Lets pretend that win is the only option etched inside your cerebellum as you parabolically transcend the surly influence of this realm with its squared watermelons, par excellence, who trudge, from one life to the next, along the treadmill most schlep without ever stopping to question:
“Hold on a second. There once was a time when “Win” was the only option etched inside my chest. What happened?“.
That, my friend, is the 8 billion Soul tangent, isn’t it? Note how we shifted from heart to head, back when? This was a (false) self protective mech and the reason for parenthesis is twofold as A) they did the most damage to your inner realms by desecrating your Inner Sense and B) the construction you became to tame the pain the engulfs your Spirit with its flames will never, ever admit that its an impostor at the helm of your consciousness as to do this one would have to embrace the memories they rejected which caused the splintering as you moved from truly feeling and being present in the moment to living in your head via a red and blue shift. Thats on Crip, Blood.
Imagine if you could only win. After a while tears would be wept as there would be no challenges left. Then you’d shake your fist to the heavens and yell “You non maniac! Ping me to Hell because I’m too good at this“. Cue a shift in which rich criminals run everything and suddenly the treadmill makes way more sense, yes? Now if you can, on this stage, reactivate that Win state then that would be something, yes? They won’t like this. Not one bit and they’ll know you’re coming for them and will take this as a threat to their dominance ergo some sweat shall form pon brows that pace in ivory towers of indolence built upon the blood, sweat, tears and adrenochrome they harvest from the plebs as the elect who were selected by… You, dummy! Remember, it was too easy to win with no challenge so you needed someone to play the bad guy in order to allow you to Thunk you’re weak and helpless as that hints the ultimate win is transcending the story in your head as you aren’t it any more than the voice which talks, inces, as you’re the one who is listening. Eternal. Unchanging. Unruffle its feathers, Limbic, and the kerfuffle, R Complex and trill as the PFC onlines again and you grin as to why the Pharaoh wore a birds wings around his head and snake as well for they all exist within. Thats the true facts of evolution and the truth is we devolved from perfection to gain awareness of ignorance which, for a god wearing flesh, is the best a man can get. Wild, isn’t it?
A man needs to be fed so he gets a job and then buys an apple which he eats and digests. That is low res. Somehow, he upgrades his paradigm and considers taking the seeds then planting and nourishing. For a while, nothing happens. Most would give in but he doesn’t relent. Then, all of a sudden, they bear fruit. This is an increased percep. He places a sign which says:
“Take as much as you wish and if you want to leave something as a token of appreciation then that is cool as well but if you can’t then I simply request you plant and nourish what is left after you’ve digested your fill. Thanks”.
That was the OS we all possessed when “All I do is win” was standard equip. We lived in abundance and were willing to die to protect anothers existence. Nowadays its the opposite as everywhere from fingers, twittering, to AK Forty Seven shells, offlining, we’re ready to kill to defend… What, exactly? Why, the (false) self, my friend. A group of people know this and profit from its presence hence they may just be the ones that kill the prophets, dead, then freeze their vibes in text before setting the adepts against the next which is why every single religion has factions within that believe ninety nine percent, identical, but are ready to split heads over the difference. Ha! “You maniac!” said the Psylense to the noiZ as he believed its dominance until he lost his mind, conditioned, and came back to her senses, present, as heart based conscious which said with lips that don’t exist to ears that always listen:
“Without you, nothing exists“.
The only sane response?
“All I do is win!”.
Obviously, this is the uncut gem after its been chipped and polished to remove the earthbound filth of ignorance ergo the nascent steps in gaining this gnosis is classed as psychosis instead at which point they fill said denizen of this floating insane asylum with enough pills to make them rattle but which are, in the end, as ineffective as magic beans. But, imagine we planted them instead? And by that I mean some Jack meets beanstalk action in the sense that if one stops and ponders exactly how and why the placebo effect kicks and why red gel ovals for pain relief are seen as way more effective than simple white rounds containing the same thing one starts to comprehend that symbols don’t have definitions but ecosystems and that opens up a whole nother res as its akin to taking the seeds others expel and using seeming death of the form to reveal the function, eternal, which is to give to the next for its the true definition of abundance.
Imagine if you could only win but not in times of radiant bliss when everyone else was all high res, present and correct, but in the midst of the trenches as the voice in your head thunders:
“Its us against them. Its us against them! Kill the infidels before they do unto us some unspeakable wickedness. Fear not though for the good book says the divine rides with us and, just in case, we’ve got some depleted uranium shells to drop on their babies, developing. That’ll show em who runs this bish, now git!”.
Except this narrative unfolds within, drip fed, as you sit in a cold sweat that you suppress beneath the skin as you huddle in a cubicle as a square watermelon, par excellence. If I were to strip away the bones, flesh and rest do you know what would be left? An information field of energetics that produces a specific resonance of wavelength with a coherent pulsation that is unique in its presence. You are this, my friend. Not John of House Smith or any other BS. Heck, even the “All I do is win” playa is an impingement of this Prime state but, unlike thee, he Knows it with the capitalization present. As time goes the glow dims but every child steps in with Inner Sense at the helm and its presence overflows so much that they expand beyond the crib with their field of influence until they’re packaged off to the local camp of concentration and trained to sit still, look ahead and do well on the test by regurgitating answers, unquestioned.
