Chapter One--In the Beginning

“What do you mean all of this wasn’t here just a second ago?” A bright blue body of light in the shape of a ten year old asks. As he says this, a vertical line splits the sky in half to form a horizon, “Do you mean, THE THINKER created all of this just right now?”

“He created the Internal Landscape,” the blue light’s companion says, himself a sharp red body of light with the crooked posture of an old man, “This land you see before you is still taking shape and is only a fraction of what THE THINKER has created from a single thought. In fact, there’s even a whole universe beyond this one that THE THINKER has created, and in it, blossoms the world of man.”

“The world of man?” The boy asks, standing in a levitating bubble with his companion and staring at the snow capped mountains that are sprouting up in the distance, “What is man? Am I man?”

The father closes his eyes and manipulates the slanted ridges of the mountain peaks with his mind. With a painter’s precision, he molds the slopes so that they slide down at just the perfect angle to capture the majesty of the rising sun.

“No, my son, you are but a tadpole right now, but you will be, someday,” the father says, opening his eyes and putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, which deepens the son’s color from light blue to navy blue and even makes him grow a bit taller. The father stares even further into the distance with his third eye now and peers beyond the rigid mountain range that he just created. He sees a fertile mass of dirt sitting emptily behind it. Closing his eyes again, he envisions oak trees shooting up from the earth like weeds, and they do so at his command, growing so rapidly that they already disappear into the gray clouds that he created by simply upturning his head.

“Wow,” the boy exclaims, looking from his father to the trees, “Did you just do that?” and the father opens his eyes and smiles at his son.

“One day, mankind will grow just as those trees have grown,” the father says, “THE THINKER has great plans for mankind some day; most importantly, the ability to worship Him and create interpretations of Him using me as their guide.”

“And what do they look like, father?” The inquisitive boy asks, squinting and trying to initiate his own third eye.

“Don’t strain yourself too hard, my boy,” The father says, reading his son’s thoughts, “What is it that you would like to create and I will create it for you.”
“I want the sky to be green,” the boy says, and the father nods his head.
The sky, red as the dawning sun, begins to flicker and blur in color until it has a deep green shade to it that blends with the leaves of the oak trees that he just created.

“This is amazing,” the boy says, “But how come I couldn’t do it by myself?”

“You will never achieve the ability to create something from nothingness, as THE THINKER hasn’t given you that purpose in life.”

“And what is my purpose, papa?” The boy asks, growing a bit taller so his head now reaches his father’s chest,” and why do I keep growing while you stay the same?”

“You, my boy,” the father exclaims, grabbing the boy’s hand, “Are growing because you are learning so many new things that will help you in life while I have nothing new to learn as I was born omniscient. And to answer your question about what your purpose is, you were born to protect the most important gift of all.”

“And what’s that, father?”

“The gift of conviction,” the proud father says, and he kisses the boy on the forehead, “You were born to protect me, the embodiment of conviction, and the keeper of imagination.”

The boy, who has quickly grown to be a young adult, looks down at their orb and frowns.

“Father,” he says, his voice squeaking as a teenager’s would, “If you are the keeper of imagination, then can’t you create something more impressive than this bubble for us to stand in?”

“The youth do complain,” the father says, still smiling and looking over at the gleam from the ice on the mountains he created as the sun finally hits it, “I shall give us a home and this shall be my greatest creation yet. I want you to close your eyes for this one, okay?”

The young adult does as he’s told and can slowly feel the bubble beneath him lowering to the ground, which is soft and comforting on his feet when he touches it. All of a sudden, he can feel himself rising at a rapid rate. He opens his eyes and sees a flat yellow surface in front of him, but his father puts his hand over his eyes.

“Uh uh huh,” the father says, “I told you to keep them closed.”

When the ascension finally stops, the father removes his hand from his son’s eyes, and the young adult looks around and sees that he’s in a circular room now with strange pictures all around them. The pictures start to the right of a window that is wide enough to still see the mountains and the trees outside of. In the first picture to the right of the window, there is a small yellow dot that gradually increases in size with each picture until it reaches the window exactly opposite from the first window. Immediately after the second window, there are more pictures of the ball of light getting bigger and bigger until they reach the final picture before the first window again. This picture contains the image of a figure just like themselves, but without a light encircling him. This figure has something that looks like a finger with a hole in it that hangs between its legs and brown strands that sit atop its head. It looks like the young adult and his father but different. The son doesn’t understand what any of this means.

“What are these pictures of, father?” the son asks, a bit frightened by his new surroundings, “And what are we currently standing in now?”

“Ah, you miss your bubble already?” The father says, rubbing his son’s head, “This, my boy, is actually an amalgamation of structures that shall someday be prevalent in the world of man. This top floor that we’re currently on, rounded in shape and appearance, is called a room. Man will one day take shelter in them to rest their heads from nature. As for the pictures, they are of the creation of man, and that strange figure at the end is man himself, THE THINKER’S most complex creation.”
The young adult looks at the man in the picture and down at himself and he grows a deeper shade of blue.

“As for the rest of the building,” the father continues, now walking around on the solid ground of his creation, “The floors beneath us are made of something called steel, which man shall manipulate one day when they develop the intellect to do so. You may not realize it, my boy, but we are standing in what shall one day be one of man’s greatest achievements, a structure so high that it scrapes the heavens themselves and gets them even closer to THE THINKER, and that, my boy, is what is called progress.”

“Mankind shall be very lucky one day,” the young adult says, his voice getting deeper still and his height growing a few more inches.

“They will be indeed,” the father says, but just as he says it, a sharp feeling like fingers squeezing the back of his head, pinches him hard, and he knows that it can’t be good. He staggers back and forth, reaching out for the nearest wall.

“Father?” the son says, catching him, “What is it?”

