I am descended from a long line of warrior women. I have been groomed to lead, to fight, to be unerringly fearless. Yet I find myself a different sort of woman from my mothers and their mothers before them. I find myself sometimes unabashedly whimsical, joyous, and dreamy. I find that, though my curiosities are piqued by the unknown, I cannot march blindly into them without the throat-tightening twinge of fear and even dread when faced with the adversary. I am questioning my femininity.

I have seen pictures of men, scantily clad in fine silks, lying upon chaises, reading poetry, and drinking wine. They are beautiful creatures with soft skin and bright eyes. But more than just admiring their forms, I find myself envious of their social expectations. They are creative and ornamental. They are an accent to the strength and fortitude of a foundation laid by women.

I would rather someone look at me as if I were a man, to be admired not because of my decisiveness, ambition, and dominance, but as a watery softness like a cool drink in the summer, the blurring of smeared ink, and the freedom to explore the more artistic side of existence.

The expectation of our sex is difficult. We should never cry, not even in childbirth while our husbands wail away and hold our hands. We should never be unsure, as uncertainty is weakness of the mental faculties. We should never play with dolls. They are given to boys to prepare them to raise our children in the home after they are married to us. Girls should be given axes, guns, and small engines to tinker with to excite a scientific mind and activate dutiful hands.

Women are raised to be competitive, aggressive, and ready to die if our nation should need us. Men are raised to keep the hearth in preparation for our return.

As I ruminate, perhaps it isn't so admirable to be thus marginalized. We could take men completely out of the equation and survive adequately. Perhaps with less niceties and comforts, but survive we would!

Yet there is the question of missing what they add to the experience of humanity, the blurred lines, the awakened sexuality in their arms and when pressed against their loins.

But there are plenty of us women who are content to match our femininity with those of another woman. And as we are so versatile in interests and abilities, would heterosexuality even be missed?

But I digress, Adelaide, you know my philosophical studies in school did nothing but make me question everything. How has your company fared since you expanded your brand to the coast? I don't get much news of the stock exchange out here, but you have always proven a most capable businesswoman.

I will write you again soon. Tell Harold I miss his cooking and that I'm quite sorry about the death of his mother. She was an excellent senator who did much for men's suffrage over the last thirty years. He has many more rights because of all of her hard work, and he should be very grateful that she devoted her life to helping men become more prominent in society.

“Do you trust your friend?” Eleanor broke the silence softly to Gabriel. “Is he a fair man?”

“Why do you ask?” was all he said.

“I have been listening to him talk to my soldiers and I am in fear of my life. They wish to kill me tonight, I gather,” she spoke lowly to not gather attention to their conversation. The men laughed loudly ahead. “I do not wish to die.”

Gabriel thought silently and said nothing. She awaited a response from him that never came. The afternoon was waning, and he sorted through his logic and morality on the situation.

Of course Craven would convince the soldiers that they should kill the Queen, abandon the cause and go back to the South, while Craven took the gold all for himself and whatever he could carry and abandon his duty. This also called to question whether Craven meant to kill Gabriel during the scuffle to leave with a clean conscience, which would logically be the easiest solution to all of Craven's problems. Gabriel was suddenly angry, but he knew that when the time came, he would be the only one to save the Queen and restore honor to the North. Unfortunately, this also meant the odds were four to one, and that didn't look good for him either.

“Boy!” Craven called to him. “Set up the camp and make some dinner for us soldiers, would you? We're going to go scout the trail a ways and make sure there's not mischief about.”

Gabriel unloaded the tents and began to set up the Queen's first. He wracked his brain trying to figure out when and how they could escape. Queen Eleanor sat on a log near him and stared at him, wringing her hands.

“Do you think I can outrun them?” she asked.

“No,” he said flatly.

She looked at the ground defeatedly. “I suppose the Gods will it to be my time. Maybe this is how my father gains total victory, in the hills and in secret. I will perish and he will soon follow me peacefully but with no resolution. What will become of our people? Will they continue a war after we're gone in the name of two people who refused to be family?” she thought aloud. “I want peace for all of us, not just for his conscience.”

