There is this mysterious core to a person.
A bottom line to cognitive organization.
An essential pattern that emerges
Whole and unaware
From Chaos.
They talk about the blankness, yes they do. It has something to do with just a little fear, because the end of the core is the void, the prima materia, the essential immaterial of everything that is built upon it, wishing.
Matter built upon nothing, not darkness, not solace, just a vastness without space. That is where visions come from.
One would think that such arrivals would come with some notice, some fanfare, some pomp and pageantry, some red carpet dazzling to announce their incoming visitation.
The Eagle simply appears to those who can behold.
The maddening game of awareness is the trickster to test and discover if you were paying attention. The events of your day will unfold seemingly the same as always, until events crowd in to remind you that that you were given communication in that vision after you held your head echoing, screaming, arising from all the earthbound people arguing inside you, robbing you of sleep.
Something to say.
The tracker follows sign and trail over the land, a pattern laid down in time. He will follow through the glens, and if he is able on the steep mountain where the trail will simply vanish in a wash of tinkling stones scampering down the slope. Once there he will stop and listen, wait for a scent or a feeling, scour the earth for a path to follow. The delima arrives when there are multiple paths, all equally likely, then the tracker will engage in an argument. He will point down one option, Never To Go There! And another he will demand be stricken from the record, and he will take the opposite position, and argue for the continuance. He will say yeah, then nay! A new voice will arise within him to say-This Way! And should he follow it without doubting, and be led by the perfume stretched in a pattern across time, and if he is able to listen correctly, and follow as directed, and feel those strong legs taking his quarry across the magic of land he will find the trail again.
This is Vision.
Vision does not follow
Notions to bind it to the hollow
Wishes of the ego or its pain and shame.
Far far above in the expanse of powder blue, where the white clouds reflected with the silence of a higher vibration, frequency, music, came a descending to place darkened into material suffering, the trauma and the arguing, where being right meant more than being true. Amidst the multitude in soulless reaching, grasping for notions of existence and reality, the scorpion of derision beheld them without judgement yet with no desire for participation and the silent booming of the message was clear.
DO NOT HARMONIZE HERE.
Not arrogance.
Not impatience.
Not belonging.
Not becoming.
Not wishing.
Not forwent.
Not the derision of labels where living beings are reduced to solipsistic imaginings. Not any of this, no, just a realization.
So subtle the whisper, the image, the feeling that from the no thing to create, to make wonder happen one must not be set by the masses.
Forwith to wonder, one glimpses the luminous heavens.
There rent asunder lie the shackles of what is possible,
According to society
And the science that sprays the skies
With synthetic biology.
No.
The heavens of Vision are not those same that are crossed by shrieking planes.
Our luminous wonder is the realm of Daemon, not Eidelon.
The prophesied split has come, two worlds, no longer one. A single world will whither on the vine whilst another will continue, birthed as it is in Vision.
The brilliant transparent light of the mystic Daemon lit the clouds with the otherworldly glow, alive and seen yet hidden. Staring up as if the gaze was moving into a immense tunnel, where the limits of the world and the breadth of perception could offer a portal, an opening, but not a window.
The multitudes below were insensate to what was above. It simply did not exist for them. They were lost in their affirmation of each other in the shadow of the heavens. The multitude used a fantastic phenomenon that projected over their heads. It was a mighty energy, a titanic beam that extended end to end in this reality. The mighty beam was as solidified light, made up of millions of concepts, thoughts, words, numbers. It was the thinking of the multidude, all their discussions, linear equations. It was far below the Daemon, and divided the space between people and the heavens.
The two worlds, the one murdering what is rising, devouring the innocence, destroying potential, employing trauma to injure and reduce, holding down what it uses to stay in power, fomenting abuse, gulping down what it entraps, fleecing the energy greedily. The second world already forming, emanating from the higher hypostasis.
Deep within is the structure of bars, and those bars vibrate with sacrifice and pain. The bars form entire perceptions of what is good, what is possible, while keeping out of sight those who hold the reins. The bars are made of something stronger than muscle and bone, they are forged to hold victims in place. They invade the physical space, and rule the psychic shadow, they stain the thought beam. Black iron to hold in thrall, to freeze the blood of creativity. Black iron to keep the sacrifice from escaping. Black iron to measure the extent of Stoclholm syndrome successfully implemented.
Black iron prison.
In her long black dress
Mother of Manifestation.
Skies open wide
Light to bring
Cages into focus.
A world descending
Lightning dream.
Decisions made
Tracks leading
Prophecy.
The silent voice had been booming. It was, in fact, unambiguous, regarding exactly what it was saying. That the press of what is called by most pundits today the so-called real world is ending. For a time, the old world will spare no effort to maintain its function, its definition, its power, but this old world has lost the blessing of the Mother of Manifestation. She has changed her focus, yawning, stretching, growing bored and uninterested in the games of the old way.
There is a new world arriving, and with it comes a sort of geas, or expectation to put to rest the trap of old world thinking. Like all creation, this too is a mystery, one not so easily decoded. Yet one need not understand the deepest source of the wave to ride upon it, and in this stage, the familiar duality of this existence is expanded into something far greater as the spirits are being awakened to the new wave oncoming.
The animal powers are not exempt from this great changing. They, however, have a far easier time adapting to it, as they lack the chains that bid them to hold onto things.
The old world has not yet realized that its time is a greased wheel. Those who reject consciousness to become more reactive will become more reactive still. But they will not prevent, nor even pause the new wave oncoming. No wall can be built tall enough to keep these waters from washing away what they horde and snort over.
How do I dare say this?
Its a Vision Thing.
The magic is within the Watcher's ability to create an image and project it on to the screen of reality.
Imagination I MAGIC Naton is our gift, how are we going to use it?
“ We stare out of this igloo that frame everything in the snow of nothingness as we somehow hallucinate and get reactions for dopamine hits like seeing a seal on the horizon."