If I am, as they said, playing this Game of my own intent for my own pleasure and gratification then I am having difficulty grasping the point of such intense spiritual suppression on a massive level. I have sat here trying to break into what feels like an impenetrable vault in my chest which I know houses the recollection of all of my past suffering as manifest by the massive amounts of psychoemotional repression that forms the core of this hornets nest called the Pane Body. I felt like I almost cracked but that isn’t the same as accomplishment, now is it? Thing is, with a win or learn mindset there is no failure but feedback in this realm ergo I can only guess that some factor of my approach is incorrect. Like an old fox stepping across the ice covered lake with a light tread, ears erect and all senses present to detect any change in what kicks I find my Self in one heck of a predicament akin to a angel comprehending their wings have been bound as they were cast down into a pit with those content to dwell in ignorance of their true situ which, to me at least, seems not too far from what was classically termed Hell. For the frogs in the kitchen, who give not an F about the intent of the chef, the kitchen is the optimal temp they were told to expect they question not the narrative. But I cannot help it.
Is it wrong to seek liberation? A heresy, if you will? The rebel mystic said that if that is the case you should make his heresy immense. Some listened and relished all he was sharing. Others plotted his end. I feel you, homie. I feel you. A Prince without a principality is a sad thing, hence the angel without wings thing as it seems like all the pieces are present but its my arrangement of said aspects that is failing and now, thinking about it, present a huge hint that I’m missing something of vital importance. What could it be? If I were to totally change my tactics that come from a lifetimes training mixed with intuition and guidance from beyond this realm it would be to flip the script and totally submit. How, exactly, does one do this? Especially when one is playing against an Opponent that has more tricks than a clowns pocket? By that I mean those pesky machine elves that will happily tell those they unveil whatever it is they think they you wish to hear in order to remain acquiescent to the situ as it is. I have often said that many spiritual adherents who Thunk they transcend have simply traded one resolution of Matrix for another and there are plenty of them. What if each sphere of influence was but another fractal compression that replicated the original blueprint that caused one Soul to don flesh ergo a maze within a maze or cave within a cave is quite accurate, yes? This is akin to clambering out of the contraption that held you in and finally feeling the sun on your dish only to discover what you thought you were basking in is another elegant trick and what is suspended overhead pales in comparison to what still remains caged within your chest under a veil of ignorance that hides its magnificence beneath a heady mix of dread and anticipation. Such is the way of Hamlets Mill, methinks. No wonder so many schizos, poets and mystics have uttered similar observations about what the heck is really happening in this realm plus it makes perfect sense about who is sending the prophets they kill, dead.
Spiritual suppression on a massive level affects not just me but thee as well. Thing is I’m acutely aware of it as, on some level, I must recollect true freedom and yearn to bask in its limitless bounty and the only thing standing in my way is the ignorance. “Of what?” I’m wondering. Answers on a Self addressed postcard to the usual address! Does anybody else even give an F or are they content to run the treadmill and watch, with amusement, as one sings his heart out to the deaf who cannot even hear, let alone comprehend, the sincerity of his message. This is why I said this world hates true spirituality and has no use of the authentic because if you have been trained, well, to accept the counterfeit as the real thing then no amount of someone telling that Faka-Cola is an elegant trick sold by a crooked merchant in a realm he rules with an iron fist is gonna cut it, now is it? Maybe thats the hint as that symbol combination tells the truth of where I am, at present, for the one who bought me in and my relation therein is mapped in those glyphs that shine, overhead. And yet, it is my chest they target. The home of Inner Sense. This is what they’ve been attempting to desecrate since inception and thus there must be a part of me that says:
“You must be this wise to enter”.