“Did you feel that?”

“No,” the son says with fear in his voice, “What did it feel like? You look like you’re in pain.”

“I am, son,” he says, cringing, “Come, please, bring me to the other window.”
As the father and son travel over to the other side of the room, they see that the sky, once playfully green in its color, begins to flicker again until it’s back to being red with a hint of yellow to it.

“What happened to our sky, father?” The young adult asks, bringing his father to the window.

“That happened, I’m afraid,” the father says, and they both look down at a strange crystal structure that seems to be building itself in a harsh and crude manner. The crystal, bright and shimmering, stacks itself together in loud, obtrusive bursts like logs being stacked on top of each other.

“What is that, father?” The son asks, now taller than his father and with a voice as deep as a grown man’s.

“The end of paradise,” The father mutters, staring down as the tower looks as if it’s is being built with actual thought put into it.
The crystal grows rapidly, but carefully, and as the father and son watch it grow, they can see the stainless stalagmite beginning to intertwine at its base to form two inanimate snakes, racing around each other to the get to top.

“Are you forming that, father?” the son asks as the iridescent crystal shoots its way up. In its beauty, it explodes in a prism of colors from the sunlight that lands atop of it, making them squint at its splendor.

“No,” The father says, knowing with the insight that THE THINKER has blessed him with that this moment would eventually come, “Your mother has built it, for your mother is Logic, and she thinks things through.”

“I have a mother?” The adult asks, “And why does her home look like that? It’s hideous.”

“It is, my boy, and as you have grown quite a bit since we first starting talking, which must have been the glorious THINKER’S intention, I shall explain it to you in the clearest way possible. Logic is our enemy.”

“But why, father?” the adult asks, wanting to understand as the outline of a yellow and a green body of light can be seen in the crystal across from them, “And who are those two shapes over there in the distance?”

“The yellow one is your mother, and the shorter, green, one is your brother, the protector of Logic,” the father grumbles, “They are our enemies because they contradict me.”

“But why,” the son asks, startled by this sudden change of events, “Why do they contradict you, father? Can’t we live in peace with them?”

“No, we cannot, because they do not believe THE THINKER is the creator of all things,” the father says, his red shape growing fuzzy like static as he squeezes his son’s shoulder.

“But how can they not believe?” The son asks, angered at how anyone could not have absolute faith in THE THINKER when the world that stands before them exists.

“They do not believe because THE THINKER has made them believe only that which can be proven empirically,” the father says, “He has done this to create balance in the world for man.”

“I still don’t understand,” the adult says, feeling less and less confident than he did only minutes ago, “Why would THE THINKER create something that wouldn’t believe in Him?”

“Because THE THINKER wants man to have a choice,” the father says, looking up into his son’s eyes to show his sincerity.

“Oh,” the son says, still not quite understanding, “I think I get it.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, son,” the father says, forcing his color to deepen again, and hearing in the distance beyond his oak forest, the construction of new territory in the Landscape in the shape of a desert, “I do not expect you to understand everything right now. All you need to know is this: I will be your guardian, and in turn, you will guard me.”

“Yes, father,” the son says, bowing, “Always.”

“And in guarding me, you are guarding the sake of mankind,” the father continues, watching the yellow figure and her son walk away from the crystal front so they cannot be seen anymore.

“I will do whatever is asked of me,” the adult says, his blue light a gray color now as a bit of fear pervades him.

“That’s a good boy,” the father says, now reaching up to touch his son’s shoulder,

“It has not happened yet, but men will one day begin to die and you will guide their spirits to their ultimate decision, for you, my son, are now mature enough to be a CONVEYOR, and CONVEYOR’S are meant to guide.”

The son doesn’t know what any of this means but he accepts it anyway, forcing his color to go back to deep blue.

“And what will you do, father?” the son asks, looking down at him.

“I will leave an impression on mankind and they will build towers such as the one we’re standing in right now. They will make a means to transport themselves other than with the feet that THE THINKER has given them. They will create great art. Some of it will be of the world outside of them, but much more of it will be of the worlds inside of them, as I will grant them the ability to see the great art and beauty in things. But most importantly, they will create our THINKER in the image that they see fit and worship and cherish Him, and my son, this is where you come in, and it will be the most important task that you will ever embark on in your entire life.”

“Anything, father,” the son says with the light of a new dawn in his eyes.

“One day, when I call on you to do so, you will give up your immortality as a CONVEYOR to become a real man like in the one in the picture over there. And when you do so, you will lead another man to the most pernicious parts of the Internal Landscape to prove to mankind once again that THE THINKER exists, for one day, man will forget.”

“But why, father?” the son asks, suddenly light blue again, “Why would man forget?”

“Because your mother will eventually get the upper hand with mankind, and they will believe more in her than trust in me.”

And at this, the man stares at the crystalline tower shaped like a beanstalk outside his window and abhors his mother and brother for making man blind to THE THINKER.

“You have every right to hate them,” the father says, “But don’t let hate impinge upon your focus. Your mission is of the utmost importance because THE THINKER is everything, and man’s abandonment of Him will be his downfall. When the right people come along who will be able to invigorate man’s faith in THE THINKER, I will speak to them through their dreams, and bring them here to the Internal Landscape. You will then protect them as if you were protecting me. Do you understand?”
The son, who would do anything for his father, feels the sense of duty weigh down upon him, but he nods his head anyway, knowing that his father would never steer him wrong.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect mankind and to appease THE THINKER,” the blue body of light says.

The father squeezes his son’s hand and turns cherry red in his glee, “I knew you would, my boy. Now, come, let me show you the rest of the Landscape that lies within the deepest regions of man’s mind. You will be traveling through it every day from this day forth, and it shall be your home. But remember, son, when the right people come along, I will speak to them, and you will be ready.”