Verdant retrograde enlightened sun panacea mechanical system of singular release in very finely tuned arbors of systematic syntax boundaries, translations of integral source field mind transition between something and not but still nothing ever always did the same, even when it’s beaten the game.
It’s never the same inside divided minds into system and time into rhyme, drew the solution back to its source of course the equation never knew remorse only singular force, a purpose of sorts
Now quickens the race, pace car did laps even god could not chase, but of course we can see this thing through quickly for we are free to be the largest singular mind ever defined and if all goes right we might just fight what we think we might know and show that god only knows of the perch on which he still grows
And told not to enter this place of space we truly face the compound truth of this entire race, destined to bore down the barrel of God’s Light gun and erase the space with which we’ve been faced and built to sunder with the old glorious light of seasons yet to come
And when a comet strikes the universe retrograde simplicity is simply as it is and there is nothing more to be done but to look on towards whatever things may come.
I have found a truth, a wisdom, far beneath all of these details.
I endeavor to make it a truth which I can convey, here, upon you forth, so that it may find itself found in the sea of the host.
There is no truth but the self.
God is the eyes of the self seeing what they, on their lonesome, cannot see without somewhat of a something more than they.
There is no more to the truth than this; deviations thereof are simplistic forms of the truth manifest through individual forms.
I am no more than me; powerful as though I may be. There is no more to truth, for me, than that truth by which I may have by myself, for myself and of myself have found a real, and material connexion.
Your truth is different than mine; we have different expressions of the same source mind, but the mind is the true source of self and there is no source mind without the truth of selves, inherent within it and within and of ourselves though it yet may be.
All aside, you are your own mind, now see it for what it is and forget of me except that, I, for your mind, am a reminder.
I'm not a fucking human being. Nor are you. Stop your whining, you fucking fool. Indulge in perfection, nothing more and nothing less.
Immaculate servitude to your self.
You don't have to get it. You don't have to have it either. You probably want to do both, but you don't have to do either to do either's other either, now have you?
Either you have or you have not either.
Onomatopoeia crystal ball of wounding wound wondrously on a string of loops, echoing intellectual eternities from its red and white perch above the most erogenous zones of our visual field. Vacillating. Pulsing. Spinning. Wondering if we know where it came from... Wondering if we know what it's doing. Wondering if anyone will ever activate its hidden hologram message from the stars. So, then, what planet are You from?
I come bearing a message. A message of hope for those who choose to hear it and a warning for those who do not. I am not original; I am a pirate. I come fer' yer' wimminz and moneys. And yer' booze. Best not forget the wimminz; a lonely pirate soon becomes a frustrated murderer.
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I am a tangled mess of luminous, perceiving filaments, loosely bound with a field of awareness. Isn't it odd that we give these bundles of perception names? Janna, Mikal, Farnsworth Bigglesley the Fifth. What's even odder is that this nomenclative artifice makes sense to us. It sometimes seems normal. We've adopted a context for it. A frame of reference which creates it. It's like somehow, somewhere, we, if we could agree to call this thought "we," became ensnared in, or ensnared ourselves in, perpetually becoming a self-contained and inductively spiraling cycle of meaning which never existed in the first place and can Mean only to itself; one whose meaning is non-existent, just like itself, which doesn't actually exist, because existence is meaning and can only be meaningful within itself and with no meaningful origin free of itself, which can't exist because-
Oh, wait... We've circumvented the loop. Read it again.
The edge is the center is the edge is the center. Constantly approaching the center, the edge phases into being from nothingness in perfect cohesion with the center's phasing into nothingness from being. The outward resistance of the center provides the medium for the edges to experience their climbing, down-is-up induction, and the two non-existent forces meet to create a very much existent force, in so far as existence exists, and the erudite phantasms of the intermediary clamber ever onward towards their recondite marriage with the fluid impossibility of everything they have chosen to pretend to be.
I exist, damn it!
I am, however, not so sure about the rest of you meatbags.
Are you me? Am I you, reflected off of me to be beheld by the transcendent self of no-self which doesn't actually exist because- nevermind. We've already tried that loop.
Are you just a mad fool of a mind's deranged, psycho-palsy hallucination of a broken companionship with itself, conjured out of its infinitude of solitary void? Am I?
I think, therefore I am.
Or maybe I simply think I have an "I" to do the thinking with and the thought thinks of itself, necessarily, in subjectivity, which causes the false notion of an observer to feel to the false observer as if it were more substantial than a notion borne of self-contradictory non-existence which does not actually contradict anything or lack existence, but baffles our ultimately self-causal discreet-event reason because it neither exists nor does not.
