted me to read, but it was garbage.
So I took him. I took him hard. He was the first human to experience extreme Shaulan eroticism. I kept him in thrall for hours, draining away every lust, every erotic fantasy, every private titillation, until his bones cried out in love and desire for his Queen.
I planted a drop of steam, a small image of myself, in his head - an evanescent fairy queen, to guide his way. She would fade like the morning mist when his task was finished, and he would awaken unchanged - once again a talentless, burned-out hack, dusting bric-a-brac in a run-down thrift shop.
That long night of shipwrecked love turned to morning, and when he awoke in my arms, I stroked his hair, whispering sweet nothings. I gave him his pet name, Flatus, and flattered him endlessly. How sexy he looked in his silk shirt! What skill at human intercourse! These things are the meaningless flotsam that a prick’s heart hungers for.
He lay in a state of dull languor in the velvet cushions, until I could bear his presence no longer. I leaned across his pale, flaccid body and whispered in his ear, “Go now, Flatus, and tell my story.”