2011 11 09 1707, Wednesday.
Kaladi Brothers @Title Wave, ANC
Some things on "The Sphinx" and it's nature:
The Abyss, in cognito, here, in thought, under Earth, explained. (The gall! How rude! It's impossible from here, anyway. Explanation IS the barrier. Sshh! That was it. It is done, now but you can continue if you wish if only to constructively fortify the illusion.)
From here, this element of earth, we think we are alive. Oh! Unbelievably perceptive yet dog-shit dumb, are we thinkers. We cut up The One but those that go on try to reassemble it and are usually dumbfounded, still. The dumbfounded ones don't get there. There is a Sphinx in the way, between the ideal and the actual. Ineluctable, in cognito, pre-cognate, this beyond is. Beyond the Sphinx, this truth, Beyond, is unutterable. Weird, huh? The Ego was born of this action of splitting--making the microcosm in the macrocosm.
This splitting is efficacious at first. It is even necessary for a bit but bit by bit, bit by byte, absurdity forms, like a wraith. Many, many, many ignore it and are encased voluntarily by earth; they bury themselves. A smaller portion, yet still a great number, are bit by these bits and are roiled and rolled by this Time Vampire. Their courage and constitution shows how they will fare. From here, there is a linear spectrum of these souls. Afflicted by obsession and defeatism, some live in sadness, obsessed forever. Fewer still, the much more optimistic, accept it, this obsession and insecure height. Those few acceptors--pain receptors--will strive through pain and recognize the pain, still. Unsheltered and tempted always, they will feel compelled by their crying soul to recede to Earth and start to dig for shelter. This maintenance will always be there.
The pain of loneliness will always be truncated some by insanity but the biological pain response is the doozy. Many a monk will spend a whole lifetime solely attempting to shut it out, just to demonstrate that it can be done. Those lucky/unlucky few had their painful day/lifetime in bearing down on the vague draw of obsession. This Obsession: "Love under Will"; this beautiful, irresistible whore, had slit the throats of these saints, and filled her holy grail with their blood...but I digress.
I was, in the beginning, going to explain the absurdity of trying in a universe which transcends trying. The bigness of the One does not diminish the encompassing-ness of the Zero. These saints are running on a treadmill, so to speak, screaming into the void. Many, even still, don't recognize that pain and ecstasy are one in the same.
The point at which one realizes paradox as undefinability and as deflection of definition is the point of death. Agony and love are one in the same and are nil, still. Its all for naught--one big, beautiful, terrible naught. In infinite regress with mutual, infinite retreat, the proportion persists and no one knows aught has moved. Time stops and death vanishes. The immortal is born into a land of naught and nil.
What we don't know yet is if this land and this state of no-mind is sweeter without innocence. (Well, innocence presupposes mind. For such, this land would not be perceived, just accepted. No sweetness, no innocence, no presupposition, no mind, just being.) And then you will feel once again that you are with the walking dead as a pile of dust in the Universe, seeking innocently to be reborn again. Having drank from the River Lethe, you totally forgot that you had once lived and died. You await to swerve and climb again, on up the tree, like a snake, trying to reach the sky, the source of the light and lightning. You will to give all and yourself, to be weightless like a feather, to cross the Abyss, toward Death, and toward Babalon. You ARE aspiration...following inspiration on up, simply like a force of nature. You are like a ghost and like smoke on up the Axis Mundi. That is your function. Like every man, every mystic, every servant, every master, every peasant, every conqueror, every nation, every family, and like every age and on, you fluctuate eternally. Such is space and void, such is push and shove, such is such and such and such is life...and death. Don't forget: The space between forgetfulnesses and the space between remembrances are the same.
There is no meaning to reality. That is what makes it so beautiful.
Peace and death to everyone. I wish you all infinite life and death, one life and death at a time.
93
Apeiron.
Kaladi Brothers @Title Wave, ANC
Some things on "The Sphinx" and it's nature:
The Abyss, in cognito, here, in thought, under Earth, explained. (The gall! How rude! It's impossible from here, anyway. Explanation IS the barrier. Sshh! That was it. It is done, now but you can continue if you wish if only to constructively fortify the illusion.)
From here, this element of earth, we think we are alive. Oh! Unbelievably perceptive yet dog-shit dumb, are we thinkers. We cut up The One but those that go on try to reassemble it and are usually dumbfounded, still. The dumbfounded ones don't get there. There is a Sphinx in the way, between the ideal and the actual. Ineluctable, in cognito, pre-cognate, this beyond is. Beyond the Sphinx, this truth, Beyond, is unutterable. Weird, huh? The Ego was born of this action of splitting--making the microcosm in the macrocosm.
This splitting is efficacious at first. It is even necessary for a bit but bit by bit, bit by byte, absurdity forms, like a wraith. Many, many, many ignore it and are encased voluntarily by earth; they bury themselves. A smaller portion, yet still a great number, are bit by these bits and are roiled and rolled by this Time Vampire. Their courage and constitution shows how they will fare. From here, there is a linear spectrum of these souls. Afflicted by obsession and defeatism, some live in sadness, obsessed forever. Fewer still, the much more optimistic, accept it, this obsession and insecure height. Those few acceptors--pain receptors--will strive through pain and recognize the pain, still. Unsheltered and tempted always, they will feel compelled by their crying soul to recede to Earth and start to dig for shelter. This maintenance will always be there.
The pain of loneliness will always be truncated some by insanity but the biological pain response is the doozy. Many a monk will spend a whole lifetime solely attempting to shut it out, just to demonstrate that it can be done. Those lucky/unlucky few had their painful day/lifetime in bearing down on the vague draw of obsession. This Obsession: "Love under Will"; this beautiful, irresistible whore, had slit the throats of these saints, and filled her holy grail with their blood...but I digress.
I was, in the beginning, going to explain the absurdity of trying in a universe which transcends trying. The bigness of the One does not diminish the encompassing-ness of the Zero. These saints are running on a treadmill, so to speak, screaming into the void. Many, even still, don't recognize that pain and ecstasy are one in the same.
The point at which one realizes paradox as undefinability and as deflection of definition is the point of death. Agony and love are one in the same and are nil, still. Its all for naught--one big, beautiful, terrible naught. In infinite regress with mutual, infinite retreat, the proportion persists and no one knows aught has moved. Time stops and death vanishes. The immortal is born into a land of naught and nil.
What we don't know yet is if this land and this state of no-mind is sweeter without innocence. (Well, innocence presupposes mind. For such, this land would not be perceived, just accepted. No sweetness, no innocence, no presupposition, no mind, just being.) And then you will feel once again that you are with the walking dead as a pile of dust in the Universe, seeking innocently to be reborn again. Having drank from the River Lethe, you totally forgot that you had once lived and died. You await to swerve and climb again, on up the tree, like a snake, trying to reach the sky, the source of the light and lightning. You will to give all and yourself, to be weightless like a feather, to cross the Abyss, toward Death, and toward Babalon. You ARE aspiration...following inspiration on up, simply like a force of nature. You are like a ghost and like smoke on up the Axis Mundi. That is your function. Like every man, every mystic, every servant, every master, every peasant, every conqueror, every nation, every family, and like every age and on, you fluctuate eternally. Such is space and void, such is push and shove, such is such and such and such is life...and death. Don't forget: The space between forgetfulnesses and the space between remembrances are the same.
There is no meaning to reality. That is what makes it so beautiful.
Peace and death to everyone. I wish you all infinite life and death, one life and death at a time.
93
Apeiron.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
aperion93:
Happy new year to you many days later. I've been quite busy.
aperion93:
It's funny that agony and ecstacy both make you scream.