Gabriel built a fire and began cooking a lamb stew. He gathered wood and made the camp in good order. His father had taught him that even though the mind can be occupied, the hands need not be idle. He had resolved to save the Queen. He had resolved to kill the others if he had to. He would be tired afterwards, so at least the food was made and the camp was suitable.

After a few hours, the sun had set and the others returned. They all gathered around the fire and ate greedily. The Queen ate nothing but stared into the night-cloaked forest, presumably reasoning herself out of escape.

“Boy,” Craven growled through mouthfuls of stew. “You did good today. Go gather more wood before bed.”

The Queen's eyes looked at Gabriel with a deep resignation. It was time. When he left for firewood they would slaughter her and not lose sleep from it. He forced himself to leave through the bushes and hide and wait for them to act.

Gabriel climbed into a tree less than 30 steps from camp to observe how it would be done. Craven was cruel. The soldiers were acting in fear of their own lives at this point. He did not blame them. The mettle of men is tested in the face of death, his father had said.

“Go find the little twat and kill him,” said Craven to one of the soldiers as he finished eating.

The soldier stood and entered the woods where Gabriel had been with his knife drawn out to slit the boy's throat. Gabriel watched the man walk directly underneath him, searching the dark and listening for him. Gabriel dropped out of the branches and onto the man, drawing his own knife and stabbing him in the neck through to the hilt. The soldier made a terrible gurgling sound as the knife stuck out of his neck, blood gushing like black tar over his cloak. He fell to the ground and ceased to move. Gabriel took the man's longsword and drew his own knife back from the man's throat.

He had just killed a man. All of this time at war and he'd never done it before. Now it was done, and it didn't feel as terrible as they made it sound in church.

Suddenly, he heard a woman shriek. The Queen!

Gabriel rushed back quietly, hidden in the dark forest around the camp. One of the soldiers restrained the Queen and held her left hand down stretched across one of the crates. The last of the soldiers lay on the ground dead. He had probably had a change of heart and tried to save her. Craven was standing over her with his pocketknife waving menacingly.

“Now, the time has come for us to get what is owed to us, lady,” Craven said and traced the blade along her hand. “These rings are beautiful, aren't they? And such fine fingers they rest upon.” He tapped on her chastity ring with the blade. “I want this one first. Take it off.”

Her eyes widened with fear. “That ring was given to me when I took my chastity oath during my coronation. It has not moved for twenty years. It won't come off.”

Craven shrugged nonchalantly and swiftly cut off her finger. She let out a blood chilling scream and the soldier held her still. Gabriel gasped and held his hand over his mouth to silence himself. He had to figure out how to better the odds before he could save her.

Gabriel looked at his knife, still covered in the other man's blood. Something in him ran cool and calm when he remembered throwing knives with his father when he was young. He could kill one of them from a distance and then she could escape. He took aim at Craven as he had a clear shot while the greedy old man carved the Queen's dismembered finger from inside the ring.

Gabriel took a deep breath and threw the knife. He could hear it swishing through the air, and apparently, so did Craven. He turned in time to face the knife as it cleft into his chest with a thud.

“Shit!” he snarled and fell backwards against a tree with the force of the throw. Gabriel rushed through the woods in anger and sliced the old man's skull in two with the sword before another word was spoken.

He then pointed the sword at the man who was holding the Queen, now not as tightly as before. “Hands off her.”

The soldier threw her down and drew his own sword. “I've eaten shits like you for breakfast. Come on with it, boy.”

Gabriel had never had to sword-fight outside of training before, but his brain was a melee of anger and fear and he charged the man with expert stancing, circling him like a hungry shark. The power of each blow forced the soldier down and back until he was nearly on his knees being beaten down by Gabriel.

“I yield! I yield!” the soldier said, hoping the assault would cease and lowering his guarding arm.

