Nebulous Soliloquy with PsychoTronic Interface to God

Nebulous Soliloquy with PsychoTronic Interface to God - SoundlessDawn

My attempt at transcription. See also:
The Logomachy of Zos - By Austin Osman Spare:
http://hermetic.com/spare/logomachy.html (many quotes are from here)
http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/ciencia/ciencia_dimensiones02a.htm
http://www.specularium.org/hypersphere-cosmology
http://www.parareligion.ch/sunrise/staley16.htm
http://labyrinthofthepsychonaut.blogspot.com/2010/12/nebulous-soliloquy-with-psychotronic.html
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0953101606/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=hermeticlibrary-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=0953101606
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Vorticitating, hyperspherical space-time has no beginning or ending, but its finite and unbounded extent does not render it incomprehensibly infinite in space, either. The chance that rules it does not act completely blindly, because mind forms an integral part of its function.

Welcome, to the participatory universe! The geometry of this map permits magic, and invites all of us to become apprentice gods.

The Abyss, self-projecting from non-existence, the procreatix "I", was the great change in the beginning to extend the purpose of desire for time to make all existence, in exact all things kept forever vague. A sorcerer's only option then is Nebulous Soliloquy with Pyschotronic Interface to God. The body is allowed to manifest spontaneously, and is arbitrary, and impervious to reaction.

Only he who is unconscious of his actions has courage beyond good and evil, and is pure in his wisdom of sound sleep. Will is transitioned. The painful process of transmigration, a labor of birth and death. Volition to supercede a thing is inability to realize the living self. But whatever is attained is but the reawakening of an earlier experience of the body. Man should most desire simultaneous consciousness of the separate entities.
       
All consciousness of "I" is a decline and vegetates good and evil, a thresh that compulsion [of?] limit and morality. From spontaneous nonexistence, germinate all significant ecstacy that shall last in the uttermost impossibilities, unconditioned to will.

You, are this present "god", this termite and many other things not yet domesticated or associated with thought.

This focus "I", called consciousness is unaware of its entire living embodiment, but alternates and epitomizes the personality.

What is "I", and the extent of its conscious habitation? A weak desire. A memory governed by ethics, and ignorant of its own bodies.

Identity, is an obsession. A composite of personalities, all counterfeiting each other. A fabulated ego, a resurging catacomb, or the phantomesque demiurges seek in us their reality. Ideas of self and conflict cannot be slain. By resistance, they are reality. No death or cunning has overcome them. But it is their reinforcement of energy.

The reality we know is interconnected with the unseen by some design of thought we have yet to know.

The eclectic path is not an avoidance of obstacles, but an alignment that cuts through, from one predetermined place to another. God is within us, not yet seen, but as a mirror's reflection, an inexistent reality of presence without resonance.

Reality, Truth, Life

I am everywhere present, yet unknown to myself... I am a configuration of all the multitudinous compositions, and knowing not myself fully how can I know much of other selves and the gods? But the man we know is mainly made from the beliefs that he enacts, for 'being' is a function of the all-remembering Soul ...

[ http://hermetic.com/spare/logomachy.html]

Mathematical alignments prove the pragmatism of "as if"; a straight-line being the segment of an undetermined and extensive arch. Forms attain additives by dimensional differencia and orientations of objects perceived. The quintessence of monotony, all things alike and equal.

Mind, body, ego and all things are formulated from desire; to desire and desire forever.

Within the Alphabet lies all the arbitrary abracadabra of our knowledge.

Panacea: not presence, impulse, conceit, but the audacity of 'instant mind-courage' in action, is the answer that fulfils.

How do we know a damned thing? Chaos is our language; our own eccentric rhythms are unsynchronized to Cosmos—with a mildewed ear for the brassy cacophony of imaginary menageries dissonant to each other; and it all ends drooling over minutiae to discover oneself.

Life is an endless re-creation. Whatever we are, our value is in the next existential: always a composite of some yesterday's potentialities.

Whether we are inspired by the gods or by any other means it is all the same; we are as they, and much as they are to us.