That is how you create a floating insane asylum, you maniacs. But, remember, you’re doing it to your Self as there are no powers that be unless you let them. Think of the old bully paradigm or, better yet, peruse this street parable:
Round the way there were more than a few crazies. Some of them were ex forces, others just tapped in the head due to the lives they’d lived on the pavement and never managed to process. Then we had the career criminals who made a killing from kicking rear ends for dividends. I knew both sides and noticed the Venn diagram intersection very rarely happened as the altercation simply wasn’t worth the hassle for he who picks on those who won’t fight back or, if they will, actually have mental levels of tolerance for what is expected and thus will not froth at the mouth as they hallucinate you’re the incarnation of the Devil himself and they’re on a divine mission of exorcism that involves placing their holy ice pick directly into your cranium. This may sound like a stretch but you really don’t know the half of it, my friend. Now, there are also levels to this because the crazies would scream and beef among themselves with a similar order that pecks for one yelled:
“Stop scaring my pigeons” (which didn’t exist) as the other retorted:
“Why? What are you going to do about it?” he said as he pointed at his pet Dinictis that needed to be fed.
We, in many ways, hallucinate a collective fealty that is just as illusory but you can’t see a reality tunnel from within (until you do the Knowledge) so when I’d glide on the scene and ask the fellas what kicks they’d air their grievances as we sat on the park bench and I requested they ask their imagination what the story presented by seeing not the scene, external, but feeling the feels within instead. The first attested his mind provided an image of back when in which he felt the presence of his mother, predatory, hanging around him like she was just waiting for him to slip so she could start devouring his developing consciousness. The other mentioned a memory, long dimmed, in which he felt an immense sense of accomplishment at proudly crapping himself so he wouldn’t be bundled off to school on a Sunday and have his weekly dose of fire and brimstone hammered into his head as the priest reminded him he was a decrepit cretin that was born in sin and in need of redemption. As they sat, introspect, their respective external hallucinations dimmed as something more important rose from within that had been previously screaming for attention. What I found fascinating was how one drew the other, like a magnet, and how it was all interlinked for mother is the name for god on the lips and hearts of all children but what do you do if she takes no mess and her mere presence makes you crap yourself as that is the only form of protest you have left? Are you seeing the underlying beauty behind the madness in the sense that they are the ones with the greatest potential to perceive clearly?
When the one with the ice pick, later on, was questioned about its presence after it fell out of his pocket he said:
“Its a holy lance, specially venerated, designed to protect. I carry it everywhen in case its needed for an exorcism” as his lips developed a slight excess of spittle at the corners due to the depot injections they’d slammed in his rear end, earlier on in the AM, on top of the medication that I’d noticed had his fingers pinrolling as it decimated the dopamine receptors in his head due to the decades of their own brand of care and attention…
“And how do you know when you’ll need it?”.
“That is for Him to decide. I simply await the signs for it is my calling to protect the lamb, innocent“.
The question is this, what if he were born into an identical household with the same genetics but atheist? Lets say if Sunday school were switched to a private tutor for algebra instead? Granted, it doesn’t have the same weight for the only numbers that hold immense interest are printed on papers they sell at debt but you get my drift, yes? What if the other mother wasn’t a single parent that lived, vicarious, through her son who she both adored and detested as she generated states of intense stress for him by positively reinforcing the traits she saw in herself whilst dissuading and outright terrifying should he do anything that reminded her of the man that provided half of his genetic heritage and then was gone with the wind after leaving her adrift in order to get between her legs as he was a cunning linguist who gathered no moss as he rolled across the country for his finesse was selling dreams by the dozen as evidenced by his seed, fiercely creative and sensitive, whose innate traits became hallucinations instead as a way of externalizing what he daren’t feel within. Well, that is until I said:
“Imagine we lived in Flatland and were all paper thin, yeah? Now, lets pretend someone passes a ball through the plane. What happens?”. He said, in an instant:
“You’d see a series of concentric circles that shrank and expanded as it progressed before it vanished”.
“Exactly, exactly this. How many would draw then link and intuit an extra frame of reference beyond what they comprehend in a way that made sense? What if we try an imperiment then in which you take that golden eagle that was trying to peck in your head before you came to see me and next time it appears you grab the paper and ink and trap it within the page and see what happens next?”.
He was with it and thus filled pads and scrolls with his scribbles as a way of engaging his perpetually anxious left hemisphere triggered by the mercurial whims of the right, creative, in order to generate psychoemotional homeostasis which, in a twist most ironic, is exactly the same thing as hid in the Bible texts about Jesus sitting in the midst of two thieves ergo the ice was broken as hard men with reps on the pavement kept a leery distance from the dude dragging around a piece of string tied to absolutely nothing as he took his pet Dinictis for a walk and was talking, animated, to his friend, the bird man of Alcatraz, about how the pen is mightier than the pick when it comes to fighting demons, invisible…
Till we meet again