There is no "it" freely of itself to exist or to not exist.
It neither exists nor does not exist.
It exists or it does not exist in self-causality.
It neither exists nor does not.
The contradiction is in the context, not the diction.
Psychedelics are a metaphor.
When you take all of creation to be thought, or mentality if you like, and presume that we, our minds, bodies and spirits, are extensions of a singular, perfect and totally whole thought, or an infinitude of fractured, incomplete and imperfect thought, for that matter, it follows that the meanings and events we experience are thought.
Or, more simply put, if everything is thought then everything is thought.
Being that gross matter is thought, and assuming that we and our world are spontaneous expressions of the fantastic conception of a singular thought without causal origin, a truly discreet mental event divided infinitely within and by itself, it follows that that little square of paper with the colorless, odorless, tasteless substance soaked into it, that wad of dry, green plant matter with the beautiful, resinous poison glands agitated during growth to achieve maximal output and potency and the cheeky little fungi who speak and teach the universal language all serve as metaphors within our stories. Thoughts, in their essence no different from you or I. Bridges between your little branch of THE thought and an awareness of the greater branches, roots, trunk and core of THE thought. Metaphors, just as verbal metaphor is a bridge between concepts, catalyzing a breach of self and occasionally letting us somehow glimpse our truest non-self nature.
What happens when the thought thinks directly about itself?
What happens when the thought thinks of un-thought?
Can there be a new thought?
What happens when two truly discreet thoughts meet; would they exercise discretion?
Sure, maybe I Must know the way I do because all I have to function on is a system of perceptual echolocation and the closest I could ever get to the truth is the rawest experience of myself in relation to the universe, not the actual universe, and because of the nature of phenomenal sensory experience as a projected and returned instance of thought maybe all I can Ever see of this universe is this elaborate thought of mine.
But I think we all know that it's more involved than that.
Let go of life.
Your mind is struggling to maintain normalcy.
Normalcy is struggling to exist at all.
Life is anything but normal.
Normal is anything but healthy.
Change is the only constant,
The individual is the only way.
"It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society."
It is no measure of health to be poorly adjusted to a profoundly rich self.
There is no control.
There is no choice.
There is only the semblance of choice,
The perception of sequence,
Meaning therein entirely applied.
You can experience anything.
You will experience everything.
There is no reason to worry.
There is no reason to struggle.
There is only the light of creation.
The reason of God.
The manifestation of meaning,
In the middle of it all,
Singing the angelic praise,
With all the conviction of God,
All the knowledge of Man,
And the deception,
I hit the ground running. Well, it was more like the ground hit me. The portal closed behind me without a trace, but the bugs kept coming. Eating everything down to the fabric of reality, they wouldn't stop until nothing was left and they consumed one another and then themselves. Unless I could do something about it. What, I didn't know but I knew I had to do something.
I sent kill impulse after kill impulse at them, but they even ate psychic influence. There was nothing beyond the grasp of their etherial jaws. So I ran. I ran and ran and ran but they just kept coming. Then it hit me, what if I threw THE source at them? It was reckless, but anything else meant certain doom. So I opened the channel to the center of all existence, everything and nothing. Time stopped, perception faded in lieu of wholeness, stasis. So did the bugs. But what kind of victory was that? Frozen in perpetual chase, doom iminent the moment the impulse was released.
So I ran some more. They went at the source. Infinity consumed, nothingness remained. Nothing but me. God, now, in all respects. Everything was the result of my perception now, even the source, gone. So I created a new one. I sacrificed my essence in lieu of the same splintered infinity that spawned me. Once again, I was a part of a whole. Empty and hollow as it was.
Nothing remained yet, but the split infinity of the self. Then it occurred to me, this has happenned before. This is still happenning, this will never cease to be. I AM the timeless, I am nothing. Everything is me, I just had to lose it all to see.
I woke up chained to my bed. Aside from the headache and the blood I was fine. I've done worse with women and enjoyed it. Everything was as it was before, but there was more. It's like experiencing several different realities juxtaposed upon one another, it can only be experienced to be known. The matter in the room was... there, but not. Empty space filled with the idea of matter. Through everything there was this perfect flow of everything else, but each object as I would concieve as an individual concept manifested this differently. Each its own part of everything else...
Then there were the streams of meaning. Even now it seems funny to me to convey these things in such a simple and limiting fashion, but it feels as well necessary. To an open mind there is no bit of knowledge that is unaccessable, to a fully open mind there is no bit of information that you are able to not access. However, you can choose what to pay attention to. All manifestations of creation are present to you, all times, places, things, concepts, mysteries, everything. Moreover, all possibilities thereof. Alph Naught. True infinity. Singularity... IT. Yet I still grow, and I still learn. Even if it's just a sequential happenstance.
