Imagine: 2018

Imagine if you will a society so wholly corrupted that its citizens view success in terms of crude, material wealth while they fight and kill one another to acquire more, more, more, even as the spirit within is ignored and the soul is cast aside, sold to the highest bidder. In this nightmarish, parallel universe anyone who dares focus on the spiritual rather than the material is labeled “mentally ill” and often drugged into a stupor, their soul locked away in a pharmaceutical prison lest the seeker become a danger to the stagnant quo.

And the dollar signs chased hither, thither, and yon by those labeled “normal”? The money in this dystopia is not even real but valueless scraps of paper whose only worth lies in the sweat of lifetimes laid down by one somnambulist citizen after another, day after meaningless day. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow spent in the slow suicide of the soul and for what? A paper currency that created – by malicious design – more debt than wealth, a paper currency whose value lies only in the faith of those who hoard it, the same enslaved masses who labor their lives away under the illusion that they are free.

Imagine if you will this society and its newborn babes, handed over to strangers to be cared for and raised. Why? Mother is a debt slave like everyone else and she firmly believes she was once “freed” by brave mothers before her, women called “feminists” who gave up every shred of feminine decency in a mad effort to escape hearth and home where no paper currency is made. What is made in the home? Nourishment for soul and body, but this is not important in our dystopia and so the young mothers rush off to work and the babes are left behind to drink chemical milk whenever the hired hands of strangers find the time to mix it.

Imagine the young in this society as they are bussed away to government buildings day after day only to be taught the virtues of silent slavery. Here, locked away under artificial lights, the formative years of one’s youth and the most vibrant years of one’s imagination are snuffed out in the name of standardization. Here the unique are made plain and any tall poppies are cut down to size. Bits and bites of useless information are downloaded into these young minds but never a word about wisdom or the growth of the soul. These things are for the frivolous.

Imagine the average citizen of this dystopia who has no idea where his food comes from; he has never once planted a single seed or even dug into the soil, and certainly never the soul, for there is naught but concrete under his feet and his energies are stifled. Strangers grow the food, far away, on farms that are more like factories, owned no longer by families but by corporations who concoct one chemical after another to spray on crops that will double, triple in size and so bring in more paper money – the only green thing that matters…

To be continued…

Rachel Summers
Known as the Dropout Philosopher, Rachel Summers walked away from the Ivory Tower, spent a year in a motorcycle mechanics program, and started research for her first novel, CondAmnation, in a local Harley Davidson shop. Her novels are what some have called a journey into antinomian mysteriosophy, where socially sanctioned morality is turned on its head in order to shake out just a few drops of enlightenment.

Summers holds degrees in History, Comparative Religions, English Literature, and Philosophy but ran afoul of academia when her dissertation proposal was rejected as something that might cause a scandal or, worse yet, cause the check-signing alumni to sign fewer checks. Welcomed to stay and write if she accepted a pre-approved project, she chose to leave and vowed to cause a scandal indeed, whether with pen or sword. She is currently writing her fifth novel as well as articles for the Revolutionary Conservative and Europa Sun Magazine; thus far, the sword remains sheathed. You can buy her books at