The seasonal shifting of energetic densities is underway, naturally enfolding the customary provinces of our temporal 3D experience, affecting us with increasing depth as each day passes. The solar wind permeates every particle of our being… cleansing, destroying, resurrecting. The hidden and the untold have reached their terminus.
We are now in a phase where ignorance of one’s own inner knowing no longer provides exemption from engaging with dharma – one’s authentic path. There is no place for being unaware of what we know we should be doing. Ignorance of this principle is no defense against contravening it. Ignorantia juris non excusat.
The organic light of knowing can almost be unremembered by adorning oneself with the culpable phosphorescence of the construct, that is, its deliciously smooth images, plastics and metals, luxuriously bent into sensual curves that usurp the human form itself. Proximity to media-saturated artefacts channels away the psychic core of the dupes, the marks and all the spaghetti of biological human cabling, until nothing remains but despiritualized zombie corpses. And still, the humans are loved from a distance; though admittedly, this now stretches into light years of disengagement, where the source and the object cannot be spoken of in the same breath. Deliverance is a delicate thing.
Bearing The Psychic Cilice
It is from the loneliness that arises out of lost innocence, when the human soul has drifted far from meaning, that we first see the abandonment of the magickal.
You can see it in people’s faces. They settle for that which they know to be deficient and unfulfilling. The rationale is that some contact is better than no contact. This is particularly prevalent in intimate relationships. When humans are fundamentally disconnected from themselves and each other, they are vulnerable to the insidious gravitational pull of the mainstream cultural paradigm. They get all normal.
At the primary level, those who choose not to be the architect of their own consciousness, and therefore disclaim their own daily existence, are anchoring the density of the construct with every recycled meme that passes their lips and every electro-chemical notion that fires across their frontal lobe. They are hungry pacman ghosts roaming the sepulchral corridors of unreality, forever repeating the same corrosive patterns, unable to satiate themselves on any level. The virus of renunciation consumes its own host.
The only way to offset the muted but incessant background pain derived from this way of living, is to embrace normality. To watch TV and resonate along with its frequency of ordinariness and indifference. To consume. To buy fake products, fake food, fake music. To wear cheap clothes and running shoes that are derived directly from the blood of economic slaves. This is a karmic declaration. And should the inner self spontaneously break through and find its voice amid this toxicity, then with the utmost urgency, the mind must be plunged into the low-resonance, high-density media swamp. When the mind sucks in vulgarity, regression and ignoble deeds, the psychological pain momentarily subsides as the spirit retreats far from the centre of our being.