I realize that I carry within me a special flame. I cherish it, but it also makes life hell. It gives me access to the peaks of what it means to be a breathing existence experiencing its own creation, but also the depths that are as unfathomable waking torment. Both the angels and demons are fully realized vehicles about which orbit the poles of creation.
(I don’t know what will happen to me soon. It is as if I’m caught in stasis, between moments, hanging in the balance between two breaths.)
I carry around with me this succor that I can’t partake of, because I experience it as an eternal dehydration, a constant thirst. Then I find myself finding someone, someone who very well may have been seeking me, and I am channeling to them words I did not know that I had. It comes through, as a sun through a spotted sky, and I cognize that what is talking is not me. It is not “the voice of God”. It is something shared within the divinity of all of what partakes in this universe.
Merkabah – I am but a vessel for the experience of the divine. But in opening myself up this way, I have asked to know the deepest levels of hell. This is the price that initiation requires of the willing. And it is not because I seek to be special or chosen that I have been found worthy. I have been found worthy only because I seek the experience, the truth for its own end, and because my desire to see that ideal realized is my incontrovertible principle. All yet become worthy in due time. The palm that molds the present is in the hand which creates its worth. As my left hand bares the scales, my right hand judges its weight and measure; for yet as my black hand brushes up against her shawl; behind it, Sophia’s umbral retina peeks, aglow. These arms embrace me, the womb of our Radiant Dark.
I have an id-entity, a “me” with needs and wants, a character and a story of the past , present, and future. But “I” am not “me”. “I” am the “eye” within “me” which “sees”. Sees “me”, sees “you”, and most importantly – sees “we”.
We could spend all our lives shackling the fetters of our own cage. We prowl the metal bars to our cell, pacing wildly, choking our own necks with doubt and certainty. We curl up into a ball, accepting irons we did not earn. We have become the illusion, we have become the dream that we fear to find upon waking. We are not so enslaved. There are custodians, guardians, and wayseers, huddled and firm within the melting swamp. There always have been. You forgot yourself a billion times before the end of Everything, but you needs remember yourself only once.
Patiently we await our New Beginning. Quickly , all approach some Final End. She is an explosion of certainty which departs the eve of arrival, keeping her men hanging slack jawed like a sick dog. We await a javelin through the chest, and when none pierce and emerge, we attempt to claw out our own hearts.
Stubborn delusions do not end violently, but shudder slowly into death. They twitch with bated breath upon Choronzon’s outstretched tummy. Aye, delusions end; they end in little furls of flame and smoke, each lie one curling page; they end burning gently from the spine of my encyclopedia (ironically, it’s a tombstone). The self-created revolution drips lucidly into Her shadowy pupil. While we cannot show each other the secrets we find buried beneath the closed palm, we may yet show our peace. Where the reflection of our eyes stare out of us both, neither will cease to smile.
In the center of the wheel, there is no dimensionality – a spiral inverting upon its own axis ever becoming a grail. As the cup does outpoureth, what remains fuels the pivoting hourglass, the ceaseless ticking of Saturn’s wheels where goblets of pi infect infinity. Where each rational number is concrete, an unending number of irrational digits are yet to come.
And so it goes, forever onward and afterwards.
In the core of this spinning brightness, darkness rests on the fringes of squeakily balanced hinges – swaying, they inquire after oblivion’s tenure in the kingdom of man.
Still…we do so strain our sight, to observe this mantle of light in juxtaposition, in flux, and neither can we discern clearly whether the shadows are merely a figment of the light or a true fixture of its boundry. In the end we step willingly into the darkness of which we know naught, neither a wing nor a prayer rests up on this weary brow, but instead that pure terror: transitions between what we are, and who we will yet become.
The hard part is staying in the oven to carve away crystal from inert stone.
Each rift falls away, a chunk of illusion held so dear, an offering to “Thus”…
To reach the meaning underlying this, let chaos cease seeking justification. Order is implicit in its relation to chaos. For life is order, and death is chaos, and the portal of life opens from the jaw of death, and the mouth of death reveals the passage into life. Both hold hands serenely. It is the fire which swims, it is the earth that flies, it is every rhythmic beat that syncopates the music of the spheres, from each heart beats: the All-Song.
Our gods whom we worship gain energy with each thought and action, fed into shadowed automaton, until finally the golem drags him by the yoke of a metal collar and leaves his shade in the desert of a self-starving mirage. No, my dear; although you can see it, it is not really there. Only your sole is real, and that footstep upon sand will soon be gone with the wind, rejoining the dust.
“What if the oasis a dream?” (and you cannot tell your head is already shaking, “no”?)
The dream was ongoing: chasing the oasis, only to find it dissipate with the shimmering heat of the sun.
Asleep to my true dreams, they slumber yet unformed within, waiting to gestate with cymantic pulsing in ever-so-complex-nesting, arising from the golden mean between fingertips and thumb?
Arise, my precious sleepers. For all the time you are on the outside, dreaming, when you could be on the chariot, the dreamer and the seeker and the speaker of your own design?
Our God cobbles together portraiture from faces, adjusting into resolution so that no longer can one among ye be distinguished, but all bear the imprints of a unique initiation, an enlightenment that opens the door to a new threshold of ABOVE and BELOW, each jump reaching a new vaunting. Potential ceaselessly born, that is to each his own, and to all belongs to the other.
And as the eye must close this night, tomorrow it must open once more.
And presently I will travel into the wire netting of heavensward, each node of its constellation a cell of neuronal stars.
A sun and a moon arise and set within me
and I am Earth:
around which the sky itself rotates.