Bouts of restless astonishment calling inside, no understanding, illuminate me; I am lost.
I see the waves of the light, how it has faded, its shoreline into nothingness, where the darkness overtakes the light.
You have come a long way,
from its pureness; you now stand in this,
at its shallow ends far from purity.
This light touches the abyss,
but your soul becomes colder the more it leaves home.
What is beyond this?
What would make one even further lost than I?
We can all die to our curiosity the same;
many share our stolen breath.
Some deviated from those sent, messengers.
In their folly, they went deeper into the depths of their ignorance,
dimming, snuffing their own, further losing their name of the nameless
one; from them pours itself, of itself.
Why do some only become darker?
In their heart, they dreamed dreams of dreams, no longer knowing
what's real anymore; they seek comfort in the comforts of their prisons,
Lost in lostness; material bondage.
Their light divides further and further, becoming more comatose, more
amnesiac, never knowing they are lost in the lostness; they don't know
the place without memories.
How can they not leave, but I might?
Even if by the sliver of skin of soul?
They get lost in the reflections of reflections, a puppet of puppets,
marionettes of marionettes, mimics of mimics, so on and so forth, so
their fading becomes the fading of their fading. Understand my
repetition as their own, their complexities always becoming more
redundant. These are the free who chose imprisonment; even though they
were handed the keys, they chose entanglement to these unfamiliar
familiar, the furthest of ways.
What lies beyond here? Further beyond these horrid complexities.
You cannot see how far they have been cast, but their light is
endlessly divided, their goodness always shrinking, begging for an end
in moments of waking realizations. We must learn to breathe, to be
aware, to seek deliverance.
What ought to be is always being, and of itself is complete light, so
those who fall into the deep are not even adjusted to the depths of the
ever-death.
Does the shore continue?
The shore is always stretching, always reaching further into the
abyss, into the blindness of the outer darkness. It is eternally void;
those lost never listen to the warnings of the messengers, prophets,
diviners, those with visions and moments of clarity.
How is it so still? I am heavily burdened by this heavier emptiness; it fills me empty.
Sons and daughters of our family tree blindly spill forth their
emptying seeds, growing lostness; some become deeply sick therein, and
these are the demons, and of these you have known.
Some of the demons serve Demon Fathers and Mothers; some serve the
pleasures; others, their pride; but there are those of hatred and
blasphemy; they hate everything about the one and their being,
and they understand nothing.
These tortured ones rule the outer darkness, of which is your Devil
God.
What of my Devil God?
Nine of her parts scattered, but four left.
His birthless end: it was him.
He was cast into the outer darkness, of a Mother's mistake, unwanted
and deformed; he could barely even remember. What remains is merely a
decaying afterimage, withering endlessly. This dying memory of his own
spews forth corruption onto the material plane you have left, this being
his creation. He calls himself the first and only God, a blasphemy
against the nameless purity and its indescribable holiness. This Demon
God has fashioned your dream, your dead home, his delusion leaving some
lost forever. Of him is a boastful and envious pride birthed in
delusion.
Is there no desire in them to heal?
These masters of nothing know nothing, and in their nothingness, they
will forever search for meaning never told, wallowing drunk in the mud
they laid, screaming delusions in their fit of lies. These Sons and
Daughters create crude failures of so-called pureness, ever dividing.
These Demons have called themselves rulers and forever become slaves
by blind convictions.
They breathe confusion; they have memories of memories, creating lies
named truth, not knowing the truth. If they had known the truth, they
would only know as I once have, as you have, as we have once before, a
place called home.
The demons are seemingly many, but what of the angels?
You have angels amongst you. You are safe for now.
They will help guide you home if you trust their mercy and love, but
accepting this is humbling; open yourself. Angels pour forth for the
will of the unseen, but were a once-seen holy reality. Those of angels
will breathe a life that breathes life. You will have visions. Your
words will become invisible to hateful and ignorant kinds; you will be
oriented heavenly, your freedoms many, and your wants freed.
“Don’t leave me abandoned; oblivion.”
Show me the way, and bless the one with whom I died long ago, whose voice still plays inside.
Our home was broken backward by the same heart-slamming train wreck of insanity, of something beyond the world, though it has met us by the world. We had believed in the power of epinoia, expressed through the cards and dice which brought our fate full, where the path of number sights lie without fullness. It played before the death and after, further creating a depth to nowhere; now I am freed of an anaconda’s ouroboros dream, the nothingness of a black serpent, and the innard-spewed creation of Yaldabaoth, before meeting a serpent of a side from Jupiter never ending in light. Her body lay not deeper in the ruse of this depth but is depthless; she is within me, is of me. I see past the Leviathan. We no longer need journey through the carrion passing of Kōaḥ’s passage. Free of the world, it’s illusions, and the outer darkness.
Our souls were intertwined before the foundations of the world were
laid.