“Not today,” Gabriel said, kicking the soldier to the ground and driving his sword into the man's eye and through his brain. The man seized then fell still.

Title: The Southern Queen

Genre: Historic Fiction/Fantasy

Age Range: Young Adult to Adult

Word Count of Selection:

Word Count of Total Work as of 6/27: 16,269

Author: Kaley Keane

Fit: The Southern Queen is a great fit for any publishing house because it feeds off of the fantasy mania that has captivated historical fiction readers with the introduction to such works as The Mists of Avalon and A Game of Thrones, though the focus is more on the humanity of the characters instead of the supernatural aspects of their stories.  I have created a strong group of characters who have struggles that are easy for readers to identify with.

Hook: Gabriel, a poor trapper's son, finds himself thrust into the middle of the reunification of the two kingdoms that have been at war since before his birth.  With his help, the Southern Queen gives purpose and prosperity to a people who have never known true peace.  

Synopsis:  After abandoning his post to guard the coast, Gabriel leads Queen Eleanor through the treacherous road to the citadel.  They are met with her father, King Alimond, who is the Queen's sworn enemy.  A treaty is made as King Alimond confesses that he is dying.  The Queen and Gabriel return to her palace to prepare for unification of the two lands upon her father's death.  A plot to assassinate Queen Eleanor is exposed in court, and Gabriel is accused.  The morning of Gabriel's execution, his only option is to escape in order to save her from her own terrible mistake.

My Bio:  I'm not very interesting myself.

Platform: Making social impact with unlikely characters who are relatable in order to include demographics that may be underrepresented in literature while telling entertaining, moving stories

Education: Currently attending Northern Arizona University after quite a long sabbatical following high school

Experience: One short science fiction story, one science fiction novelette, one young adult/female-centric novelette all self published on Amazon

Personality/style: Some humor but motivated by emotion and an elevated timbre of prose

Hobbies: I write, read, make music, and I am learning to walk again after foot surgery.

Hometown:  Yuma, AZ now living in Kingman, AZ but moving to Flagstaff, AZ in August of 2017

Age: 29

I'm not in the habit of having one-night stands.  I like to think of myself as kind of an old school romantic, and I am friends with a lot of people who think that I'm severely outdated.  I hold onto my ideals because I was just brought up that you shouldn't ever share a part of yourself with someone unless it was okay for them to take it with them.

Anyway, so being mostly celibate and keeping with my hermetic nature, I rarely reach out for social comfort.  I put up a status on good, old Facebook that I would be in my hometown visiting for my high school reunion.  I received a text message of a shirtless, bearded man smiling and waving at the camera.

I would love to take you to dinner, it said.

I smiled.  It was Henry, the older brother of someone that I had gone to school with all my life.  He had always been the one to keep us out of trouble, and he had been one of my cousin's friends in high school.

I don't really like to eat out, I replied.  But maybe drinks and karaoke?

He sent a little thumbs up emoji and told me to let him know when I was in town so we could meet up.

I got to my hometown and everything went as platitudinal as one would expect at the reunion.  I shook out of there as quickly as I could and went downtown to Dirty D's for cocktails and to hopefully meet up with Henry.

When I got there, Henry was already inside with his brother Doug, the guy I'd known since childhood.  They were both incredibly drunk, singing awful renditions of '90s grunge hits and occasionally trying to put their hands up my shirt.  

Henry stepped out for a cigarette, and Doug moved in for the kill-shot.

"I'm getting divorced, you know," he said in a very aloof attempt to seduce me.  "I've been really lonely.  I'm not looking for anything serious though, but I know you're more interested in my brother anyway."

"Doug, I really like Henry, and I really don't want to complicate a pretty weird night so far.  I'm going to call a cab, and I might just leave you both here," I said.

Henry pushed his way between Doug and me and kissed me drunk and full of cigarette smoke and cheap beer.  "We getting out of here, or what?  I thought we could do something more entertaining."

Doug snarled, finished his beer, and proceeded to put his hand up the next skirt that walked past him.  We lost him and got into the cab to Henry's place.

