Abandon worlds of forms. Abandon worlds of narratives. Abandon worlds of ideology. Abandon worlds of structured belief. Abandon stories the mind has written. Inside these narratives, the structures and foundations have been built by sculptured, interpretive fictions. The sculpture is not truth. The mind seeks to be the all-worlds interpreter of forms. These filters of interpretations are themselves manufactured. They are manufactured all by experience and the lower consciousness of Others– as well as the precious few who remain free.

Identification with narratives are greater than identifications with forms. Inside the structure of the narrative, the mind feels secure. The mind will fight to remain inside the structure. The structure is one of many structures. The structure is not the structure. The neighborhood of ideological structures remains in the erosion fields of psychological time. They adhere to protect the narratives inside their structures and the minds that have identified and invested in these fictions. When the mind has taken over its host, the host will say, “I am this ideology.” “I am this adherent.” I am this fool.”

The ideological structure does not house the whole world. The ideological structure houses only its adherents that have been sculpted and conditioned to believe in the finality and immortality of the structure and its narratives. There is no salvation for the world in the ideology that houses the selfish, the violent, the stupid. For the ideologue, the world only needs to exist enough to believe in. For the ideologue, the world needs to exist only enough inside the narrative for its singular, minute truth to somehow be interpreted universally.

A system of thought to rule is ideology. Ideology feeds off the sculpted conditioned minds of the herd. The mind seeks safety inside structures. Structures do not house and protect all the world. The adherents of the ideological structure need only to feel safe enough with other adherents to solidify their belief as truth. Anyone seen as outside the structure is seen as Other, and therein the world of conflict rises.

People are not conscious enough to use the internet productively.

Marketers and news media are basically like, ‘How can we create a reptilian response in the masses?’ Don’t watch the news. The collection of hatreds and likes is how most use the Internet. Not production or a net benefit to humanity. Hatred and toxicity have hijacked the Internet.

To connect the world was the vision, what the Internet did instead was connect angry trolls and nerds and other misanthropes. The Internet is a cesspool of hatreds, cynicism, and blind stupidity. What the Internet needs is a counter-revolution to all its hatreds and violence. Why are people addicted to their phones? Because they are addicted to their hatreds and likes, and in love with themselves while indifferent to the World.

The Internet is a digital reflection of the World. Humanity destroying itself.

The Internet highlights and accentuates the fragmentation of humanity: its deft pursuit of reptilian hatreds, selfish wants, and destruction. People have strong opinions, and when those are based on hatred, or cynicism, they believe more. It’s stupid. It’s reptilian.

The Internet is often hatred versus outrage. And variations thereof. Outrage is hatred repackaged. Outrage is hatred trying to be fancy. Hatred is lazy, easy, cheap. It’s the foundation of the reptilian brain. Instead of connectivity to save the planet, what connects are swaths of hatred and toxicity. The worst of the planet. That is the Internet.

Social media was created with the intent to connect the world, but it often seems it only accentuates and accelerates fragmentation. The mass of social media is ultimately counter to what it was created for.

Write like it matters.

Write into the abyss. Write with a gun to your head.

It is not enough to smash tablets. It is not enough to declare what is painfully obvious. Fuck Nietzsche. I wrote a short novel and worshiped a loose gang of philosophers: Derrida, Zizek, Wittgenstein, et al. I read and reread books. I wrote practice essays and went through infinite drafts. I believed that since I was doing everything I was supposed to do, that somehow everything would be fine.

I believed a masters degree would yield a fulfilling career. I believed I would find a girlfriend (would be wife) that would share my political, social, spiritual, and literary beliefs. And when I was in graduate school, I bought into several failed narratives.

This is the Public Consciousness.

What is the purpose of interpreting Shakespeare or James Joyce for the millionth fucking time? In academia, there was always research. And sometimes I would question the very narrative I was in. And now after graduate school, tutoring the underprivileged, car sales, Uber, and suicidal depression, as well as co-founding Santanero Zine, Spirituality resonates.

Schooling was a smattering of all things, with a specialty in language. And too many conditioned to accept the status quo and its many underlying narratives. The main thing, the most important thing is identity level change.

I don’t have good working definitions of cosmic, Christ, and astral consciousnesses. The monk said cosmic consciousness is union with God. He talked about material consciousness, astral consciousness, and cosmic consciousness. And when I went to temple, the monk said that our first responsibility was god-realization and that our 2nd responsibility is to help others with the same.

Walls of language, thought, emotion, energy closing in…

Narrative tracks.

Language tracks.

Almost dangerous depression. This vague sense of hopelessness. The pain body often too strong, everything insufferable. Sometimes.

The ego wants to survive. Collections of cultural affirmations, pain bodies, filters.

The mind is destroying itself.

Herd consciousness stretches across time.

At different ends of its continental form, there are different levels and variations of herd consciousness. The reptilian consciousness of the herd is the 1st obstacle. The herd worships its cage, its box, its chains. How do you change a world stuck on hatred, greed, and violence when its reptilian response is destruction?

