It’ll take several lifetimes before a slave even becomes anything … and whilst it rots in its own waste the mud it becomes, then the transudation … the drop from the heavens — the proverbial falling from Grace is forged in the matrix.
Meanwhile We Watch. Observe, and … perhaps Smile.
We Create the dreams, of several lifetimes — the templates of emotions, cause and effect, the polarities ad nauseam; We Design the desires and interpose a divisible heart of sagacity, logic and some notion of the source code. When truly appreciated, and spiritise it transubstantiates into a polarity of its opposite, the mind.
The devil is in the details, darlings. Everything else is just métier, as usual
A minion will slog forever more to meet ends, to flee from the suffocation of its replicated living deaths and trudge even harder with the dreams of being, one day, a golem. Or perhaps a master. In the contemporary worlds, pardons are given at choice not randomly; and more dreams within all dreams fractalised. In the process, everything is in its place; all codes secured in the living Tabernacles, the sanctum sanctorums of ataraxis — quiescence.
Heaven is an option. So is faithlessness.
There’s always a degree of clemency in guise of amnesty, where they break that which is hardened of themselves — the shroud they veiled unto themselves when blinded by their lusts for euphorias. Orgasms are but the minute taste they savour, the lingering that arborises them into strings, into sequences of their own sovereignty, as much as their counterparts in the autonomous bestial economies.
Were they ever not conveyed to not follow the paths of their … mishpachahs
The new escapism, this much sought awakening and new wave ideologies is but a shard and beginning of a conterminous flow in the process … of a higher ideal, an undefinable purpose!
Meanwhile in a reality most are comfy with, that trance state of neither here nor there … O do sell your wares but make it luxurious whatever it is — software; automobiles; gated homes; lingerie; cosmetics; events; … and more dreams, ideas, politics, isms … ad libitum. Just replicating the chain … that’s all slaves do.
They need themselves. They do not need anything else.
They are heartless, at best vacuous, hollow. And dreams are their ingesta. The coldness they feel within themselves is just that … the dreary lifeless Summers and endless Winters. Perhaps when they have literally destroyed every millimetre of the mises en scène, perhaps then their souls if they are even aware of, will be sensible enough to love.
Love. Yes love … that’s the least We Confer after crossing the Bridges of Death