There is a river of light cutting through the underground. The fields are being laid out and planned and planted. The drivers spit out the seeds into the waste lands, generating new growth for the new world. If you thought the industrial experiment would accelerate forever…the machines are no match against the wisdom gathered by the trees, who speak in rays of light we cannot begin to understand.
Heaven is approaching. Everywhere are signs that the city is under assault, is going under ground to be reborn. Here and there are bursts of life which pierce through the deadening gaze of the concrete mausoleums. People wander, aimlessly, to go hide behind glass, aimlessly, to go look for something real in the machine, aimlessly. You have to take your life into your own hands and be willing to turn your eyes upward.
I never tire of looking at the sky and the clouds. Of inviting the eternal silent drift of the day. Sometimes, the Moon hangs there in daylight and it makes the earth feel very connected, and silent. I imagine all the waters respond and still, to listen to the Moon’s voice. I imagine that the earth is always buzzing with hidden activity. Who is out there right now running themselves into the ground? Some birds never land, they fly until they can no longer, taking the inevitable fall so much harder.
Here, you are always in proximity to where the world ends. It is so easy to find that the view of paradise was only a painted backdrop that you were gazing at, going blind from trying to understand nothing but meaningless ciphers. The sunset might look convincing, but I am no longer taken in by the visionaries of the superficial love, living life under a spell which makes everything beautiful but nonexistent. I have erased and given away so much of myself to the cult of pursuing gold. What’s even worse is we no longer look for gold in the river or the stars, but exclusively in the imaginings of others, an exchange of the soul occurs for nothing but a brief flash of recognition.
The lines between the peace of solitude and the abyss of loneliness can be so blurred, mostly by the fogging of glass on cloudy mornings. There is a frequent oscillation between the senses and the appreciation for life, as well as the recognition that the night will come again. I don’t understand the desire to talk to ghosts. Can’t you feel them crying, filling the empty halls and cities to the brim with memories of the War? There are constantly new psychic channels being opened which make me feel on edge. The designated Medium feels all the channels pulsing and disrupting, interrupting each other, the radio never went away but is always broadcasting into our minds.
The trees are alive and awake and forming a grove. I have become the silent transmitter, a conduit for which to channel the message. The message is this: The heart is inspiring a spiritual formation, as the bee forms the hive for honey, everything is interconnected and there is a reason to have faith, to maintain faith. The ceiling is echoing the ancient rally of the angels, a call to fly and to rise upwards, to mimic the dove in daily action, to surrender to the spiritual fire.
The clouds have parted to allow the voices in. The trees continue to sing. The earth reverberates. Underlying this is the Hum which I heard once and it terrified me. If you’re looking for spiritual union look no further than the eidolon. As the sun sets, the ocean turns pitch, the waves foam and the depths sink further, I look out over the edge. If ever there was a time for the waves to crash upon the shore.