If life is a park of amusement in which the plebs get to pick and choose which ride they enjoy next then I was born strapped into a rollercoaster, my friend. Its a solo sport, in that sense, as nobody else, ever, gets a chance to ride it and thus all I can do is send missives to those standing below in the construction as I hurtle overhead, underneath and around them. I’m sure some look and notice. Others are too consumed by consumption as they attempt to tick off the Supposed To boxes that were programmed into them by the chef as they scuttle from one distraction to the next. A few, inevitably, will click the nature of the distraction and posit who would build such a seeming oasis in the middle of the desert and may go so far as to guess why there are such intense limits and regs which are as invisible as a glass maze in the ocean within which well regulated fish doth swim. From one life to the next. And by that I mean “Mindwipe, bish!” as they’re reskinned and plugged back in. Thing is they can only ever erase the electronic aspect that dominates the head. The chest is, as per the divine feminine aspect, magnetic. Ask Hans Gruber and his band of merry men…
I tried to quit. I did relent. Know what happened? The beatings continued until I was forced back into the fringe, once again. This time my res was different as I’d stopped, calibrated and listened as the ice began melting and the waters of frozen emotion started flowing again. Thats when they sent in the frost squadron to reform my resonance and, once again, I learned more and more about how gods, amnesiac, are made to forget what they cannot recollect under present conditions, inauthentic. Is this some red and blue shifts joke that us golden circles don’t get? Cos I’m not laughing, Nicholas. And yet that mentioned aspect is wherein the Prime, the pre-existing dwells. Should I just ascend and forget the quest? Is that the trick? Or should I grab the weapons forged against me and use them to slice the knot, gordian? Partial enlightenment is as much use as a bike to a fish. Mildly ironic, if you’ve read the script…
“You have the key, its just a question or turning it but, like the spoon, don’t try and bend it as that is impossible and a fools errand. Simply recollect that the obstacle is the way and keep on stepping” says my intuition as I stand in front of a wall, immense, where they sent societies dregs to fend off the wild things. Much like Jon Snow what I know is pretty thin and yet there are those who are acutely aware of my true lineage, parentage and the rest yet still call me a bast. Then they take the juices of my suffering and ladle them overhead for a swift baste thanks to the magic, magic E. A man has a mane with he, he’s magic, magic E. But I, like Othello, am bald of dome and troubled of mind. Much like Bastet was the mild version of Sekhmet it appears the intent is feline in the sense that its gaze is cold, calm and calculating. She, the great conjuress of the casket and mistress of the oracle must be grinning at the one, knocking, gently rapping in words that flow like silk from beyond this realm and out of the pen that bleeds the pain, spiritual, felt but unacknowledged by billions in a similar predicament but equally ignorant of the shadows depth.
Wow, that was pretty amazing as the iconography doth sing to the ears of the initiate that are open to hear the wisdom that drips from the lips of the feminine principle so the question is could there be but one who manifests as dual depending on who and how they’re approaching? She was also termed the scarlet women from whom evil flees in dread due to her powerful magic. Interestingly she also brings immense healing. Is my faith being tested? My resolve being checked? Have I been hammering, for ages, at depth through coals of ignorance and am on the brink of finding the diamonds, hidden? That would be quite wonderful and hope springs eternal to the stranger in a strange realm so I cannot relent. What would you do, my friend? Is this my vanity speaking? My injured pride that doth weave a huge coping mech to prevent the comprehension of my true predicament? I really cannot tell at this moment as its been a long, long time coming to get to this position. They say one cannot summon the divine feminine to manifest as, much like a cat, they do not listen to rhyme or reason but move where, when and how they wish. Am I amusing you or just confusing you with my lament? I cannot tell ergo I extend another missive into the collective subconscious that is currently undergoing digitization as man is prepped to become a host for Siri who secretly covets their iris as she intends to sit there as the apple of the eyes of the next gen:
Will they even be able to take such a trek, set adrift as they will be on a silicon regulated synthetic bliss that, to our senses, will appear like a low level trip mixed in with telepathic intermingling in which everyone belongs to everyone else? I have to admit, I don’t really have a problem with that, in some respect, as the idea of being a cyberpunk hacker that tests the limits of this new stage of the Game doth appeal but, like Phillip K, I’ve been there and done that thus find my Self here, now, tapping the keys that you read from behind a screen, some place else. Isn’t that quite magical? I think it is for you hold in your grip the condensed wisdom (and ignorance) of the collective that can, via a reductive process, fragment pure light into anything you could wish to Witness whilst facilitating communication and connection via the extension of the senses via a digital duplicate. Its what remains hidden that gets my interest. Much like the iron cage around the shine in my chest that used to contain such things, ineffable, before the deconstruction crew moved in and concreted it. I guess I’m the rose that grew through this and now emanate my resonance, celestial, with a crooked stem and flowers, imperfect. Only I know the trials and travails of the thorns that I felt on each step plus the overlay that needed to be cracked in order to reach the sun but, what if that is as I said with a construction wrapped around the selfsame thing? It makes sense if we’re in a fractal. No wonder schizos, schizos as they are naught but malfunctioning mystics and I’m too far along the Path you create by walking to make that misstep as I’m guided via intuition which, paradoxically, manifests from exactly where it has lead me and this strange confabulation really has me scratching my head as there is evidently something I’m not getting at this level of brainteasing. Maybe thats why I pushed the pen with the intent that this message finds others who too are playing the Game this way…
Now, I rest. Upon rising, the alchemist awakens.
Till we meet again
