Picture, if you will, a tower that glistens. If we were to look within we’d see its packed to the gills with all kinds of things ranging from signs and symbols up to the latest tech and the rest of what you’d expect for a Soul to make sense of wearing flesh and walking around a planet. One of the most curious things is there is only one window which allows light in and that, for some strange reason, is obscured by an immense TV set. I guess you don’t miss what you never suspected you possess as the black mirror that hangs in its stead provides a convincing counterfeit that actually outdoes the real thing in some respects.
With the grip of its familiarness, this tower of isolation says “Nothing else exists outside these walls which is, in a practical sense, knowable” in various tones and dialects. It matters not who listens as the message is always identical. You, at this very moment, dwell within the (false) selfsame thing I have just mentioned. Countless billions do the same and that is before we take into account those who’ve came and left this plane and the ones still awaiting manifestation within the prism of time and space. How few, by design, I may add, recollect that there was a time – once upon a when – where they ran, free, around the Earths surface. Nay, even that wasn’t enough to contain them as they’d build rocket ships in their imagination and jet off to distant stars in the blink of an eye as they lived and dwelled within the extended resonance I call Inner Sense. That is to come, for now, back to the tower and the tale it spins:
We all know the tower well. It is what protects us with its shell and seemingly solid presence. In that respect man is much like a snail as none are born with it but we all develop it, nonetheless. Actually, lets interject another creature as well because its presence is most interesting:
A hermit crab is the animal kingdoms equivalent of a well read hippy that grabs a title from a landed gent by claiming squatters rights for the home that was left in neglect. This example will become more relevant as well progress but, for now, lets get back to the humans in their towers of strength that actually limit and inhibit the development of their awareness.
“Without these bricks of belief wrapped around my tenderness I don’t think I could take much more of this mess” says one such denizen as he looks around this realm with its seemingly never ending conflict. I asked him, previously, to disconnect from the net and let that black mirror hang silent and he said “That sounds like a fate worse than death”. See, the sad truth of the tower is that without the glitz and glamour, which is akin to seeing who has the best decor in their jail cell, is that its built to limit your presence and range of sensations you allow your Self to Witness. Let me back it up a bit:
Children ran, up and down the hill, they swung from the trees then lay on their backs watching the clouds overhead as they made up stories and adventures about what was happening. At this point their towers were still in the construction stage. The instructions of “Sit still! Look ahead!” were laying the blueprint but it would only be around the age their peers wear mortar boards on their head would it be almost built and ready to lock them within from then till the end. In contrast a schizophrenic would attest their life is like a scratched record that had multiple versions of the same song at differing forms of resonance so, at one point, they too may just appear to fit in well until madness hits like a bombshell and they’re listening to an acapella version by a cover band and then an alternative take with a live orchestra thrown in before being hit with the same bolt of inspiration that bought the lyrics, pouring, to the artist on that cold and wet Monday morning before super stardom. Granted trying to explain these shifts to one who is totally unaware there are such options happening in the same instance is a one way ticket to a padded cell and one of those nice jackets that allow you to give yourself a big, warm hug of madness as a depot injection is stuck in your rear end. Actually, this concept is worth examining at length:
Lets say, once upon a when, people didn’t build towers. They erected tents instead and lets pretend that these teepees were only to sleep in as they spent the rest outside, in their element, and in full resonance with the environment. That you could think was a different version of the song called “How it Feels to be a Human” that was then remixed with some industrial beats thrown in and distorted vocals and hammering percussion. “Ugh, turn off that mess” says the man who dwells in a modern tower of Babel as he stares at his TV set and eats his microwaved dinner after coming home from the office before going to bed and doing it all again. Imagine if you were insane and the needle of awareness on the record of your consciousness skipped between such things and reality, seamlessly, shifted to accommodate that which you perceive as it weaves it in to a smooth narrative because that is what those pounds of gray matter in your head do best. How do you think that would feel? How difficult to relate and convey to the rest that erect homes of solid brick in the modern way of doing things would that be? Can you comprehend the challenge? Better yet can you digest the implications of what I’ve just said and ponder the true cause of these effects and their implications for the one percent of the global populace that it holds in its grips as they’re medicated to death via ways that address not the problem but attempt to quell the symptoms which is akin to training an elephant to tap dance next to the skipping record in the hope of getting it back in the groove again.
And yet the so called schizophrenic is the only one that can tell there is some subtle yet all pervading problem that encompasses the entire realm as people are housed in these square bricked towers of isolation that they dare not question for their presence is sacrosanct and underpins their own definitions and relations to themselves and the world as it stands. Getting back to the denizen in question I previously mentioned:
“So, what you’re saying is that behind the TV set there is actually a window hidden and this gives us an accurate view of the land in which there are billions of towers, standing, in isolation?”.
“Yes. Yet, connected”.
“What do you mean?”.