Henry hadn't done well, but he had a trailer on some land in a quiet area where we could be alone.  He took me into his home and proceeded to kiss all over my body in his drunken, sloppy way.  We started disrobing and his phone started to ring.  

"It's Dougie," he chuckled.  "Fuck that right now."

His phone rang continuously while we made out on his bed.  I was starting to get tired, which meant things were going to have to pick up or fizzle out soon.  I was losing my buzz, and the absurdity of the whole evening started creeping into the corners of my mind.

"Shit, now my mom is calling," he said and sat up, answering his phone.  "What's up, mom?"

I listened to her yell at him for leaving his brother at a bar, and she scolded him because Doug had been arrested for trying to drive home drunk.

"Sorry about that," he said as he turned back to me.  "I need another beer.  You?"

"Just water, please," I said and covered myself with his blankets, because I was becoming aware of my weird nakedness in his trailer in the middle of nowhere, and somehow I had started an awkward situation between him and his little brother.

He stood in the doorway, fully nude, and chugged a beer straight out of the fridge and threw the can onto his floor.  He pounced on top of me, kissing me and biting my neck.  I was giggling, and I was beginning to be at peace with the decision to have a one-night stand with him.  

Suddenly, he pulled his head back from me and vomited all over my chest and neck.  It was in my hair.  It was on my chin.  

I screamed.  "What the fuck, Henry?"

He puked again and started to laugh.  "Dude, I'm so sorry.  I'm such a fuck-up."

"Are you okay?" I asked as I started to laugh too.  "Where's your bathroom?"

I showered.  He showered.  We changed the linens on the bed and doused the whole place with Febreze.  He looked at me and sheepishly smiled.

"Do you want to watch a movie or play video games or something?"

"Sure," I said and made myself at home.  "Just because you puked on me doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

 He hated the way she always made the same sounds like she was reading from a script or just using him to warm up for someone else, but his fingers were tangled in her hair and he was buried within her as deep as he could force himself to be.

"You feel so good," she let out a breathy whisper.

I know, Williston rolled his eyes and hurried to finish. He couldn't wait to get away from her but he needed this after the day he'd had. He just needed to empty all of that negative shit into someone outside of himself, and right now, that meant he was going to fuck Tara until he finished, then go eat some greasy bar food. In fact, the thought of hot wings and beer was making him harder than the fact that he was inside a chick, leaned over a dresser, watching himself take her in the mirror.

He pushed away from her.

"What's wrong?" she asked emptily.

"I'm not even close. I can't get into this right now," he put on his jeans and his work boots. "I'm sorry, Tara. I'm in a weird headspace."

Tara wiggled into her panties and a t-shirt. "Whatever. You act like you didn't even enjoy it."

I didn't, he thought and combed his hair. We're both a fucking waste of space.

"I'll see you soon," was all he said as he wafted out of the door like the autumn breeze that drifted through the stairs of the cheap motel where they always met. He slumped down the stairs flaccid both inwardly and outwardly. He would probably end up at Chucky's. They had good beer there and someone had probably ordered the fight on pay-per-view.

Williston sat in his car and lit a cigarette. He never smoked an entire cigarette but he liked the feeling of pulling the smoke into his lungs and feeling angsty. He liked the ritual of people watching while he feigned interest in their lives.

He eventually made his way down to Chucky's. Amber was working. She was his best friend, and that was a lot to a guy that didn't really have friends.

"How's it going, Willy-bean?" she greeted from behind the bar and poured him a draft. "I was beginning to think you forgot I worked today."

Amber was always cheerful, an average brunette with hazel eyes and a huge smile. She wasn't particularly fit. She wasn't particularly pretty. She wasn't particularly noticeable except that she was the sweetest woman in Terrence. If Amber wasn't nice to you, there was a reason.

"I wouldn't forget a thing like that," Williston said and climbed atop a stool. He took a large swig of his beer. "Yep. You're the only bartender that pours anything right."

