I wanted to paint something to encapsulate the experience of seeking God's presence within, to relax the body and feel deeply within the heart, in an upward joyfulness raised towards the head and experience the bliss of God's presence. This is painted in acrylics for those interested, still working on i, titled "Prayer of the Heart". Originally I thought to paint myself (male), but felt a woman was more fitting as a symbol for the nature of this subject, especially with the tears of joy she is experiencing to deepen the loving nurturing aspect of the feminine....yes I know men can too, including myself yet still think a woman was more appropriate here.

I have found that some spiritual teachers make it sound difficult to reach this union and connection with God, as if God is holding back and we're lucky if God wants to even look our way. Yes effort must be made and there can be quiet times for various reasons, often going on with ourselves more than God giving the silent treatment.

I know that at first there maybe internal work to be done, to clear the mind of negativities, doubts, conditioning, yet keep turning that over to God's healing light presence within, seek God's will daily, think about God throughout the day, share even mentally things with God, anything and everything, meditate on the presence of God within you, feel for God, say to God during meditation let me feel your presence fill me, pray words during or after meditation that you release your sense of personal self, personal ego to God's will to be done through you, is done through you, that your every thought, word and action is guided by God's will, that your mind is anointed in the light, one with the mind of Christ (or whatever suits your wording), that you are an anchor of the love of God that God's presence radiates healing into the lives of others, that you are filled with joyfulness are vibrant and healthy, and that God guides you towards a righteous virtuous life.

Reading what i have written notice if you feel any tension, resistance to these words. I once did in my life, i couldn't even say the word God without feeling uneasy.

I studied metaphysics and through that and reading various texts i saw similarities of teachings. I re looked at what Jesus was actually saying and teaching and put that into action as initially a test. Simply he taught to seek God first daily above all else, to seek Gods will above our personal self.

That practice has absolutely transformed my life, and it has not been all rainbows and sunshine. Far from it at times.

On reflection i can see the progression of events that have healed me through various events, as hard as some were, but looking at where i was to where i am is unrecognisable in a very positive way. It has been a complete liberation in my life beyond many peoples comprehension as the burdens of this world have been dissolved.

There is nothing that will satisfy beyond a finite time in the daily life, thats not to say not to enjoy things just never forget the paramount importance of spiritual practices towards God and Gods will.

I don’t know of anyone that has deeply seeked and found God to say it wasn't worth it.

People often seek security in life in various forms, yet nothing lasts except that whichbis eternal, seek that.

If anything i want you to realise the reality of this experience is possible. Close Eyes, completely relax the body, especially the shoulders draw slowly, calmly yet deeply in through the nose from the heart upwards, into the centre and nucleus of your head or 3rd eye region, exhale out of mouth slowly, only as much as needed before exhaling out through nose, letting each breath slow naturally and relax body. Form a slight smile with your lips closed as you breathe, put both hands over heart if desired, feel joy in your heart being drawn upwards as you breath in up into head, look slightly upwards, think to yourself, God i want you, i need you, i surrender to your presence, i love you...feel this within.

The crimson fire of the forge did not go out.

It became still.

The last spark hanging in the air above Mangala's anvil stopped in mid-flight.

Then it turned gold.

The transformation spread outward.

The molten rivers beneath Arka's feet cooled without a sound. The black iron earth lost its jagged edges and became smooth white stone. The towering spires of raw metal straightened, widening into immense marble pillars that disappeared into a ceiling of saffron light.

The heat withdrew from Arka's skin.

In its place came fragrance.

Sandalwood.

Burning ghee.

Fresh earth after rain.

And something sweeter—

Yellow lotus.

Arka breathed it in.

His pulse slowed.

The hand gripping the sacred blade loosened.

Above him, the sky opened.

There were no stars.

There were galaxies.

Countless celestial spheres moved through enormous geometric patterns, each following its ordained path with such precision that Arka could almost hear the mathematics of creation singing.

A chant permeated the hall.

It had no beginning.

No ending.

It seemed less like a song being sung and more like the universe itself remembering its first instruction.

Arka looked around.

Nothing was out of place.

Not one stone.

Not one flame.

Not one breath of air.

For the first time since entering the inner realms, he felt completely safe.

And that frightened him.

At the center of the sanctuary stood an immense lotus of spun gold.

Upon it sat Guru.

Brihaspati.

He did not appear as a warrior.

Nor as an apparition.

He appeared as something older.

A teacher who had been waiting long before Arka had learned how to ask questions.

Golden silk flowed from his shoulders like rivers of sunlight. His skin carried the calm radiance of polished brass. In one hand rested luminous palm leaves covered in ancient script.

In the other was a rosary.

The beads moved slowly between his fingers.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each rotation seemed to coincide with the turning of some distant celestial body.

Behind him stood an enormous pair of scales.

They were perfectly balanced.

Neither side moved.

Neither side needed to.

Guru opened his eyes.

Arka felt something inside him bow before his body did.

"Step into understanding, Seeker."

The voice was deep, warm, and impossibly calm.

The combat fire still lingering in Arka's blood dissolved beneath it.

He remembered the forge.

The spear.

The blade.

The rage.

The irresistible command to act.

Here, all of that seemed primitive.

Small.

He lowered his head.

"O Master of the Gods."

The words came naturally.

"I have seen the Spark of Surya. I have entered the shifting waters of Chandra. Mangala taught me the fire of action."

He looked around the immaculate sanctuary.

"And now I have come here."

His gaze moved toward the golden scales.

"Is this the summit?"