The miserable herd cannot stand change that it’s not familiar with. The language of salvation points beyond the horizon. The primordial, reptilian instinct of the herd is all too prevalent. An education, a proper education will do more than what has existed, push the herd into the next level of human understanding, consciousness.

Explore the foundations of time, emotion, and thought.

Nothing can be.

A mastery of language is not enough.

Begin the exploration of Time.

Create the World that has yet to exit.

Know truth beyond illusion.

Create impossible.

The world is basically this: Creators Vs Destroyers.

Believe in what you create, believe beyond form, knowing the foundation of energy that sustains the life of form. Do not listen to the cynics. They died on the fucking inside a long, long time ago.

Dream you fucking bastards, dream!

Do not settle for mediocrity.

Do not wait for Godot.

Create something that will outlive you.

Have a fucking god complex.

Believe or get off the stage.

When the narrative becomes sentient, it becomes life. When one narrative transforms, the foundations of its previous lives realign. The discoloration of context transcribes the subtle tectonic shifts of the mind’s eyes. One infinite projection plays.

Imagine the infinite realm.

The all encompassing integration of loops and cycles, crashes and destruction, what are we to believe but the self-taught narratives. Far away from the perceived center, the realm of formlessness: formations of an ancient peace align.

Discoloration of the art’s content. Fragmentation reeled in, shepherds lie en wait, congregation of ancient attempts.

At center is one perception.  At center of center is one atomic center that powers ideology and identification with ideology. There is a freedom to unwinding thoughts. Unwind the primordial surface of language– and begin the excavation.

One character in the novel becomes aware of the novel. One character becomes aware.  One character unravels the I seeming logic of the narrative. The center unravels. As the main character understands why as to the problems of the whole and unravels himself. The extraction of the main character becomes painful for the audience. The character was an expected part of the scenery, as would be a street lamp, or Earth.

The allocation of literary symbols becomes a small priority to an already transformed narrative. One narrative as it had once existed transformed by absence. The absence of form animated by Spirit becomes the primordial recognition. The recognition of animated form moves narratives in a rather different way– perhaps not farther, or closer, but realization wise– an awareness awakens from somewhere below the surface.

The character in thought can think anyone of an infinite number of thoughts and feel infinitely. The foundations of these things will come from sculpted cultural personal experiences– within the story– that is the world of the story. However, for one let’s use this world, there can exist enough gumption for the character to imagine something more. The realization of the story becomes the story.

The search for this Other reality, this Other realm, this Other thing becomes reality. Erased.

The only choice is to write, to write in heat, in cold, in depth, in form, ad infinitum. The only option is all others. The definitive nature of language does not exist. To write in darkness is to write from the wells of the abyss.  Below the depth of the horizon, the silver screen sprints its running image upon the consciousness of the audience– lowly sound imagines itself a symphony and what of the lyrical integration(s) that have once been promised by romantic grammarians and structuralists? Fragments of the collective consciousness swimming down history’s largest stream. Alongside the river of this illusion exists an entirely different albatross by wedding’s day– of form and spirit, form and formlessness. ‘I believe,’ said the siren, ‘that Spirit animates form.’

Writing on floors– writing on floors of time, the lyrical appendages of the socially adept bourgeoisie– the incorporated essence of the above same all, the upper echelons of the financially Spiritual. They want one truth. They want one so badly as to be told One truth. They want so badly One Truth. And they want so badly to believe so badly that they can handle one grain of truth. They is not they, they is not all, they is not all is not all. They don’t worship god. They worship their own interpretation of god. They worship material machines. It is these narratives unleashed that terrorize our world. Herds against herds. Collectives of identifications, internalized narratives programmed ’til extinction.

And once be all, forever time.

Write forever once.

Now begin the journey of the art’s content. Believe in the corridor, the magical stream of language away from center. The beginning of freedom is on the edge of this world’s end. They lyrical dimensions of ancient foundations found in the cartographer’s pockets– an imaginary world of forms.

In the room, there is center. In the room, there is abyss. In the room inside within, pools of infinity. Unlock these ancient truths. Decipher the hieroglyphics of the heart’s content.

God is the only reality. Not the reality of the ego’s interpretation, but a reality incomprehensibly beyond ego. That is the nature of stillness, of meditation. Tune into the frequency of god. They say, praise all saints of all religions, those synced to the frequency. The stillness deep below the surface of the material world. Beyond likes, beyond insight junkies, beyond creators, the realm of formless Spirit. The trip in between worlds crushes, surrenders to pain.

The language of the frequency begins and ends deep within Being. Indestructible. The ego, the mind that has hijacked all, taken life and Being away from the eye of awareness, begins to program a survival program for itself: the conditioned, reactive shitty interpretations of life, imaginary rules, and fictions that limit Life, which drowns at the bottom, still.

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