Interiors [picture poem]

Interiors picture poem

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Radio Receiver

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All sense perception is illusion, all is filtered: the eyes and the ears are but simulacra of actuality. Our mental maps can't do it any other way. They obscure that impossible ocean of energy surging its truth throughout the fundamental fabric of the Beyond. So, basically, your five senses are lying to you. They're lying because they are giving you a partial truth. White lies. Limited, mothering you, protecting you from daddy's overwhelming awesomeness. But they have to, because we can't look straight into the sun for very long; our eyes are only jelly. Perhaps, then, when we delude our selves by choosing (whether knowingly or not) to see the world a certain way, that is why we then actually do start to see the world that way. Nothing changes; it's the same (objectively) except for all the differences (subjectively). Your belief system is a lot like a radio receiver, which you can tune to receive any of the available frequencies along its spectrum. You ca
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Stepping into the Occult. Cue ghost noises.

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Perhaps the secrecy and the scare tactics shrouding the Occult are there for a reason – you need to be both curious and brave to walk out into the dark unknown, alone outside the comfort of the group cave. It's no place for the meek, not a path for the lily-livered, the path of cutting off capital to a Proper Noun. It's difficult to undermine the authority of the uppercase. But I do think it's true what our notorious sage once said, that the meek shall inherit the earth. The brave though, and the curious, they'll step beyond the realm of bone and dirt and worms. They'll encounter the Holy Ghost, and perhaps if they see it through to the other side, perhaps they shall inherit the universe . A world-wise man once said: "Yes, dude, but remember – curiosity also killed the cat." So, no, it's not a path for the meek; to challenge the status of those in the quo. It's a path of passing through specters. ... By the way, I bet you don&#
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The Ferryman

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The waters lapped at Hectar’s bare feet. He sat on the edge of the bustling pier, legs dangling into the River Yp, the setting sunbeams finding the creases in his furrowed brow. About him scurried rough, rural folk; villagers who straddled the divide between the Fahmal’s western edge and Yptah’s eastern border. He paid them no heed. His eyes were closed. Ageless waters, you who have washed away secrets, so many… He felt the dirt on his feet, the crusted lattice set along his sandals’ ridges, felt it soften to mud, drift free. First River, you would wash away the stains of my long travels. For this I am grateful. Do you perchance have the power to free me of the time before that, from which I still fly; to wash the stains from man’s memory? Surely, surely, given time enough… All our endless choices, running together, the flow of who we are now, of who we become. Now…now is determined by choices past. Now, here I stand at journey’s end. Truly, there is but one Eterna
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