Amber smiled and continued to wash glasses.

Williston never talked to Amber much while there were other people around her. The things he said to her were usually personal. He could unload his emotional and mental baggage on her, she would organize it, and then he could pack it away again. Those conversations were saved for after 2 am when he would help her close up and they could be alone. She was the only person who really understood that he wasn't broken, but he was mostly stuck inside of himself. He was arrogant, vain, and self-centered, but he was compassionate and anxious and felt the gamut of human emotions within his limited body. It caused him a lot of confusion. It caused him a lot of internal anguish. It added to his dramatics, and he was already quite dramatic.

Amber had been staring at him, and he noticed. She must be able to sense that he's a wreck inside. He certainly felt like he'd been through the wringer. He was so unhappy, but he couldn't pinpoint why. He felt empty and jittery and vulnerable all of the time, and it was starting to wear him down.

He felt her hand on his hand.

"Hey," she said low. "Do you need me to close early tonight? You look like you need someone to talk to." She looked into his face with her large eyes.

Williston was ashamed she had noticed him. "You have a business to run, you know? I'm just some guy that likes to talk."

Amber shook her head. "You're not just some guy. Let me wrap these customers up and then I'll lock the door and shut off the lights, and you and I can split a bottle and talk about whatever it is that's bothering you, okay?"

Williston didn't answer.

"Will, it isn't like Charles gives a shit anyway. Hell, he's on life-support and if he does wake up, he won't know his asshole from his elbow. This bar is mine and if he wants to bitch about it I'll still be here when he wakes up," she huffed.

He gave her a muted smile.

"Hey, everybody, last call!" she called out and walked down the bar to attend to customers while they complained she was closing an hour early.

Williston sighed heavily and thought of Charles, or Chucky as his friends had called him, an old vegetable settled into a permanent bed at the local hospital while his body waited to die. It hadn't been eight months after Charles married Amber that he had a stroke and fell into a coma. He'd been that way for over three years now, and any love that Amber had forced herself to choke down for the reptile was fading as fast as his heartbeat.

Amber had told Charles no to his proposals five times. Charles finally told her that even if she didn't love him that he loved her and wanted to make sure she was always taken care of. That was the only way that he could see her getting his businesses and his land and his retirement. He also knew she would never sleep with him any other way.

She was 23 and he was 68 when they got married 4 years ago. His children, who were older than her, hated her and accused her of being a gold digger. But when Charles had been awake and aware, Amber did everything that she could to make him happy and comfortable. She visited him in the hospital as often as she could to read to him even though she was sure he couldn't hear her. She managed his legacies, his businesses, the accounts for his ungrateful children. She appeared at town hall meetings in his stead as she was a major landowner in the county. She was a good wife, and at the green age of 27, she was mostly a widow. Williston noticed with a certain distaste in his mouth that his thoughts had turned to Amber.

"I'm beginning to hate all of them, Will," she growled and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "I haven't got the patience for any of this shit anymore. I want Charles to either get better or die. I want everyone to leave me alone."

Her hair was in a messy bun with tendrils falling down around her face. Her make-up was a little smudged from sweating during the night. She poured them both a drink.

"I'm sorry for talking about it like that. You didn't come here to listen to me complain. What's going on with you?" she leaned over the bar on her elbows and took a swig of her drink. Williston caught a glimpse of her cleavage.

"I'm just stuck in my head, Amber. You know how I get. I hate my job. I hate this place. I hate living alone but I don't want to be around anyone. I tried to fuck Tara earlier and it just wouldn't happen."

"Tara...that's the one stripper from Red's right?"

"Yeah, I know I'm disgusting."

"Why would that be disgusting? Sex is her business."

Williston took a drink. "Maybe that's why I thought it was disgusting. I'm just another day at the office for her. Nothing is special about it. But nothing's been special to me in a long time. You know that."

"At least it's someone to touch and to touch you. I can't even look at anyone. I have old man's widow leprosy."

