Brilliant Darkness

Melancholic Sorrow

Locked by life, MK'25

The perfect sun was setting, igniting the clouds spanning from horizon to horizon with the fire of the fading day. The very atmosphere itself burned with an otherworldly luminous orange, filling one’s heart with a message desperate from the very mystery from which it issued.

It was as the Hermeticist predicted, that the great civilization of the mighty river was dying. No one thinks of it this way, but the death and decay that strewed the bones of human striving upon the harsh desert land was transforming. What once was vibrant and living had climbed aboard the brightly painted vessels to sail to the West and eternity. Forever and a day would the memory of their once mighty activity shape the direction of the incarnate condition to follow. Their Gods and Goddesses would visit in dreams and visions the souls of their disconsolate descendants, rootless and abandoned. Deep within the darkest moments when the chattering inanity trod over the dreaming Blue Water Lilly, the memories would reawaken through a different language, yet the subtle construction, the echoes would haunt the darkened wishes for generation after generation of the offspring of the great river civilization.

The ancient society once taught the world on the nature of the invisible yet real. The instruction issued from the Immovable Ones, divine sustaining intelligences, on how to open in ritual their passion, and rope it to the venerable vehicle of the Third Power, the one who is free from the fetters of type, world, and oblivion.

In the shape that followed, this advancing time of technological civilization, the way of the Third Power is now forgotten, replaced by a great deception. There is no longer a sacred transformation. The current demand is to enshrine absolute limitation, madly construct the chains of psychic iron, and become the nodding self congratulating masses who without question finance their own slavery.

Never before in this remembrance, this artificial history crafted by the agents of destruction, has a time so perfectly enabled such a supported devastation. Those who sell life into the black hole of extinction, do so knowingly, and with full intention. The masses hardly pay attention, unconsciously absorbed in the carelessly provided games of ego and distraction, eager to enact another taking, ignorant concerning the direction in which all this is madly galloping. Yet this civilization, far less advanced than the great river civilization in every human aspect, still imagines itself eternal.

Within the quickly disappearing vision of the dead civilization, the Crocodile of the great river would itself be demoted to a mere plaything, manipulated by modern limited awareness. Limited awareness, tiny spheres of restricted perception, terminus pools steered via frigid secretive wholly owned and undisclosed subsidiaries. Modern consciousness that awards itself great agency, while already, the ability to build has given way to a futile and increasingly desperate effort to simply maintain.

The faces of the modern orchestration, intensely, even religiously elevated as the rock stars and saviors of the buzzing interference field, imagined into being their world of celebration, a place where wealth and power are won through inflicting injury, deception, herding. The rich hands of ruin proclaim themselves gods. There is so much further, so very much higher to go, so they say.

Yet the real gods ever dwell in the deepest heart of manifestation.

Star Goddess, whose night time passage established the measure, the stretching of the cord. She who established other, healthier bonds. Builder of temples, the lines of connection, books, the link of meaning and significance. The cord stretches through imagination, to echoes and the throbbing of the heart, it links others, animals, people, Cthonic wonders with highest unmanifest heavens. The cord is the vibration, music.

Dead universe specialists respond through turning up the static, drowning true signal... ‘There is nothing living that extends beyond this capture!’ Trained voices assure the restless masses. Modern mind now confounded with its own reflection, so desperately dying, convinced that there is nothing but their engineered image, self supporting in manifestation. ‘The only reality is what we tell you', they chant!

‘There is no reason to honour the Goddess of Measure', the voices remind you, as she is now just a figment, an idea left behind, like a grape left on the vine. Modern mind is certain that it doesn't need to recognize the path of inheritance, the partnership with divinity from the dead or lost civilization.

What is lost is the subtle recognition of a deeper, shared reality participated in.

Modern thinking, drowning in its own reflection, fancies that theirs was an escape from an old out worn mode of being. The self congratulation at the celebrated leap away from a universe of living forces is unable to comprehend the incarceration it strapped itself upon, one far more bleak and weak than in previous conditions.

For the ancient temples were built according to the motion of the stars, during honest dedication in the depth of the night, an entire nexus of forces and phenomena, brilliant darkness, an echoe of divine harmony, while modern building cannot do more than justify itself economically.

How far it all has fallen.

Deep in the dim past the ancestors designed their society upon islands in the ocean. Their life blood was fishing and trade, and they would steer their ships to unknown places from these island centers.

Their society was very demanding. The needs of their island civilization pressing. Always they strove to the highest of standards. They were tall and fair, red hair was common. They travelled often to the great river civilization, across vast oceans, woolen sails and wooden ships, their efforts now echoe in ruins.

