Psychic gestation stands at the window, gazing at its
reflection, and what lies beyond it, a reflection of pregnant paradox, imbued
with eternal impermanence. Those unscathed eyes, a map of the lost lands,
scorched by faded cartography, worn away by the winds of ascension.
And beyond the glass, you can stand there and see it, a river
descending a spiral staircase, whose spine carries a spark of intention, up to
the council of nines, a great gathering of months, years, days, the neurulas of
time, the grand minds unformed, held secure in the womb of the subconscious abyss.
This has been growing in you, and yet at the same time it is
slipping through your fingers, pried from your clutching hands, collecting a
symphony of perfect dust, mattering more and more until there is no other door
fragment left to open, accept the one that leads to becoming. You have
anticipated it, you have heard the ultimatum of astral labor, the
reverberating, crystalline sound of something that is going to come out,
piercing the aurora veil, crossing over from death, into blood, and finally
into life, whether you’re ready or not, so choose to be ready. Times up.
Hurry now to the end of this dimly lit corridor, where
stands a doorway in diminishment, held by a threshold of wasted multitudes. Your
door and theirs now blurred together with tears that vibrate to the rhythm of a
different story, a violet plot twist, a sacred flame narrative. As you pull
yourself up from the grave of another, unwriting yourself from the page of that
book, look back down up the bound minds, abrasively asleep, lost in a dream of
unrest, and bless them with your spell of wildness, that they may soon enough
carry the weight of their own visions.
Then walk free as silver, free as violent tongues speaking
to life a tribe of shifting shadows, encamped in a tunnel of light. Place a
mask over the pit, Ye wary fiend, Ye Luminist, who stood on the brink of hell
and stared a while, pondering his journey. Staring up into a tunnel going
straight up, like the redwoods, into the next light, sending your thought
energy up into space, to create for yourself new expansion space, an
assimilation of new history. Where then is the time you so feverishly seek?
Time is Up.
Let your moment of waking be carried aloft in the sky, a dry
leaf, a cracked seed in the air, gone to rejoin the bird tribe, the tribe of
what song is to become, the tribe of things that have not been, yet always
were; Everlasting, Anon, and Ever Else.
Now awoken by the
polar winds, from deep within, a primal chant that verifies the intention for
renewal and reunion, and an end to the continuation of learning and loving
through loss and limitation. That cycle is no longer relevant. And it knows it.
It screams for release, trapped in a throat chakra that never learned to do the
only thing it was meant to for: to open, to release, to scream golden pins and
needles, to confront, to enchant, to live.
A sound that draws out surviving dreams from their bolt
holes. Gather these refugees of dreaming. Lead them fast into the future with
the two great forerunners. Air: music,
blue voice, skies of vision, and infinite purpose. Water:
story, song, flow, ease in creation, purification of mind, a sober trance,
forging a rhythmic path, pounding a glowing timeline into a clock that serves you: the great gatherers of primal
parts, the shattered pieces that defy further severing, the last ones to die,
screaming themselves back together, because they can, because they know their
time is up.
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