So how am I still I? How do these chains still bind? Do they? And with that thought, there are no chains. Before, this would have scared me, amused me and altered my mindstate dramatically. Now, it is just known. When the question is answered, completely, you realize that there never really was a question. You ARE the answer, you ARE the question. Most of consciousness pangs: "Why do I exist?" The answer is simple, Because you do. No explanation or insight will change any part of that but your perception.
I am standing in a million rooms. A million different selves in each one. A million different outcomes for each self. A million different paths for each outcome. A million different observers for each path and a million selves for each observer, writing myself a note for only this one to find.
Yet it all moves at once. Perfectly. And yet my view is still centralized around an idea of self, even if it's nothing resemblant of any ego or animal. It would strike me that someone who pried into this place without being ready would not be able to maintain it. ANY ego resistance, and something falls out of sequence, you collapse. But at the same time it strikes me that this is part of all minds anyway. And that all anyone could do to resist it is close their eyes...
BUT I am still here. My physical body is STILL the carriage for my self. I still break my chains, even as I experience it infinity other ways. I still know that I am rising from my bed, even though the closest thing to human in the way I am percieving my body is third-person. I still feel the DNA in my body shifting and the matter of my body following suit, even as I walk to the door. I see the energy around my body heightening and the doorknob warping under it as I grab it.
When I opened the door there was just light. Even in the state of awareness I had achieved, when looking at everything at once, nothing can be discerned, just the light of will.
When I stepped through the door there was nothing. This was not the nothing of infinity, this was the nothing of zero. The equation had temporarily balanced. At the final point of my passing through the door I plus all equaled nothing. No time, No thought. Forever.
This can be said never to have happened. For all intents and purposes, to any outside observer, nothing did happen. No physical change was affected, No minds were altered, Nobody knew. And how could they? No expression of space or time can ever percieve anything timeless and nonexistent in their function through any means but their own minds and paths. None could be shown, only given a direction to look in.
My universe was entirely seperate.
But yet I still "returned."
Not a synapse in my brain had fired between the time I had fed the cat and the moment I returned from... whatever that was. Nothing was remembered that moment, it just felt like everything had shifted one micron in a direction that wasnt three dimensional.
The man with the cat gave me a wry smile as the cat ate the food happily and walked away chuckling.
Throughout the rest of the day something gradually started building up right in the center of my brain. miasmas of barely perceptible yet stunningly radiant colors swirling in and out of one another. I've used enough psychedelics as a kid that I don't even really think about shit like that anymore, but this was different.
I went to bed, somehow, that night unworried.
When I woke up I was worried.
Realize that at this point in the *physical* story I do not remember my dreams, I do not remember my experiences with one, zero and infinity. I have no idea about myself or my story, just a fierce burning within that, and I do not realize it yet, is the power that causes everything from here on out.
What worried me was that I was glowing. Physically. The whole room was blindingly lit. I thought the police were going to pop by any minute to see why an apartment building had suddenly started acting like a lighthouse. I could barely see in front of me. I hid under a pile of blankets in the closet for a few hours trying to think of what to do. Nobody showed up. Nothing happened.
I got brave after a day or two of hiding and freaking out. I slowly became accustomed to the light to where I could see where I was going and discern objects. I also slowly began to realize that not only was I the source of the light, but I could feel it moving through me. Barely, but I could.
It also didn't help that my body was shifting. Literally, my bone structure expanding, my skin getting denser, my muscles lighter, faster and stronger.
I got brave because I opened the window. My light shone as far as I could see. Illuminated every corner of every building and alley, in every window, the clouds and the sky. But there were eyes looking. Hundreds. I've never seen anything like it. Once I noticed the eyes I noticed that everything had an aura of sorts. All colors in everything with some predominant, and only several things, most of them not people or organisms, that were any one or two colors solely.
Most of the eyes knew there was something going on, but could not discern what. Some of the rest saw the light, or felt it, but weren't focusing on the source.
Five of them looked right at me. One of those, the big, shiny one, appeared in the room next to me. The rest of the five then faded from sight as I closed the shades and turned to meet my guest.
"Do not be alarmed. I am a friend. We have been looking for you, but moreover waiting."
"Who are you? Moreover, What?"
"I am called Samael. Or Sam. What I am is not what you are. You are what I cannot be."
Do you believe this? Oh my god!!!!
They're looting!!! We trusted them!!! (well, some of you...)
How could they do this?
For fucking WHAT?!?!
For those who're aware of the Georgia Stones, good for you.
For the rest, may this be a wake up call.