Illusions of Soul

I am consistently amazed by the human ability to deceive oneself.

Is it really so bad to know what’s actually out there in the world with you? It must be. Why else would such knowledge be so desperately avoided?

Of course, the acceptance of certain types of being does lower the standing of the human race. If we exist, you fall from the top of the food chain. If we exist, all the weapons training you possess cannot protect you. If we exist, the best in any human discipline that relies upon physical prowess is far from unrivaled.

You cannot surive if we exist. We are superior to you in every way.

Except the ways that matter most.

You have the urgency. And the death.

Of all the creatures in this universe, none rival the human ability to die.

It was an experiment in which sociologists everywhere could take pride, though the actual intention had been to gather information. I should have known better.

I asked around about the bizarre disappearances, the recent rash of particularly brutal murders that have cropped up. Many people claimed they hadn’t heard. Of those who have heard, a majority are convinced these people are somehow responsible for their own destruction. They are convinced these people weren’t careful enough. That they went off with the wrong person.

A person.

What they cannot see is that they too would have no will to resist if these “people” beckoned them. It’s the same reason that every person stopped with a whiplash-inducing abruptness when I approached and started asking questions. It’s the intrigue, the allure. They don’t understand it, but they feel it. And they will feel it again, if the others come for them, and they will be drawn away, and they will die for it.

But they can’t see that truth.

They don’t want to.

At my order, we moved into their world. I with my army.

We integrated ourselves into their lives, into their city. Slowly. At first, they might not have even known that we were there.

It could have been any number of things engaging in the killing. Any manner of animal or beast. Of course, it would have to be something capable or cunning enough to get over the city walls or in through the gates.

That did narrow the possibilities.

It could have even been human. A human with inhumane tendencies. I’ve met my share. There were a hundred excuses for each body, blood-drained, that was found on the streets.

Excuses were safety for them. The real executors were the ones that no one wanted to see.
But it cost them. My, did it cost them.

The longer it took for them to admit to us, the more violently we demonstrated that we were there.

If this person is me, revisited, they have developed a skewed impression of my needs.

Tonight, as I walked the garishly lit streets, I couldn’t help thinking, why here? Why this city? If this is my life relived, shouldn’t it closely follow its course?

This is far removed from a bastion of culture. It’s more like Carnivale, with its dependence on flash and shock value. There is no depth, no truth. That isn’t what people here are seeking.

The similarities to Renaissance Florence are lacking, to say the least.

Then again, there is the laissez-faire attitude.

What’s that motto I keep hearing?

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

It might come as a bit of a surprise, but, in Florence, I’d found the same.

When I arrived in Florence, it was at the beginning of the Renaissance. There was such an obsession with beauty, culture, and knowledge, all things that, in my former life, I had yearned to experience. So much was the city overflowing with these fundamentals, once I saw the vibrancy of it, I knew that I would stay for a time.

Florence… my new home.