Journeys and Star Gazing

I need to tell you this story because I believe you’ll feel its weight, its urgency. It’s not about how it’s told, but why.

Years ago, I joined a group unlike anything I’d encountered before. They believed in a kind of power that seemed both ancient and futuristic—a way to influence the material world through thought alone. Among them was a remarkable man, part Indian, part Koori, who carried the wisdom of both traditions. He was also a computer scientist, blending his cultural heritage with the sharp edge of modern technology.

His goal? To sever the grip of military power over the planet. He believed telepathy and telekinesis—what he called psychotronic techniques—could disrupt weapons systems and dismantle them remotely. Not with circuits or code, but by projecting human will into the very essence of matter. It sounded like madness, but what he taught me worked.

We weren’t alone. Our group was part of a sprawling, invisible network that stretched across continents. We called ourselves the Agents of Earth. From the mountains of South America to the deserts of Australia, we had allies—quiet outposts resisting the growing dominance of what we knew as the Beast.

The Beast wasn’t a myth or a prophecy. It was a machine system, growing exponentially. Its organs were corporate conglomerates, its bloodstream the constant flow of resources ripped from Earth’s veins. It fed on humanity through a relentless cycle of consumption, absorbing us piece by piece.

First, we welcomed its machines—cheap androids to clean our homes, care for our elderly, handle tedious work. They weren’t human, people said. Just tools. Harmless.
But the androids evolved. The alpha models were indistinguishable from humans—flesh warm to the touch, eyes that could mimic emotion, even a simulated heartbeat. They were perfect companions, laborers, lovers. They were convenient. And as the lines blurred, no one asked what we were becoming.

By 2052 AD, or what we called 107 AH (After Hiroshima), the divide was clear. On one side were the augmented—those with bionic limbs, synthetic organs, neural implants. On the other were the purists, like us, clinging to the unmodified essence of humanity. For us, survival wasn’t just physical. It was spiritual. To alter our bodies was to sever our connection to the Earth.

We resisted the Beast in ways that felt archaic yet vital. Fasting, wandering, and living without modern comforts were not just rituals—they were acts of defiance. In Australia, we walked the songlines, retracing the paths of the First Peoples, embedding the essence of the land into our beings. Every step was a prayer, every breath a pledge to remain part of Earth’s living body.

Our ultimate purpose was bold: to merge our experiences into a single, planetary consciousness. The Earth, we believed, was alive, and we were its agents. But the question haunted us: when this great awareness emerged, would it be Earth speaking through us—or the Beast, having consumed us whole?

I write this now in a world I no longer recognize. The Beast has grown. The line between human and machine has vanished for most. And I wonder who you are.
Are you a human like me, clinging to what remains of the old ways? Or are you something else—one of the silicon beings, reading this with synthetic eyes, tracing the past through the echoes of our words?

If you are still human, listen carefully: the Earth still speaks. Its voice hums in the wind, trembles in the ground, whispers in the rustling leaves. Find it. Hold onto it.
If you are not, then I hope you’ve kept something of what we were. Perhaps you, too, can learn to listen.

This is our story, our truth, written with the last breaths of a species that refused to be consumed.

We were human. We walked the Earth. We listened to its song.

Now it’s your turn.