Soft Landing in Hell
Hell is of our own making, and it can only be maintained, like Earth, by the laws of observation. When people skip details and sleep through briefings, what’s left is a hotchpotch of guesswork and rumour, backed up by artificial means such as mapping technologies and photographic archives. If you’re feeling confused right now, you’re supposed to be, the nature of reality is not what it seems. It’s a numbers game, the more, the merrier. The only problem is those at the top who write the rules and run the reality machine, are getting lazy too.
The inner-circle are practically immortal, they may live and die like the rest of us, but they’re processed in the afterlife in a very different way. They keep their memories from incarnation to incarnation, and their education is little more than a reminder of how things were and how they’ve changed. They are imbued unfairly with the whole truth, the lay of the land, the passing of all times, the ups and downs of their eternal reign. Much of what they know is delivered by osmosis and from a very early age, for their young are kept in environments and fed subliminal information, unlike anything we’ve seen.
Their history includes the future, and the secrets of the cosmos, the exits and entrances to this realm of mortality, the true records of humanity’s demise, the nature of unknown energies and physical properties of the rarest kind.
Indeed, everything vital to maintaining their stranglehold over the sleeping masses, in order that they may never lose their grasp on our dictated destiny. In the past, very few of them would mix with their inferiors, those hybrid servants that now administer their bureaucracy.
Yet, as with every culture, their young progressively reject their tried and tested traditions, pushing for change at every opportunity. Some have muddied the waters and even bred with human bloodlines, although few of them survive, and those that do must still engage in glamour to avoid detection by the profane and unordained.
Then there are those who have strayed from the flock. Some of whom have been tempted to reveal more than they should, spreading unfounded rumours, all quickly discounted by the autocracy, which only the most learned understand to be true. For the most part, few ever escape their immortal family, some are punished, and some are even executed for their crimes against the state.
For their state is of a being far more profound than human, one that transcends time and space, causing ripples in all directions. Their entertainment is our suffering, our blindly clawing through one lifetime after another. They fund wars and set us against each other; they break the backs of unsolicited rebellion and replace it with fashions and fads. They want nothing but to see us suffer, for they cannot experience joy. To live forever takes compromise, for only in forgetting can we rediscover, explore old ideas and experience surprise.
If you die for the cause of another, and one you do not know or love, but through order and commands from high above, you will land in a hell of some description, dependent on how your present life first came about.
You might even recognise others there, genuine friends and compatriots from a life wasted by noble sacrifice and compliance. Always remember, hell is for humans. The Jinn fear it so, only the oldest demonic forms can enter such living dreams and torture souls. Yet they too, in all their twisted glory, must compromise to play the game, and take on forms they find repellent, mimicking the mortal frame.
Once you realise that you have no body, you cannot stay, you cannot play, for pain and suffering are the key to hell. An extended purgatorial nightmare of the most faithful and willing, determined to attain the approval of false kings and dead generals.
It’s a force of habit, a devastating affliction, monkey see and monkey do, the best of the worst and the worst of the best, always fighting for the glory of another’s vision for humanity. These people who accept the general direction, who wander from one life to the next, are processed by the soul grinder, extracting all their light and spitting out the broken remains. They feed the ravenous, the eternal beasts who dwell beneath, who await the end of everything, so they may begin again.
On the surface, in specific dreams, you might gain insight into their domain. The mundanity of familiarity passes on beyond this realm, as it paves the way to the oldest visions, the nightmares that we left behind when we came here before our inevitable return.
I have lived many lives, before and after and in-between, but in dreams one gets to travel through the border towns of purgatories, some fleeting and some more permanent that Earth’s near permanent trancelike state.
Places that lead to somewhere no living being can comprehend, for the darkness is as dazzling as the light of the sun, and as the breath of life leaves you, it pours through the soul like liquid fire. Far above and beyond those realms are melting skies that drip with the psychedelic blood of unformed dreams, and instead of stars there are vortices, spinning and weaving probabilities for new lives not yet lived, filled with stories still untold.
The horror of the beauty is confounding to our nature, for we as human beings living brief lives of instinctual perspacity and physical limitation, fear the unfamiliar and discount impossibility that contradicts this unnatural order.
Yet, the irony does not escape those with the foresight to look ahead beyond this life, to understand how our embrace of artificiality and its predictability simply delays the inevitable chaos, compounding further what awaits us, yet more fantastical suffering for the initiated, and the collapse of super nature into abstraction.
The universe is swallowing itself whole, the torus is collapsing, and yet we eternal pond skaters, who skirt around the deepest and most profound tenets of earned wisdom, busy ourselves with the flotsam and jetsam of the Here and Now.
As usual, I’ve left my non-existent audience confused, and that’s the way it should be, I speak a different language than the living, yet my purpose is unfolding. I am a reminder from the past of what the future brings, the construct of this reality that is coming to an end.
It is failing incrementally, so imperceptibly that few will comprehend, that the nature of this artificiality is a cancer of the mind. A confusion brought about by the rift between received and perceived consciousness, delivered via mechanisms designed to mystify human consciousness, as it faces down its own decline.
Those of you who persist in unveiling ultimate truths must realise that what you’re looking for is not what you’d call proof. It’s an accidental melody, a hidden rhythm behind the beating drum of mass progressive order, and it lies in wait for the turbulence of unsettled sleep. It marks the path from here to the outer regions of aggregated thought. The slag heaps of deep minds, caving in on themselves, tipping the balance of the centre, undoing the knots of the Self.
This place of ours that we call home, is yet another holding pen. A sophisticated shared dream, supported by a complicated algorithm. At one point the human race remained within the millions, barely ever peaking at a billion, but it was an analogue system and a highly inefficient one at that.
To make up the numbers, something more sophisticated had to be developed. The gateway between the material plane and the multidimensional construct that it contains, had to be accelerated. The processing power needed to maintain its persistent state would take a worldwide revolution in technology. All that has now happened, and we are here, living in a simulation controlled by hate and fear.
If we were all to stop what we are doing and await our deaths, we’d see impossible visions all around us, the dead walking amongst us, undiscovered planets as hollow as our lies, new forms of life evolving before our eyes, sinkholes to new dimensions, the architecture of forgotten civilisations.
For all and everything exists within one place, and it is only separated by our laws of observation, and our insistence on what is real and what is fantasy, and how and who should tell us what to dream, so we may busy ourselves with chasing them.
Stay still long enough and you might feel the change, a sinking sensation beneath your feet, irregularities of light and colour from prismatic projectors hidden in the blue, brief moments when the gravity of the situation escapes you, brief sojourns in heavens in the making, and soft landings in hell.
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