Some archivists were retired researchers, others had taken vows similar to those of monks and clergy. Many had personal warehouses and cabinets that housed objects and materials of special interest to them personally.

The archivists kept all the detailed reports in order and correlated them with others. They held the diaries of deceased researchers intact in their archival cabinets, warehouses, hard drives and safe houses.

Artists and poets worked independently and each in an area of their own choosing, their own making. The creative force combined with this personal bias to produce works that were totally unique and singular. They both worked on a particularly fine edge between the uncreated and the world as known, even by those who were first to see what was to come, such as the lucid researchers or the travelling remote viewers. They were the creators of areas beyond any edge known by others, even by other artists and poets. There they set up base camp and set out to create step by step the new paths of humanity and life itself. They were the creators.

The keepers of ancient ways were living historians who through depth understanding, symbology and ritual, were able to retain time travel corridors with the old ways of life known to humanity since the beginning of our life on earth. They had secrets that could unleash early beings, recall feelings and emotions of past civilisations. They could read stars and nature, to bring us together now within the past caves of being and becoming. Ritual arts and repeated protocols combine with regalia, sacred objects and phrases, all in relation to the earth’s position in the seasons, day and night, moon and stars, and the power of the sun.

The mystics transcend all these roles and integrate all processes in their experience of all worlds, beings and events as one living being, the being of God. They do this within themselves, where their own souls are the vehicles. And so they are within all the various roles yet stand aloof from them at the same time. Their words are power, their eyes project life itself. Mystics recognise other mystics and initate them into this divine life. It isn’t possible to learn to become a mystic, but it is possible to awaken mysticism within.

While I was in deep cover, (or abandoned by the organization, and I still don’t know which it is) I was none of these. All I did was appreciate life, live with kindness to others, do the best job I could at the time, and in time I even forgot that there had been any sort of mission at all.

I knew I’d had early training, and I’d been grateful for it, but it never really saw the light of day in my life so I just applied what I could to my current circumstances. The lessons had been so ingrained, and had been placed in my system with the utmost sophistication at that time. I had been indoctrinated or hypnotized to a deep degree, and was like a walking time-bomb – at any moment something could trigger a series of events that had been set to activate in me many years before.

I had volunteered, because I had wanted to be a help to the world. And I had been given the option of either volunteering for this mission or remaining in hospital in line for a lobotomy to relieve the incredible tension. It was no choice. My aunt had already gone through the second option and she was not herself after that.

But that’s a longer story that I’ll get into if it comes to that. Just see the table in the operating room and the lump of brain matter in the sterile bin. My aunt is being wheeled into recovery with a large white bandage covering her head. Later, in a month or so, when her mother died, we rode together in the family car to the gravesite. She was euphoric. Whistling, wearing a lovely hat of pastel flower petals, looking out the window enjoying a fine outing. Was that bit of brain matter connected to her mother’s death? Was there any other way that her mother could let go, or did that ritual removal have to take place no matter what? The baby she miscarried, the bit of brain, the mother’s cancer, all connected with golden dotted lines until they merge into one and dissolve in a pastel cartoon puff of happy clouds. Far better than suicide, the doctor had said.