The Western Gate

It would be easy to launch into the story without a prior explanation but there are things that need to be said for clarity. There are issues within this story that instantly will cause accusers and the nay-sayers to declare the whole story is based, clearly, on the visions and experience of a man high on drugs, or in this case solvent ‘abuse’.
To accuse the facts within this story and demean them as nothing more than illusion would be to cast scorn on many of the major works in history, not least the majority of all religious texts. So cast your stones as you will.
Further. That the protagonist of this story is not a person in the limelight, famous or vouched for by notable emissary’s does not mean the story should be ignored.
This story is based wholly on fact, as experienced, as retold.

The time was Autumn, more specifically around the time in Britain when fireworks would permeate the air. Another old pagan festival (Samhain) repackaged in the guise of ‘bonfire night’, why else sanction a festival that celebrates a failed gunpowder plot against the authority of the time ?
It matters not, but, that the fireworks were abundant in the story means we can without doubt determine the period when this all begun.
Our protagonist is within the ‘city park’, surrounded by cloned buildings, all the same, as if silk screen stamped in every possible space, they line the park, stubborn and arrogant whilst in the midst of this a small space of greenery exists for the townspeople.
It is here within a small patch of that sanctuary where the grass is allowed to grow wild and tall, affectionally known by the locals as ‘the squatters’ that the incident occurs.
Lying there, a bag of glue in hand he begins to breathe in the solvent which immediately sends his brain spiralling into sensory confusion. The visual cortex trying to placate the difference between dream and the reality in front.

 The hearing centre re-imagining external voices and noises, replaying them so that it sounds as though the mind has become a tape delay machine. The colours seem vivid and merge into each other, the grass and the field combining as one entity, one thing. The noise of distant fireworks! They are startling, boom, bang, more booms and crackles. The solvent has reached its pinnacle, the mind settles into its reverie and still alarmed by the distant kabooms and pops of fireworks. Fear. He senses fear, but it doesn’t seem to come from within, and certainly not from his mind which in this inebriated state is almost psychopathic, devoid of emotion and being, just a witness. Fear. Where is the fear coming from?
Just beyond the field a mist shimmers, it seems to be way off, and yet as he focuses he can see that in fact the mist is coming from the grass, the field, the overgrown nettles and shrub in the squatters, and it is all merged together, as if each part of flora is emanating its own essence and merging. Perhaps this mist is but a visual interpretation of the smell emanated by nature and that smell is resonant with the feeling of fear, alarm, warning. The mind enamoured with solvent registers the shimmering waves before him, they are not a construct of the mind, they are not broadcast by the hallucinations of the experience, they are existent, and are interpretations of what is there, the mind the transducer between the extra sensory that now appears before him, the aura of nature overwhelming and rolling towards him. He looks to his hands and can see, quite vividly his own ‘aura’, misting outwards, like the vapour of heat and yet it holds within its allure an emotion, carrying with it maybe scent or vibration dependent on what he feels, and what he feels at present is wonder.
The mist from nature now merges with that aura emerging from his self, and at once he feels as though he is not alone, there is something, someone tangible and real in his presence, not outside of him, or inside, but both.

He understands at once, this presence is feeling fear and alone, it feels threatened and seeks perhaps reassurance.
“They are just fireworks, just for fun, don’t be afraid,” he says.
the energy about and within responds, perhaps that it is acknowledged, known, and secondly comforted.
It may well be the voice within his mind that speaks, much like a mind translates words, or reads books, or thinks random thoughts, but a voice certainly rises and speaks, ” what can we give you?”
It doesn’t seem to be a question, more a statement, more a voice indicating ’they‘ can give anything and everything.
At once he thinks, all the riches, all the power and the whole universe, but recoils. It is like the scene in the film, The Omen, when the young Damien Thorn realises he is the anti-Christ and cries, “No ! Why Me!”
The aura of nature relaxes somewhat and offers that it can be a part of him, for always, to view the world as it sees, to understand the whole world in terms of an emotive and symbiotic experience, he would in effect have the insight and mind of nature itself. Still he refuses, he cannot wield or hold that power, as power it would surely be, determined he gently asks for momentary comfort, to acknowledge that the meeting between them is real, that the border between this world and that happened.
He is the lowest of the low, indulging in the street hillbilly drunkenness of solvent abuse, in a town the cheap side of London, and there, this insignificant and untold and all will be forgotten man, who will have no impact on the history or direction of the planet, will have no influence, followers, fans or devotees, who will flit through life as if to all intent and purpose he never existed, met God. The Devas. And the best bit of all, is that no-one will ever believe him, and more, not that he cares.