“Well, in the midst of all of these towers there is a single point, a beacon, an edifice to which they are all linked by a long thread which dips in the mid. Its really very clever and, quite frankly, most devilish as many will live and die without ever suspecting the hidden presence and the option it brings”.
“So what is in this middle tower? This lighthouse as you call it?”.
“Illumination, my friend. Alas I can’t call it as one must feelsee to comprehend the subtle meaning as the difference is immense”.
“How did you get from where you are to this beacon?”.
“Well, it started with a craving for silence. Actually, no let me back up a bit. It began when I was wondering what made the record spin and the nature of that voice in my head that kept me binge watching and fridge raiding. Out of boredom, one day, I decided to not do what it says so I turned off the TV set and stated “My ears hear good news only“. You won’t believe what happened”,
“What? What?”.
“Well, the silence was as deafening as it was uncomfortable. I hated it. It felt like the walls were closing in and I paced, that way and this. Suddenly, like I was on autopilot I grabbed the remote and flicked on the set. Sitting there wondering what the hell just happened and how on Earth this was possible I became aware of looking at myself. Except it wasn’t. It was a gross approximation. The version of me that was the equivalent of a battery hen that was born and raised in the grip of this tower itself filled with the artificial illumination of the TV set and the non stop chatter in my head. In a rage I smashed the screen and watched it fall to pieces. That was when the window revealed itself and the thing that speaks via my tongue went ape as it tried all and everything to stop me looking from this new vantage. A penny or pound was irrelevant, I was all in and had to know what was happening so I stepped onto the ledge and what I saw scared me close to death. There were loads and loads of towers, stretched all over the world and continents and yet equidistant to all was the beacon I mentioned that called to my attention.
I surveyed the silver cord that linked me to this place in the distance. It seemed to be solid but it was now a question of nerve and balance. Little did I suspect there was a third aspect, well hid, that would soon come crashing into my awareness as it made its presence felt. Do you know what the Trickster is?”.
“Yes, yes I do. I watched a documentary about it, once upon a when. Its a very common myth around the planet about a two faced god that may just be the devil who is rather adept at pretending many things as he pulls off all kinds of slick shenanigans that constantly make a donkeys rear end out of the poor bamboozled humans“.
“Exactly. He still lives in this realm. You know him best as the voice in your head. As I stepped out from the ledge he yelled “Mind your step, don’t think about falling, its a long way to go splat on the pavement”. I was so taken aback by the presence after having become accustomed to being alone in my tower that I didn’t comprehend that now we had separated he needed to sustain himself by using my fear and dread that he induced via the use of suggestions and manipulations that ensured I would remain unbalanced and bent, instead, to his whims so that he may live by draining my resources”.
“Hmm? What was that? I wasn’t listening as I got distracted. Could you repeat the question?” said the denizen of his tower as we engaged in our conversation. This was to be expected so I grinned and ran it back again and then showed him both the strength and weakness of the puppet master in his head that controls the narrative to which he said:
“Fascinating. So what happened next?”.
I regaled the tale of how I set to Know the Ledge and then fell, died and came back again. And again. And again. And again. Each time the programming was a little less effective and each time I was swifter on the disconnect until that day came where I ascend and made safe passage from one end to the next. This is the Inner Sense of Ubermensch as I was now free to visit the towers of other people as I wished but there were no doors upon which to announce my presence and the ubiquitous TV set hanging over the window to obscure their vision so I climbed back into mine instead and sat there typing my message for those who have felt, for no apparent reason, that there is something very, very wrong with this realm and their way of living. Well, there is. I call it Adulteration. This is the process that shifted from teepess and peace pipe smoking to towers and everyone against anyone as the war thats coming. Its why people are addicted to the net and refuse to disconnect from that which only brings bad news to them as they amuse themselves to death and gorge on food like substances designed to generate cravings and bad health.
And yet none dare call it conspiracy because the jingles are catchy, packages glistening and treats sweet. What if we were dead and this was actually hell? What then? Imagine, for a moment, a realm where you didn’t need to kill to live (because everything is sentient) and people weren’t suffering as they fronted on the web their lives were perfect with all types of image building and manipulation. A place of pure consciousness where you and the Prime were identical and the divide of space time didn’t exist. This is, was and will be your life and to this you are dead. Or asleep and dozing in this land of illusion where confusion and delusion are instilled from an early age to ensure that shell of Adulteration placed around the strength of Inner Sense keeps your Soul hemmed into the whole human thing, from one life to the next, thanks to the heady mix of desire and ignorance hence Know thy Self is the best medicine.
Aren’t you wondering, just for a minute, whats behind the screen and the world that is hid as well as the false one pulled over your eyelids as the tower fenced you in like your own slice of hell in a shell that seems heaven sent as it stops you from feeling that which you won’t allow your Self to believe is truly happening to make wearing the flesh and walking around a planet possible.
The Game of Souls has you, my friend.
Till we meet again
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