"Amber, he's not dead yet."

"So, I'm supposed to live in some sort of purgatory limbo until he finally croaks? I don't hate him, Will. You know I don't, but fuck it if he didn't ruin my life." She poured herself another drink.

"I know you don't hate him, but you never loved him."

"Is that even a real thing? I'm pretty sure that it's something we tell children about so that they'll have something to look forward to until they figure out it's like Santa Claus. Lies to sell shit on Valentine's Day." She stopped herself. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm making this about me and it shouldn't be. I'm just really tired of being the good person all the time. I never get a break to be me. I can never make mistakes. Everyone is always watching and I never even wanted any of this."

"I know," said Williston as he reached for the bottle. "May I?"

"Please, help yourself," she waved a hand dismissively and stared out of the window. "It's getting cold again. I wish I didn't have to stay in this town anymore."

He could smell her defenselessness. If he was a predator, which he had admitted to himself long ago that he was, he would take advantage of all of this tonight.

"I got a job offer. I guess that's one of the main reasons I wanted to see you," he said and grabbed her hand, playing with the ring on her finger. "I'll be leaving for Canada next week. I don't know how long I'll be gone." He pushed her ring off of her hand and set it on the bar. "I just want to make sure you're okay before I leave."

Amber smiled and put her ring back on. "Williston, if I didn't know any better I would think that you actually cared about me. I'm not an idiot."

"I never said you were. I'm just saying that there is an opportunity in front of you to have some closure mind, body, and soul, so that when I leave, you'll have something to remember me by." He finished his drink and took off his coat.

"Is that all that this has been for you, then? Our friendship is just a way to get close enough to me to seduce me on a lonely evening?"

He walked behind the bar and pushed himself up against her and kissed her. "It's never just been about that, but I want you now." He hadn't felt the desire to take a woman in a few weeks, but the way she almost said no to him made him want her more.

She melted into his arms when he kissed her neck. "Will, I—"

He kissed her and put his hand up her shirt. No one had touched her in years, and he knew that any physical contact would stimulate her enough to make her cave to him. She shrank away from him and he followed, his body leaned onto hers and his hands were everywhere. Suddenly, he felt her change. He felt her kiss him back and push against him and wrap her hands up his back.

He lifted her onto the bar and took off her shirt. He kissed her shoulders and her chest while she ran her fingers through his black hair and giggled.

"I'm ticklish. I'm sorry," she said.

He took off her pants and unzipped his. He slid her off of the bar and onto him. She wasn't giggling anymore. He felt her breathing change and her muscles tighten. He felt himself close to the edge. He looked at her as she looked at him, her eyes rolling back while he held her against him. Her body shook while they finished. He stood there pressed against her, looking at her blushing skin and remembered how beautiful a woman was after sex.

"You're so beautiful," he said and looked down at her while she laid on the bar. "I've never felt anything like that."

Amber smiled and covered her face, catching her breath. "That's the endorphins talking. Thank you for the compliment though."

He slid away from her and put his pants back on. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself, Amber. I'm sorry."

She put her clothes back on. "It's okay. We both wanted to. I've wanted to for a long time but I never did anything about it." She poured them both another drink. "Are you really leaving?"

"Yeah, I didn't lie about that," he said and looked at the ground. "I know it's strange but I really don't lie to you about anything. I've always tried to keep it honest."

"I know," she threw her hair back up into its messy bun and went back to cleaning.  "Everyone tells little lies all of the time, but you usually don't even do that. I'll miss your company."

Her attitude towards him had changed. How was he to know that she hadn't played him all along and finally gotten what she had wanted out of his endless nights of bitching and crying on her shoulder? She was almost dismissive the rest of the night. Their conversation spun mostly around his plans to leave for work and how she wanted to go back to school to become a teacher.

Williston grabbed his jacket and headed out into the muted night, never knowing if he would ever see Amber again.

