Learning more and more, every day; dedicated. The secret is out to some, to them.
Helpless; at the mercy of spirits in dark rooms. Starving, listening, praying. They beg to learn with every will, every will of their focus. Pouring wax down their backs, beating themselves with lashings, forgiving all, letting go of family and the desires of flesh. These ones are of the Euclids, of the tribe of Binah (pronounced bih-NAH).
“Show me,” one says quietly, in a steady voice.
Their hope isn’t in humanity, not in technology, not in escape, not in desire, not in anything. They empty themselves of the emptiness they lie in. They contemplate the emptiness as themselves, finding the spark buried in lies.
Red and black wax, lapping flames, slow leaks of melt, and there is a paper of symbols; there are book stacks, a window of a fully illuminated moon. His wires pump from his skull and throughout, his pale skin covered in rune burns. He is castrated and hairless. There are crystals on the desk, imbued with captured souls. His flesh and all things in creation are tools of a puzzle, unmistakable as prisons.
One of these is no longer man or woman, barely at all human. They transform into the means necessary. They embrace the nothingness, to know how to sort the sound of the false creator from whispering hints of truth. They are adorned in black that covers their body when outside their solitudal practice.
A practitioner is also a slave master, with grunts of their own. Each grunt is soul-locked with awareness inside the one-way mirror of eyes, where their form is conformed unwillingly by machine. This is how the current goes: they become prisoners of another’s revelations, their blindness leaving them to be dehumanized justifiably. The prisoners wear burned symbol wounds of soul slavery; their brains hijacked with machines from a forgotten age, enforcing movements of orders not their own. Absolute vulnerability to commands. These slave-minds hijacked by Euclids of the South mountains within this new island. They are given away from themselves to this curse of powerlessness beyond death in their sleeping souls.
There is another tribe, though; a different philosophy.
Euclids of these stony North mountains of this Island. Not seeing there to be an absolute nameless simplicity as emanator. This Northern tribe believes in an infinite one, their likeness to creation as a power within all, that only a few may unlock.
A young boy of eighteen rules over a different group; the name he gave himself, Kether, which his tribe calls him. This is the tribe of Tiphareth (pronounced TEE-fah-RETH). They wear dark-smoked amber with accents of scarlet.
The young boy stands at 6’2”, with shorter black hair of a slight Roman curl at his crown. He has a long mouth with an expression of strong teeth. His features are seemingly small and inoffensive beyond that, but many call him a rising morning Venus. Long and lean with muscle-enough, he is adorned in dark tattoos of his philosophy, up and down.
He is a new philosopher of the Mountain Euclids, believing he ought to make a new world, and he is worshipped as a God, his presence seen as sacred. He is of a very different view from the Southern Euclids; he believes that the emptiness of creation makes no difference as to hedonism, and that understanding comes through experiencing not just suffering but pleasure.
Many hail him as a fallen angel. The few who have seen him found many kinds of people, men or women, chained down in bondage in the hall before his throne. They are used as symbolic decorations, with mouths gagged, blindfolds covering their eyes, nude, and chained at hands and feet in terrible positions. When one meets the boy, they find him of a pride that puts Lucifer himself to shame, seen first and most in the stinging of Mars' eyes.
His tribe trades or traffics in illegal and taboo knowledge, alchemy, chemicals, humans, and artifacts. Their spiritual practice swaying in extremes, or even balance, of pleasure and bondage. Their warriors not slaves, but usually jackal-like in combat, with finesse and ambush; attacking like scorpions, as opposed to the larger-numbered soul-slave grunts of the South.
They synthesize new drugs constantly, often selling them as much as they all use them.
Their spiritual practice and prayers are vision-based, where bondage-insanity and even pleasure shake their minds with madness clarity weight. They bear this revelation with the emptying of themselves, destroying their identity through it. They seek emptying as much as the South, seeing creation and the material as evil as well.
The rituals are still yet a mystery to many, though, with their movement being relatively new…
The Euclids want to connect to the divine in their own way, all sharing a secret on the evil of creation, on the prison of the material world. They all acknowledge the demiurge. The difference, again, is in practice, in the manner and kind of essence of the nameless one, and in solution.