I'm here now; how did that happen? Why does everybody keep telling me it's so damn miraculous? I'm being vampirically fed-off-of as I listen for parasites in-between my heartbeat. Now I'm running through a gauntlet of boring swords and uneventful lemming-like obstacles that my imagination could have easily handled without ever having been born. Now having to suffer this world.

Yet none remembered having desired existence. We are simply "here." We have arrived in a 3-dimensional experimental world of dualism, one of darkness, and of light. One where our unnecessary bodies are temples for letting go of absolutely everything that they attained. We are a part of something that we remember not the purpose or usefulness of. Walking like strangers amongst one-another, increasing hive-mind-telepathy via a universal insect-internet, with an almost full amnesia of our purpose. We know pain and mental-gymnastics. We know how to preoccupy ourselves with the truth that this current reality is a cold one, one which is *extremely* limited. One in which every man and woman clutches themselves in pain and dies alone in absolute horror. But that also offers us gestures and laughter and elation, and at times, bliss, on-tap.

Can we be okay, when we are *not* okay? Will there be a cosmic sign without, or a gentle-germination of some far-off light within? Or can we fool ourselves into never being found again?

In the valley of the psychotron I have seen vistas of vulture-swept canyons that pulsate electric merkaba which dance on my corneas. We can all go there and escape this prison while still being inside of it. Hard alone, having the gift of tongues, this universal understanding. Hence to know its fundaments is the initial path to wisdom and knowledge.

However great your reach, whatever you touch shall touch flesh. We cannot love love too much, when we find it.

We are as shadows of our doubts, delusion [reared?] haunted by our fears and doubts. In our relation to cosmos, if significance is measured by our in-creative ability, then we are of no greater worth than an amoeba. Nature permits no interrogation; our techniques merely imitate, and only if so allowed.

The deceiver, do not further deceive yourself. The function and purpose of life seem almost an experiment in genious; a chosen few at one time.

Genius can create dreams within dreams, and not in the Kitzche Inception-like Hollywood way, either. The imaginative realms are vast and uncompromising, yet malleable to its creator. There exists a Grimoire of symbology, of vague phonic nuances that can join all thought, and is the cryptic language of the subconscious world.
  [ http://www.horusmaatlodge.com/silverstar/SILVERSTAR10-PG23.htm ]
It is the panoramic vista of limitless possibility in the state of no-mind. Deep silence and lonely-longing unfreeze the all-prolific mind. Oh death, thou wouldst be the bringer of great gifts, were thou not a misnomer, "the end."

In some manner, do all the weary speak this. If the absolute relates to all non-absolutes and all antithesis, then we lack only the conjunctionalism for infinite interrelatability, and self-identity.

There is no greater mystery than man, because of his imperfections, his great love of falsity, his great hatred of his-self. A touch of lusty levity cures the illusions of our hemianopic moralities, sensibilities, and righteousness. For the life-force is not blind, we are.

God is absolutely my own idea, our own idea, otherwise God cannot exist. Some things are far-distant in time and space. We journey by relatability, whether fictional or non-fictional; either will serve.

Man's love for fancy dress, of masquerading his true translatable symbolism, one fiction guising another. There are conventions of asking, giving, receiving and taking.  How remiss we are, we are often ask, give-to, receive or take from the wrong people. We are dimensionally-caged, but nothing prevents our looking through the bars. Imagination has fewer bars than reasoning.

Thought is like the ether; it conveys and permeates all things, giving all we initially know. And what do we give it in return?

We can try to know ourselves, to renounce ourselves. We but change our mental clothes by new figures of speech. The mind is our index of the infinite, exhibiting a universe of which we know little, yet the unknowable within us is vaster, and hence more potent a possibility.

We have erected the negation of equity into a form of existence by systems of government which we perceive as reptilian engineers that have stolen our birthright, but the control-system is a game, and of the nominal, our eternity, we hope that all of our efforts in life are ultimately for a permanent perfection. With change an additional pleasure, everything, knowledge and experience of life contradict such a possibility, yet we feel it; we know of its coming.