Knowing you’re a god is only half the battle. The other bit involves unlearning all of the mess that makes you human and this, as you can guess, is a lifetime in the making with, itself, is a side effect of the Be Kind, Rewind effect ergo we wrestle not against flesh and blood but highly placed ignorance that masquerades as wisdom. Then the third half steps in and you recollect your assumptions about everything were missing another plane of reference and that is when it kicks. Lets me give you a visceral example:
Lets say someone invents a thing that is most wonderful. It is a personalized antigravity field that uses scalar wave currents to all you to zip where you wish, at whim, and best of all, its intelligent. Meaning this tech is so subtle and intricate that it works as an extension of your CNS. All you have to do to activate is think, better yet feel, “Ascend” and in it kicks as you grin and fly around this realm. Now, lets pretend that some untermensch did something, back when, that caused a whole generation of mothers to be afraid that what happened to him could manifest with their kid so they scared the heck out of them as they looked, wistful, at the older gen getting their ascension thrills. Some would recollect these and turn them into myths. Others would deny them as they drip with the pain they felt at rejecting an aspect of themselves. Time progresses. The mech is rusted and people have forgotten how to activate it but, every now and then, one takes off, spontaneous and then comes back to this realm jabbering all types of things till they forcefully sedate him. You said:
“Dunderhead! Everyone knows gravity is a constant which needs immense amounts of force to break its surly grip. I think I’d know if I had a reality distortion field that was powered by thought. Idiot”.
The most ironic thing is you are a top flight psychiatrist who sees this type day out and in but never, ever stopped to comprehend:
“Wait a sec. From way back when to now every single one who steps, whether or high or low intelligence, coherently cogent or blatantly raving as well as poor and rich and all other variables has, each and every one, said the same thing“.
This is the third aspect of the Game, hidden. Lets say you, somehow, managed to keep an ember of Inner Sense lit within your chest after all the training and education you get which says:
“Well, the patient displayed prodromal signs as he thought he was an aspect of the divine wearing flesh and we’re all figments of his imagination as he is the only Soul in the realm. I mean, have you ever heard such ridiculousness?“.
Lets pretend, instead, that you start talking to these social rejects and derelicts who you inject with anti flight medication which, I must mention, is against their will and only proves, to them, you’re in on suppressing their gifts, you’d note that there was a surprisingly clear and lucid narrative that all of them hold in common. Then you would have a choice. It involves going out on a limb, possibly losing your tenure and accreditation as your friends think you’ve gone off on the deep end as you take a leap of faith and sense “Ascend” as you float to a higher realm. What would you do next, my friend? Well, Jung wrote the book that was red and even that was so dense and encoded that it makes the trek of pushing a rock up a hill whilst wearing oiled sandals seem tame in comparison to what it was he was describing as it can’t be sold nor told, only felt for your Self. So, with that in mind, why do I bother pushing the pen? Its all Selfish, in the end. These are Path notes to me of the versions I was, back when, as each captures a moment of resonance in ink pon canvas which you’re reading, digital.
As you can probably guess I strongly invest in the narrative we all stepped in equipped with wings of imagination that, instead, became bundles of ignorance as we accepted what another said. This, to me, made no sense as the realization, fresh out of Pampers, that my parents too were once jits as was everyone else walking around with a frowning countenance filled me with such existential dread that only two words came to my nascent consciousness:
You ever stop to think then forget to start again? Welcome to real life, my friend. I posit there was a worldwide traumatic event that I guess had something to do with what kicks overhead as either the planets shifted, like Velikovsky suggests, with comets and such things dancing in the heavens making life on Earth unpredictable or something equally intense like a pole shift, mud flood or rains without end that caused massive electric arcing that primitives, worldwide, drew as petroglyphs. If you see a huge spider in the sky or a man, dancing, its time to go underground, my friend. That is, I believe, when the ascended consciousness went the way of the dodo instead and we are the children of men, ignorant, who have been trained, on top of this, to kneel at the feet of midgets. Ironically, it is upon he whom Shiva is standing and, wouldn’t you know it, the chap is also fond of dancing and linked with destruction but, back when, he was all nurturing, protective and auspicious so what caused this schizo split in the primal forces of creation than what I posit and these myths and symbols, so staggeringly complex and simple, tell the same thing like so many mental patients but, for some reason, the ones with credentials don’t seem to notice this. Well, I do and did. Plus I have no official education beyond being Self taught on the pavements for my school was observation and participation ergo class is always in session.
