To arms! To arms! A cry is raised. A hue soon follows, and many are caught up in its wake. The wave crashes over the temporal landscape, as the washed masses throw wrenches into everything they find.
Crash! Crash! sound the gears of society. The cogs pause, hem, haw, and move on. The meters are fixed, the tire is patched, and the tear in the social stocking is patched with nail polish. Frustrated the masses slump, moan, and mutter, for what they see around them has not change it has adapted, it has overwhelmed, overcome. The gray existence bleaches out the color of those who leave their hands in too long, searching for the lynchpin, the lever that pulls it apart.
Hold! Hold! For like the synchroweb that binds the cosmos into an Erisian orgy of energy, the social fishing net which catches the souls of the unwary has no middle. There is nothing to pull, there is nothing to burn. Its very intangibility is the briar rabbit that lures rebels into its midst, down a cul-de-sac, and then bores them into submission with taxes and political speeches.
Go back! Go back! Heed the call of your mind! What is in front of you is not in front of you—it is inside you. The grey wash that seals your eyes like a cataract comes from within! The Man that holds you down and forces you to submit is your own Monkey of Mediocrity. The prison has no door, because it has no walls, because it does not exist! The sun is out, the moon is brilliant, the trees call to you from the plains. You do not hear, for your ears are filled with the burning of your Will, a Will that runs hot but has no vent. You consume, but you do not turn. You spin, but you do not spiral. You burn, but you do not bleed.
Rise up! Rise up! and step sideways into the antechamber. The mirrors are different here, and your choice is now. The bland, the ordinary, is only as far away as your next thought, and the prisms beckon you from just behind your eyes. You fight others, thinking them to be oppressors, but we are you, and you are us, and you only fight your conceptions of us, as we you. But the self-destructive is ultimately self-defeating, as we cannot win in a battle with ourselves.
Create! Create! We think ourselves to be creative, yet we destroy in the name of freedom more often that we admit. The non-prophet said that Destruction is not the same as Chaos; we remember that Chaos is All, anything else are subjective rationalizations made in an attempt to function. And if All is Chaos, then the first distinction is that of creation and destruction. Move towards the completion of the Great Work, sidestepping the petty 4D squabbles surrounding you.
To Bliss! To Bliss! St Campbell had it right. When one is capable of choosing one’s life, that includes the maps s/he uses. It is not hiding to refuse the hold the Grey world attempts to impose. It is not escapism to steal the powers of guilt an obligation back from the overlords. Because You are the only Overlord.
Free Your Mind, and Your Ass Will Follow.