It is written that their end came at the behest of great catastrophic earth changes, when huge geologic forces pummeled entire areas, volcanoes roared, and what was, was no longer. The death was destined, written in the ancient lilting language, carved in secret Runes upon the wind, leaving unanswered to the modern mind raising forever the question, all the while bringing down the wrath of desperation.

What of the struggles to survive, now that the civilization is but buried boulders and sunken memories? How can it matter what was achieved, now that almost no one remembers? Is it curiosity that leads modern hands to uncover the ruins of temples and cities, treasures and theories with which to inflate egos and advance careers, or is it the stirring, the echoe unformed?

Ancient memories of wars for survival. The oldest ritual is the life or death struggle. Survival wars decide who continues. Survival wars can be far more brutal, harsh, essential than any effort of conquest. There once was the ritual combat, an ancient way of honour. The champion would shout out his challenge. Let he who dared try to best him. Life awaited the victor, and he who was defeated tasted the final breath. Such sheer brutal primacy is something the modern mind only knows in absence, through ersatz musings such as movies. Entertainment media cannot bring one into the deepest conditions of living, has no device to reveal grim determination, or the essential reckoning of being. Survival wars are what the technopalace civilization desires to bring to both itself and others, manipulations by traitors.

Endings are always fraught with trauma. Nothing functional simply dies, it must be killed, thus the terrible Wurm, Dragon that smites the living. Within this brittle arc, spans ferocious human striving, efforts to continue, wars large and small, gambling for sheer existence. That these were successful should be evident, such as was the conflict that drove from the great river civilization the hand of the foreign rulers, reuniting the people under the father, mother, and son once more.

Survival wars change civilization. They will not be won or lost by those who strap on uniforms. They won’t fit into assorted boxes. They won't fulfill shallow Hollywood expectations. Survival wars are fought for the space to breathe, and for the children, who are and always will be the only means of achieving a future.

He found himself impelled to move forward. The conflict zone was buisy and chaotic, with throngs of the anxious awaiting decisive action. He trusted the invisible hand which was showing him, intense scenes of a war no one truly expected. There were no clearly delineated victims, no obvious aggressors, yet war it was, indisputably, from beyond the edge of the world, spilling into this one irresistibly. Strife set fire to the hunger of the people, large systems breaking down into those that were little.

There was a dimension to the conflict that remained invisible, while at the same time demanding complete attention. It was the logjam of the forces within, personal, and the need to reconcile them. Some call them Centres, after the Vedic explanation. They are real phenomena outside of physicality, and they were demanding for their dormancy to be completely, irrevocably remedied.

In ancient times it was this crisis, this climax of forces that chose the Druid, the Witch, the Shaman. It is in fact these invisible compelling currents that are responsible for the wars of survival. In the invisible eternal struggle, forces must be rooted to their spheres of influence. They must be allowed to embody flow. Should the foolish seek to weaponize, to aim them, eager and willing for the purpose to seize power, they would find themselves engulfed, devoured. Thus the modern parasite condition.

He almost couldn’t believe the sentient pain that ambushed and seized him. The focus was in two separate places, oh how easy it would be to misinterpret this! The incredible agony sought to rend him, cut him to pieces, as he lay enthralled by the ferocious grasp.

He couldn’t tell if it was the agony, the fierce hidden face behind it, or something yielding yet unbreakable within him. Yet the battle and the restriction resulted in his levitation, floating above his bed, engulfed in struggle.

Lethal Injection

No simple action

A black mask appears

From the presence of Death.

War for survival is already breaking, already making inroads to standard thinking. The forces behind this war are like no other, and thus the war will bear no resemblance to anything previous, real or imagined.

Through it all

Eternity.

No figment

Imagination.

Forces fill

Silence

Will return.

From no Thing

Will form

A roar

Construction

Until war

Culls all sorrow.

The struggle

Never ending

Survival.

Rising with the terror of the counterfeit gods. The world they face, arising from oblivion, that-which-emerges whole and capable, directed by unknown origins, so convinced they killed it, left it a hollowed out husk.

No.

That being now freed from unmanifest death, sweeping the pillars of the technopalace away with effortless indifference, breath of the wind on the waves. War for survival is not a change in currency, not a frequency, it reaches within and across the world stage. Old ways ending, not giving up without a senseless fight. Within the inner centers, the energy pulses, touching emotion productive and destructive. The cycle is over, the time is no longer given to the worship of the monolith.

It comes.

Quietly arises.

The world changes.

Star Goddess the Measure.

Do you see Her, sense Her being near?