Knowing you’re a god is only half the battle. The other bit is unlearning all the mess that has you invested in being human and then you come face to faceless with the greatest challenge of recoding your internal OS to use these innate faculties and gifts because feeling “Ascend, lets fly overhead” is one thing but rediscovering the exact resonance is something else as is getting used to this ancient tech because, as the schizos attest, unleashing earthbound ignorance onto higher states of consciousness can be bad for your mental health. Or does it simply hint that its we who are as mad as you can get because the rocket of liberation turned bundle of ignorance may just be responsible for the epidemic of back pain and such things for which there are no working medical solutions which links, real well, as the counterpoint of the pharmacratic inquisition of “wellness”, yes?
Suddenly, the boy with t shirt pulled over head with arms spread makes sense, yes? A part of him recollects the presence of flight and how it felt plus its mode of access isn’t via the head but by using what beats in his chest. The problem is, at present, no one speaks that language of electromagnetic coherence so the longer he is present the further he’ll drift until he, eventually, becomes the psychiatrist in question which is mad ironic, isn’t it? How many have the courage to truly think different? How few comprehend their academic intellect is actually a burden to true gnosis which comes not from playing what Simon Says but listening to the guide, eternal, within that made him extend his arms and run, that way and this, under the cover of darkness which brings illumination instead by generating the space to think different…
Not many people do this. Think, that is. They prefer Thunk instead and thus don’t click the content of their head rearranges the same bricks into different orders which bring no new solutions as the plane companies wish to sell tickets and road tax plus such things. Ironic, yes? Man is faced by a ruthless conspiracy which is mad ironic as that spell, itself, hints at a feeling of pity, grief or distress being absent but they flipped the T&Cs just like aweful should be the best a man can get. Ironic, like I said. Or, maybe, goldonic, is appropriate if one thinks like an alchemist and takes the base present and flips its elements? Throughout the ages there have been sages, madmen and infidels that ponder such things at depth. To the rest they may seem strange but, to them, its man who is the problem as they, daily, accept ignorance as wisdom and never stop to check or question why a childs glow, immense, doth dim by the time they reach age, six. “To whence does it go?” he questions as he recollects the time, back when, he placed shirt over head and wished to soar like a bird, high, high above this realm. The recollection sparks a yearning, so he does such a thing. The passers by comment:
“Dunderhead! He’s simply too old for this”.
The protosage runs into a tree and, for a moment, loses his mind, programmed, as the stars shine in during the daylight instead which sparks off an immense recollection of said events that brings him face to faceless with the trauma programmed in the collective unconscious which is the true reason for mans coping mechs like wars and religions which promise unity but, instead, sell division which is, if you stop to think, a really slick and effective trick that prevents most looking within for what they’re venerating. Goldonic, yes?
One day, he is walking along the ground and notices he has an extra pep in his step. Externally he may appear no different but, within, he feels head and shoulders above the rest. He has, without knowing it, activated the ascender, within, by bridging heart and head. In doing this he has built what death cannot destroy, my friend – gnosis. Nothing is ever the same again. Some version of him will accept the dint of good luck as the new script etched in his head as it shuffles around old concepts to explains his wellness which seems to be without beginning or end as its simply quite unfinite. Others will ponder, at length, the message of the tree and what it said as he attempts to run into it again and again not comprehending the subtle elements of the mix, including the passers by, were crucially engineered at that moment to bring his mind to the depths of his higher consciousness. A select few will, somehow, utter the silent syllables that access the immense resonance in their chests as they fly, high above the hills, and enter states of consciousness so ineffably transcendent that describing them is akin to a blind man relating the skies, Jovian, and how they rep, with pixel perfection, our local solar system as he, on extended wings, whizzes around the surface of said thing as, in the end, it exists within his consciousness which neither begins nor ends and thus isn’t created by his head, simply modulated, instead. He comprehends how it, constantly, mistakes interpretations for facts that don’t exist outside of his investment in the rendered signal and how this is flat as a pancake in comparison to that which is actually far more intricate.
At some point, distant, the ex-psychiatrist turned renegade doth sit and, on a whim, grabs his shirt and pulls it overhead as, all by themselves, his arms extend as he runs around the planes of his home planet as his heart says “Ascend”…
Till we meet again
