Zoe rolled the scroll up in a fit of frustration.

  It was in this manner she found herself physically asleep in her father’s office while still feeling very much attached to the world of dreams.

  “Come back here when you’re ready.” Zoe heard a voice in her head. She did not know whose it was or where it had come from.

  The words were psychic-image free and only the divine spirit concepualizing itself as discursive activity persisted in her. It was, also, in this anner that the sense world began to pour itself into her and “Zoe” the incarnated self booted up online: she quicker than the speed of light “remembered” who she was, where she was, why she was there, and all that had happened in her dayworld life.

  A certain alterity arouse in Zoe, an invisible wall, that separated her from the vast invisible existences of the other worlds “in” her. She was no longer immersed in the psychic world or felt herself called to the divine spirit within – that emanated in her as her solar self – but rather she felt herself to be observing all these inner phenomena from the outside. As if she were in a glass cage, looking clearly through a pane of glass at something she wanted to desperately touch but could never hope to grasp.

  A secret but externally open sadness began to grow in Zoe’s being – she was sad and she knew not why, though everyone who studied her disposition that envisioned Zoe to the world publically, would notice these subtle expressions of melancholy pouring out of her persona-veiled inner person.

  Zoe, frustrated, arose from her makeshift-couh bed in her father’s office.

  She began to grow angry at the disparity of the world and its seeming endless layers of confusion and irrationality. She reached for her phone to see if Zack had messaged her however in doing so she remembered that after te traumatizing incidents at the hospital she had found the werewithal to message Zack grandma’s message.

  She had surmised that if Grams had found the strength to communicate to Zoe in ways that bordered the uncoventional then Zoe could put in that same effort to write down and solidify the cosmic message from beyond the immediate sensory.

  Zoe again felt called to write down her dreams and fought the inertia of her despondency and the day-ego’s mental repression of content that was not its own.

  Zoe grabbed one of her nearby short-story notebooks and made some markings to indicate a break from story-making activity. She then began to write:

  “Stupid eagle bird saved me”

  “Alexandria. Temple?”

  “Inner library? Vast realms? Rooms? Store house of knowledge.”

  The willing activity of Zoe’s being and its efforts to reconnect with her dreamlife payed off enormous dividends. Zoe immediately found herself transported back into the psychic realm, as if almost fixed in a sutle trance – what dayworld people might call “daydreaming” or flights of fancy.”

  Zoe could see the hoe inner life of the dream and remembered her flight through the spheres of the heavens with Eagle-Man and landing in the decrypt crater barren of life and foilage where the inner temple was housed.

  She remembered the scroll of truth and the temple doors she tried to open. She remembered Eagle-Man’s lecturing to her.

  “I am here to tell you to keep moving forward.”

  “I need you to open the inner doors which only an incarnated personality can do.”

  “The heavenly principle is being constantly subdued by the forces of opposition.”

  Zoe began to write all this down in her book and free-formed wrote some of the ideas as best as she could until they took on a life of their own in her. It was almost as if some invisible spirit was using her as a medium to write though no such inclinations made themselves known to consciousness: “The earth is dead because you mistake the psychic life of the invisible earth for the true heavenly principle which is not incarnate.”

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  For “incarnate” Zoe accidently scribbled “incarcirated.”

  Zoe with mental fatigue stopped writing down the dream, her first real attempt at doing so, and instead tried to dwell on the pleasant feelings that emanated from the psychic stream floruishing in her being. She tried to wrap herself in these dream images as best as she could or that they allowed themselves to do so – building for herself a cloak of dreams with which she could walk through the “mundane” world and the chains of mediocrity it would try to foist on her.

  Zoe was not only a gifted child with an active inner life but she was what the peoples’ of ancient cultures might have called a “puella”-eternus: a cosmic child whose playthings were the heavens and the earths.

  It was around this juncture of Zoe finding solace in her dream-life or psychic-life that Zoe heard her biological father calling to her from the steps from below.

  “Zoe! It’s time for breakfast!”

