“I am Professor Montgomery, and all of you will know me as the person who taught you philosophy starting this semester. Welcome to Tulpus, the home of Nufus, the first animus.” 

The professor would always strike a sly smile the moment he delivered an introduction. Perhaps it was a force of habit, perhaps it was just him relishing dropping an icebreaker, curious as to the reaction of his students. His lessons were never particularly fun, nor was he close to any of his students – Montgomery had a policy not to – yet with his erratic grey hair, with tufts of red, and weary ambrosian eyes, one could always spot a glint in them. Almost as if he enjoyed teaching, motivated to see what the new “harvest” could yield. 

There was no doubt that his subject was the most intriguing one there is. In fact, it could be argued that it’s the most important one of all. And so, despite the cold, distant attitude he may have had, students, both old and young, would all flock to him – like moths to a flame. 

“As we understand it, every particle, every spark around us bears life. They are animated, in some capacity, capable of some level of thought. However, they are never complete,” he once taught on a dull spring morning, “for these aspects can only flourish when in a holistic system. Think humans, plants, or animals.” 

To illustrate, he drew out two items from his coat: a pen and a rock. “People of the past”, he continued without skipping a beat, “visualized this as purpose. They called it teleology, wherein the design decided the cause, and not the other way around. Had you met any such person, they would gladly tell you that the telos of a pen is to write, and thus it will write. That of the rock is to build, to be thrown, and to be used – none are mutually exclusive, but all fulfill the same purpose; completion.” 

Saying this, he set aside the pen on a stand, moved to the door, and threw the rock at it at full force, causing the pen to fall and break. Ink splattered all over the polished white floors.

“Even now, as you can see, the two are complete. The rock has been thrown, and the ink has created a picture, bringing color where there was none. In a way, they are perfect; they have achieved their telos. Then again, can anyone tell me what is wrong with this approach?” he stopped, taking a quick survey of the class. 

“You, fourth seat, third row, with the overly exuberant attitude. Care to answer?” 

Almost as if compelled to, the boy stood up, started correcting his tie, and said, “Because they had thought that this was by luck and not purposeful thinking…?” From the looks of it, he didn’t even look sure of what he said, despite which he maintained a cheery attitude. Montgomery could only stare.

“You were getting to the point, I presume?” he questioned. Before the student could answer, the teacher decided to continue where he left off. “For you see, the pen and the rock, they each have life within them. It is the rock’s choice to be thrown, and the pen’s to be written with. This is what we understand to be pneuma, the breath of existence. It is in your chairs, your clothes, the walls that make up this prestigious university, and, of course, in the electrons that buzz around you.” 

He sighed. “But as you should all be aware of by now, these are minuscule, infinitesimal, such that higher beings like ourselves never notice them. Even if we are made from them.” A brief pause. “Once these collections of life come together and form a human, as I hope all of you are, it creates something marvelous: a system, nay, entity that is capable of actualizing their pneuma and forcing it into different telos – thus, rewriting their own purpose, time and time again.”

Moving over to the desk, he picked up a walking cane and pointed it toward the board, a picture of the heart. “As you can see, this is an organ, often called the seat of the soul. Humans have long since sought what was hidden within this superficial pump, to no avail. However, as we know, there is indeed something within it, in all organs, and that too is pneuma.” Using the stick, he pointed to one of the chambers, the right atrium. 

“As constituents of the human body, they, too, possess a quality of life, one greater than a pen or rock, and rightfully so. Normally, there is nothing special about it, for each part bears only a small amount of the whole – the body’s life is divided within them. However, it is possible that when one of these dozens of organs is left unfunctional, its pneuma may flow into another, and that is why some disabled people experience an increase in some limbs or senses. It is balance, the mizoic principle, everything should follow.” 

Circling the heart with the cane, Montgomery would continue increasing the speed, and Thud! He struck the cane at the center of the heart. 

“We thought that was all. No further development could’ve been made. But as our university, and my great predecessor, Lord Humphrey Eatonis, found out, we knew far too less.”  As he spoke that name, every soul in the room uttered a scant prayer. 

“It is possible that, in due stress, certain organs may develop a life, a thinking, of their own. It could be trauma, joy, or something else entirely; we are not completely sure. The end result, to the contrary, we know. It begins to wonder, to act, mostly in favor of the human host. Those who achieve this balance, we call the animus, though it is wrong to say they achieved it: it is a natural occurrence. Sometimes…” And then, for quite possibly the first time since the semester started, his eyes grew teary. “Sometimes, people are not so lucky. Their bodies rebel, pushing against them, unwilling to let the constraints of their host bind them. These, these, steins have no future, at least none we can guarantee. We can only help but wonder if there is a God or gods – or some life greater than ours – willing to help.”