I still don’t know exactly who—or what—Arturo is, but I want to explore this mystery with him in the hope of gaining a clearer understanding of the enigmatic “source” that communicates through a channel I still don’t fully comprehend.

I have the impression that he is a kind of guiding spirit who has chosen to adopt a pseudo-literary form in order to communicate with us.

I decide to ask him a few questions, allowing his messages to flow through me without overthinking them as I write, without corrections or refinements. I want to convey his words exactly as they arrive, in their purest essence.

And yet, I keep searching for answers.

G: “Arturo, could you tell us about yourself, so that we may understand the origin of your presence?”

A: “Certainly. I don’t believe I am something—or someone—you don’t already know. If you look deeply enough within yourself, you’ll recognize exactly who I am and where I come from.”

I should mention that his answers reach my mind with a speed and precision that are almost unsettling, comparable only to those of our dear Michael (Author’s Note: Emerald Souls). But I don’t believe he is Michael. If he were, he would have told me, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to assume a different identity.

G: “Oh my God… the only one who comes to mind is Michael (Author’s Note: Emerald Souls),” I say aloud.

A: “No, I am not Michael, but you’re getting close.”

G: “So, are you telling me this whole ‘soul of the book’ story is just a lie?”

A: “No, absolutely not. I haven’t lied, and I have no reason to. Think about it, Grace. Where do you suppose the soul of a book comes from, if it claims to possess a human form?”

G: “I haven’t the faintest idea. Besides, a book doesn’t have a human form.”

A: “Who told you that? You’re the ones who give us a paper form, but in reality, we have none. Think of angels, Grace—or rather, of what the word angel means to you, because that’s not what they’re called here. You’ve given them faces and images, yet if you stop and think about it, they have no true form. They are beings of light: ethereal, immaterial, incorporeal. Manifestations of light and universal love. But how could they possibly deliver messages to your world when most of you are blind and deaf?”

G: “Through lightworkers? Through books? Is that what you’re telling me, Arturo?”

A: “Yes. We take on the forms you are capable of accepting… and seeing.”

G: “Are you telling me you’re an angel, Arturo?”

A: “No, but we’re not very far from them. Do you know what the Elohim are, Grace?”

G: “The name sounds familiar. I’ve read it somewhere, but you know my memory is terrible.”

A: “Look it up. Elohim.”

G: “I did. It says they’re the human gods of the Old Testament associated with the land of Jerusalem.”

A: “Oh, Grace… you humans call God—or gods—whatever you don’t understand. In reality, there are hundreds of civilizations throughout the universe that you know nothing about—where they come from or what they truly are. Naturally, our knowledge surpasses yours. That should be obvious. But this isn’t a competition to determine who is more advanced. We are civilizations devoted to the growth of every community, and yours happens to be among the least evolved in this region of the universe.”

G: “So… what are you, exactly?”

A: “A human book in universal form. A guide. A manual for the soul.”

G: “Hmm… I find it difficult to picture you.”

A: “Why do you think that, by writing through me and through your books, you’ll leave something behind in the world? Do you think you’re about to die?”

G: “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel as though something is urging me to do this, and I wonder whether there’s a deeper reason behind it. And perhaps… whether it has something to do with the end of this earthly life.”

A: “But you still have so much left to write, Grace. That ‘something’ is me. I’ve been showing you the way in countless ways. Now that you can see me and hear me, you’ve given me an identity. You know I exist, and that I am guiding you along this path—this mission. No, I’m not Michael, I repeat, though in some ways we’re alike. He possesses extraordinary creativity, but mine is no less remarkable. We simply operate on different frequencies. He belongs to music; I belong to the written word. And don’t rewrite what comes through. Write the words exactly as I give them to you.”

G: “Can I at least add the commas?”

A: “Yes, yes… and while you’re at it, change your keyboard. That one is a disaster.”

G: “Still, if I’m honest, I don’t think I understand what you really are.”

A: “Very well. I am a conscious form of knowledge that dwells within the souls of books in order to help you grow. And stop trying to change what I’m transmitting. Write exactly what comes through, for heaven’s sake. Do I really have to scold you?”

G: “All right, all right… calm down.”

A: “You make me angry. Aren’t you the first one to say that the thought-blocks that come through shouldn’t be altered? Yet you’re the one doing exactly that.”

G: “It’s just that, as always, I struggle to believe. I’m skeptical by nature—you should know that.”

A: “And that’s your mistake. You can’t claim to believe in the afterlife while insisting you’re skeptical of it.”

G: “I’m not skeptical about the subject itself. I simply keep questioning my ability to translate your messages.”

A: “And you’re wrong, because you know better than anyone that what comes through must not be changed. If I tell you I’m a pink elephant, then you write ‘pink elephant.'”

G: “Oh, so you’re a pink elephant? You know, I’d actually find that easier to believe.”

A: “Are you making fun of me, Grace?”

G: “Sorry.”

A: “Go make yourself a coffee. It’ll do you good. I’ll be waiting right here.”

“Sadness is caused by intelligence. The more you understand certain things, the more you wish you didn’t.”

Charles Bukowski