  Zoe groaned outloud: “What did I do to be locked up with that man? … He even makes breakfast seem like a chore …”

  Zoe heard her stomach grumbling and looing at the pile of chip bags and cardboard confessions of emotional eating she wondered if there was something more to eat than cupcakes for breakfast. It was in this manner that the animal-body of Zoe reigned supreme over her emotional body or sentient-soul life and thus her emotional consternations to a backseat to primitive instinct.

  Zoe brushed her teeth and headed downstairs, as she was doing so she went to close her open notebook where she had reconnected with her inner self and doing so almost seemed like a crie – but as did leaving it open.

  The notebook seemed to have an invisible aura of energy to it – in some ways it reminded her exactly of the inner temple. Zoe scribbled down in capital letters something else she had found herself remembering from her encounter with her solar self. She wrote in capital letters: “SOUL SLAVE.”

  Then she closed the notebook and worked her way out the office door and down the stairs towards the kitchen.

  Meanwhile Zoe’s father Benjamin had actually made breakfast: waffels and eggs … Well, he had tried.

  In truth, the eggs were dry and the waffles were crispier than stale bread.

  Benjamin watching his daughter enter the kitchen remarked: “I was going to call the fire brigade.”

  Zoe looked around at “breakfast” and regretted not feasting on cupcakes and chips for the fourth day in a row.

  “Hello father,” she responded mechanically.

  “A fire brigadier would struggle with this calamity I’m afraid.”

  “It’s brigade, Zoe. Brigade.”

  “Whatever it is it would not help.”

  “Oh come on … It’s breakfast.” He said eyeing his morning creations.

  “I will feast on eggs if I am permitted.”

  “Why are you talking like a robot vampire?”

  Zoe, in truth, did not know. Someone of more psychological acumen might point out this is the first real breakfast Zoe had with her father in years whom she only saw infrequently on a yearly basis.

  “I don’t know,” she said resumed with the normal-animated reflection of Zoe.

  She began to realize she would never have breakfast with grandma again and a horrible contracting feeling formed in her abdomen.

  Zoe grabbed a plate and filled it with half-warm eggs from the frying pan.

  “Everything I have reminds me of her,” Zoe opened up to her father.

  Benjamin said nothing at first, not knowing how to react to a grieving-teenage daughter.

  “I know, Zoe. I know.”

  Zoe feeling ignored and not wanting to sustain these emotionally-heavy thoughts or her encounter with her father any longer.

  “Well at least I’m a warrior of heaven now.” Zoe quipped with wry tone.

  “And I am from the planet Mars,” Benny mechanically commented.

  “And you’re an idiot.” Zoe said outloud.

  “Hey! Come on! That’s no way to talk to your father!”

  “You’re not my father! And don’t think of bringing my ‘mother’ into this next!”

  Zoe began to shout, “I know where this is going! I’m not stupid. We’ve done this before.”

  “You drop the ball and then mention Bernadette.” Zoe’s mother.

  The inter-generational line of women in Zoe’s family was Eliza her grandmother whose dauhter was Bernadette and her daughter was none other than our beloved Zoe.

  “I didn’t make breakfast for you to call me stupid!”

  “And I didn’t come here of my own free will!”

  Then she added, “And now I’m to be a soul-slave! I’m so sick of everyone telling me what to do.”

  Benjamin grew angry and short-tempered and replied: “Well get used to it! You’re here with me now.”

  Zoe kept her thoughts to herself: “That’s what you think.”

  Zoe pushed the plate of eggs to the side: “thank you for this wonderful morning encounter.”

  She went up stairs, and like the day before, almost in hyponetic fashion. Benjamin shouted after her. “Zoe! Zoe!”

  “You’re not a slave! And I’m not stupid!”

  A week went by with Zoe sequestering herself in her room with her father leaving her money on the kitchen counter for takeout. The first time there was a note that read “No boys!” which Zoe made a publi

  c display of throwing away the note on the rim of the trash can.