Rory should have learned to swim when he was young. His father had told him that swimming could save a man's life, and now he was throwing up a stomach full of water after being pulled from the bay. He could barely catch his breath between the retching. He gasped for air and threw up forcefully again while his rescuers backed away from him for a moment before covering him with more blankets and shoving hot water bottles around him to get him warm.

My hands were shaking when it was over.  

Your shape lifeless next to me, just an empty vessel now

The bruises around your neck

Your eyes still open, mouth agape

You deserve better

I covered you in a thin sheet and stared out the window

My palms rubbed my brow

The salt of your skin against mine again

Burning my guilt into my mind

You deserve better

I opened the curtains to bathe you in demure sunlight

Like a thin ghost still upon a cloud you rested

You knew that I was not evil deep down

You knew that I would turn myself in

I knew that they would never believe me

But I called and told them to come and get me

I called and told them everything

My hands were shaking when it was over.

You deserve better

You would think that as you get older, you would get wiser, but it seems to me that I'm walking in the opposite direction.  My logical mind is deteriorating as I move through life, and the passionate being inside of me has given me a new set of beliefs that, though they're not entirely impossible, are highly improbable:

1. People are inherently good.  I know.  Most people are quivering sacks of anxious water that do irrational things, but I believe that the majority of people have a strong moral reason for doing things that point to the good side of their internal compass.  There are terrible people too, but they didn't start out that way.  

2. Everything happens for a reason.  Scientifically speaking, I'm always a little torn about this one.  I know that the world is just a translation of mathematics and matter, and those two things together create the energy that holds our existence.  While I don't believe that some big being in the sky makes it so, I believe that mathematics and probability can be applied to any situation.  I think that every breath and every beam and every beat are a calculation of divine mathematics.  There is an equation in there somewhere that follows the rules and sequence.  Every action has an equal yet opposite reaction and all that.

3. There is a collective consciousness.  Because of the extent to which our existence is intertwined and dependent upon each other, I believe that there is a collective consciousness that links our health and our Earth's health to each other.  Much like any person can have invasive thoughts, mental illness, memory lapses, prejudices, etc. our collective consciousness has the same.  We are all parts of this network, this breathing, thriving macro-organism living on a rock out in space, and our symbiotic separate moving parts are what sustain us, and even though we would deny it and claim our independence, we are dependent upon the overall sustainability of mankind to live our fullest life.

4. You can influence energy with will.  I know what it sounds like.  No, I haven't read The Secret.  I meditated long and hard about some of my problems a few years back, and the answer came to me.  Our actions, when done with intention of will, can influence the outcomes of the probability formulas in divine mathematics.  Therefore, if I am a good person, do good deeds, and live my best life, I affect the world in close proximity to myself, and the reverberations of that positive energy carry past my immediate self, giving energy flux to other people, places, things, and ideas simply by being present.

5. There are more answers at the bottom of the ocean than up in the cosmos.  One of my shortcomings is that I am an isolationist when it comes to space.  I believe that for us to have a future outside of our own world, we must have a mastery of knowledge and command of the possibilities inside of our own world first.  What do we have to offer the cosmos besides a half finished exploration of our home?  It's like never going into the basement of a house that you bought that was lived in since before you were born.  You're telling me we don't need to go look in the basement before building a treehouse?

6. It is every person's responsibility to live their best life.  If you fail, it's on you.  I've failed.  I've gotten back up.  I don't have kids or a partner or anyone else to live for, but I am energy and matter and light that is expressing itself in this form for now, and with that I have been given this organic gift of chemical consciousness.  What a singular experience to take as a permanence to wherever the remnant elements of my corpse decide to drift to long after our planet ceases to exist!  The vibration of memories, it's all energy, and whatever isn't utilized remains potential.  Why not expound all possible while you are conscious to do so?  The vibrations will be felt for eternity.  This is our immortality, to be continuously re-translated throughout the eons.  Why not choose a loving vibration in which to perpetually exist?

Anyway, that's the long and short of my belief system.  It's constantly evolving, as am I, and I realize there really is no proof for any of it.  It's just me.