Lupelius - The School for Gods

of yet another failed experiment – an expected but no less disappointing outcome ‐ Heannounced:“No one can make it…It is humanity that can’t make it.!”He was addressing me as if I were a representative of a defeated race, a species on the brinkof extinction.“There are too many laws which compel you to remain as you are. You have even turnedthe quest I entrusted to you into something which feeds your vanity, your egocentricity.I experienced a powerful feeling of resentment, that mixture of loathing and self pity thatresults from perceived injustice. After months of travelling and research in the United Statesand Europe, after having found Lupelius’ manuscript, that scholars, researchers andarchaeologists had thought lost forever, and after having confronted my tormented past withcourage, I did not deserve to be treated in this way. I would have liked to rebut the Dreamer’swords in some way, but the muscles of my dignity were still too weak. Besides, in my heartof hearts I knew that He was right. I tried to conceal my mood behind a false appeasement:“I can’t change” ‐ was all I allowed myself to say. However, my voice betrayed the rancour ofmy impotence and my tendency to cling and be dependent.“STOOOOP IT! ‐ shouted the Dreamer, drawing out the “o” in a hideous tone of voice.The passing seconds were filled with terror like the countdown to a harrowing event. I felt anempty silence form inside me, carved out by that inhuman wail, terrible as a battle cry heardamong the clashing tools of war in the middle of lethal combat. Something in my being wastriggered which sharpened my ability to listen.“Do you remember when you used to cry for hours until you were hoarse?” asked theDreamer suddenly in a low voice but conserving all His ferocity in its tone. Image afterimage rushed through my mind – points of access to a distant past that overlapped andmixed together like playing cards being shuffled by a conjuror. The images all shared thesame characteristics. They all possessed the same light and magical atmosphere of myNeapolitan childhood, where Lares and Penates had even more ancient names, given to themby age‐old superstitions. I recognized the old house, Carmela’s room and the wardrobe withthe mirrors on its doors. A boy of about six was sitting on the floor, crying desperately,endlessly …It was me.“You are still there, nothing has changed, except that your childish tantrums have become alasting tendency to complain and indulge in self‐pity. He fell silent for what seemed aninterminable length of time.“No one changes… it is impossible to change – commented the Dreamer at last. At the age ofseven, a child is already recruited into that sad army of adults and, like a little Spartan, hehas already received a back to front vision of the world and a complete set of all the beliefs,prejudices, superstitions and ideas which give him right of unlimited membership to thatplanetary club of miserable souls.A man’s thoughts, emotions and body are concentric universes…everything is connected.Deliberately changing the tone or inflection of one’s voice, straightening one’s back by just36