ee. Ancient Footprints.

                I decided to look at some of the writings in the lean-to. Perhaps there’s some maps of where I am, or references to where I might discover other people. I want food.

                Most of the sheets are blank. Ready for a primitive scribe or something. But primitives can’t write to my knowledge. Perhaps cave paintings on papyrus? I look through several stacks. All blank. One sheet however, stuck to the side of the pot on the inside looks used. I peel it free. Most of it intact, but some of the papyrus stock sticks to the pot as I peel. It read: The Land of Elda. [1]

                As I read through the document, it refers to dinosaurs that forage near the land of Elda. Plant eaters. There was also mention of the killers on dry ground. Flesh eaters. Attributed to the Teachers of the Watch. Who are they? This is a chronicle. The results of an agenda written by some advanced clan, not primitives. The Teachers of the Watch? The Runaways? Some sort of experiment? A phase designed to perfect a process; combine physical life with alien life from other space? No. Not primitive writing. Not primitive survival. But survival? Yes. Survival of another race? Alien Runaways?

                I began recalling memories of things I never did. At least things I don’t remember doing. How could they be memories if I never did them? A form of reverse déjà vu? Look at my hands. Not familiar to me. My hands are too big. Too hairy. My arms. Too muscular. Too muscular? I’m sixty years old. Not anymore. I am a young man. Not me. I want a mirror. I doubt I can find any such thing is this clutter of primitive artifacts scattered around this lean-to. I feel my face. Somehow I’ve grown a beard. My hair. It’s shoulder length and matted. Definitely not me.

                In searching all the pots, perhaps one of them contains enough water for me to see my reflection. Some pots empty, most contain papyrus, ink, or some sort of grain. I taste the grain. Food. Grab a handful, allow it to soften in my mouth and then chew. Spit. Swallow small bits at a time.

                Finally, a pot that contains water. I should have guessed. It was the largest pot. Likely this pot would hold about twenty gallons of water when full. Setting the lid aside, I scoop out a palm-full of water. One after another. Splash it on my face and swallow a palm-full. Refreshing water my body so much desires. I tilt the pot toward the sunlight in such a way as to see a vague reflection of my face in the rippling water. The reflection is not me.

                However, beyond my reflection through the waters’ surface, my eyes focus on an inscription inside the pot. At the bottom. Seeing it clearly, I dump the water on the ground. Spilling the heavy pot empty. I peer closely at the inscription. It reads, “Zeitgeist. The master spirit of paradigm shifts.”

                The maker of the pot? I know the lore of Zeitgeist. This Zeitgeist spirit successfully encourages the popularity and acceptance of the hybrid, the liminal in the human race. The lore refers to such beings as the half human and half beast hybrids. The most of whom are sterile. The origin of chimera. The art. All of this with the goal of welding spirits to the physical world. Another attempt to capture the essence of man. Myths abound but there is truth here somehow. Dividing lore from truth is the kicker. In the twenty-first century, it is happening again. Discovering present truth is exciting to me.

                My generation is so effected by Zeitgeist and we don’t even know it. iPhones, readers, online social networks. We’re addicted to them. I can only imagine… No, I can predict the future of this addiction to technology. Our children benefit by advanced technology where the social network is now packaged in a salve or lotion that which when rubbed on the forehead brings online a plethora of conditioned behaviors programmed to the receiver. Connectivity. Entitled. Online. Microbiology blended with I.T. technology in the bio-salve brings forth a protocol of brain stimulations. False telepathy. Telegraphy misrepresented. We’re like robots. No longer thinking for ourselves. The perfect hybrid for Zeitgeist.

                I need a water source. Seeing that I just dumped out an entire pot of water, I’d need a constant supply to remain alive here. I need a food source too. A constant source. And I need protection. If I remain in this lean-to, surely that saber tooth returns to devour me. Or something worse would arrive. Who built this lean-to? Stepping back from the now muddy ground, I notice footprints that trail off into the distance.

                I need a safer place to sleep. The tree that saved me hidden in the night? I anticipated the climb. It would not be fast. No escape up that tree in a hurry. No branches low enough to climb quickly. I decided to construct a safe place up in the tall tree. I would serve me this evening and who knows how long after that. I needed a way to climb it quickly.

                I spent the rest of the morning weaving twine together from reeds; braided into strong and heavy rope. I wrapped the trunk of the tree with this rope and tied knots and hand-loops every several feet for better grip when climbing the tree trunk. I hung a rope from the lowest branch also.

                I secured a make-shift deck in the tree. I made floor space. A primitive tree fort. I laid branches gathered near the lean-to and laced them together with a smaller diameter hand-made rope. I collected several pots; one with grain and one with water and stored them on that deck in the tree. I engineered a primitive pulley-system with rope and a large smooth stone for a counter balance secured on a high tree branch to raise heavy pots. A spear and a hatchet. I had one each. I stored two more in the tree deck. This construction took me nearly all day. It was worth it though as I would be safe by nightfall.

                I rested high in the tree. My new temporary home. As the sun began to set in this primitive land, I filled my stomach with grain and water. I had nothing else to eat. I remained in the tree all evening. Watching the transition from dusk to nightfall. I heard the transition from birds to crickets. I felt the transition from the peaceful living by day to the predatory land of the night. Watching the ground below and searching for movement I remained in the tree. I had planned to place traps down there for those oversized rabbits. But the daylight went by too fast. To catch a rabbit? I still did not have a way to start a fire. Nor had I ever done so with flint, rock and sticks. So what would I do with the rabbit if I caught one? Eat it raw? No thanks.

                The Land of Elda. Is this the land of Elda? Alien Runaways? Dinosaurs? Footprints. Ancient footprints in an ancient land. What am I doing here? Another nightfall. With less than adequate comfort, I dozed off to sleep.

I am Trainman.

Journal: Ancient Aliens.

If you have You Tube, Facebook, or Twitter, you have access to thousands of videos produced by average people like me who’ve made known truths of our past. I’m not alone. There are tens of thousands of me out there. I am just one of an army. But we don’t shoot bullets. We shoot truth into the air and you have to catch it to be struck by the content. Not all of it is true. The catch is whether or not you discern it when it hits home.

By, Trainman.