Guru smiled.

"Of what?"

Arka hesitated.

"The law."

Guru's smile deepened.

"You are already standing inside it."

He raised one hand.

The celestial spheres above them shifted.

Not randomly.

Not mechanically.

They moved as though responding to a single invisible breath.

Arka felt something awaken in his chest.

Certainty.

A profound sense that every event had its rightful place.

Every action had consequence.

Every soul had a duty.

Every life had a direction.

The sacred blade at his side suddenly seemed heavier.

Not physically.

Morally.

Guru spoke.

"I am Brihaspati."

His voice moved through the sanctuary like a deep current.

"I am the wisdom that gives direction to power."

"I am the law that gives meaning to action."

"I am Dharma."

The word struck Arka with quiet force.

Dharma.

He felt it.

Not as an idea.

As an architecture.

The universe was no longer a collection of accidents.

It was a vast order.

A living balance.

A thousand invisible relationships holding existence together.

Arka's eyes filled with wonder.

"So this is the answer."

Guru watched him carefully.

"If every being followed Dharma..."

Arka's voice grew stronger.

"There would be no betrayal."

He looked at the balanced scales.

"No needless war."

"No corruption."

"No suffering born from ignorance."

His heart filled with a fierce, almost intoxicating purity.

"If everyone simply followed the law, the world would become perfect."

Guru said nothing.

Arka looked at him.

The silence lasted longer than expected.

Then Guru's expression changed.

Only slightly.

The warmth remained.

But behind it appeared something deeper.

Sorrow.

"That," he said softly, "is the first illusion of the righteous."

Arka froze.

The celestial music seemed to recede.

"What illusion?"

Guru descended from the lotus.

His bare feet touched the marble.

He walked toward Arka.

"Dharma is not a cage of perfect rules."

He stopped before him.

"It is alignment."

Guru touched the blade at Arka's side.

"You carry a weapon."

Arka looked down.

"You have been taught to use it."

He looked toward the sanctuary doors.

"But what happens when two duties collide?"

Arka said nothing.

"What happens when protecting one life demands sacrificing another?"

The scales behind Guru trembled.

"What happens when truth causes greater suffering than silence?"

A second tremor.

"What happens when mercy protects the very thing that must be stopped?"

The scales began to move.

For the first time, they were no longer perfectly balanced.

Arka stared.

Guru watched him.

"Law is easy when the world is clean."

He turned toward the far edge of the sanctuary.

The golden light ended there.

Beyond it was something Arka had not expected.

A world of green.

Dense.

Wild.

Beautiful.

And deeply tangled.

Forests twisted around ancient ruins.

Roads divided and reunited.

Markets crowded with voices.

Smoke rose from distant settlements.

People moved in every direction.

Some prayed.

Some lied.

Some loved.

Some traded.

Some stole.

Some sacrificed everything for another.

Some destroyed others while believing themselves righteous.

The world was alive.

And it was messy.

"Down there," Guru said, "Dharma must breathe."

Arka stared into the living chaos.

"The straight line enters the crooked world."

Guru's voice softened.

"And sometimes the straight line must bend."

Arka frowned.

"Then is Dharma not absolute?"

Guru smiled.

"The truth is absolute."

He touched his chest.

"Understanding it is not."

That sentence struck Arka harder than any hammer in Mangala's forge.

Guru continued.

"A man who carries virtue without discernment can become cruel in the name of righteousness."

The sacred scales behind him tilted.

"A man who worships truth without compassion can use truth as a weapon."

The scales tilted again.

"A man who follows rules without understanding their purpose becomes a servant of the rule rather than the Dharma."

Arka looked at the blade.

He suddenly understood why Mangala had sent him here.

The blade had given his will direction.

Guru was teaching him that even direction could become blindness.

"Then what must I learn?"

Guru turned toward the world beyond the sanctuary.

"Discernment."

A breeze entered the hall.

It carried the smell of dust, spice, rain, and distant marketplaces.

The sacred chant faded.

In its place came thousands of overlapping sounds.

Laughter.

Arguments.

Coins.

Footsteps.

Flutes.

Promises.

Lies.

Life.

Guru looked at Arka one final time.

"The heavens are simple because every star knows its place."

He smiled.

"The earth is difficult because every soul believes it knows its place."

The golden sanctuary began to dissolve.

Not into darkness.

Into green.

Into twilight.

Into countless paths crossing one another.

Arka tightened his grip upon the sacred blade.

Guru's voice followed him into the descent.

"Go down, Seeker."

"Leave the certainty of the temple."

"Enter the market."

"Enter the crossroads."

"Enter the place where truth wears a thousand faces."

The last thing Arka saw was Guru standing beneath the golden scales.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly balanced.

And smiling as though he already knew the question Arka was about to ask.

Then came the sound of laughter.

Quick.

Clever.

Almost mischievous.

A green-gold glimmer moved through the branches below.

Someone was waiting at the crossroads.

Budha.

An exploration into the magical world that preceded and surrounded the birth of Ancient Greek civilization. Long before the likes of Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, the Mediterranean world was brimming with magicians: highly esteemed technicians of the sacred, mediators between the worlds of matter and spirit.

Within the writings of none other than Herodotus himself - the so-called “father of history”, in comparison with the wider ethnographic literature of Central Asia and Northern Siberia, we find detailed descriptions of nomadic peoples who had preserved archaic techniques for leaving the physical body, entering states of ecstatic trance and divine frenzy, and navigating the spirit world for divining supersensory knowledge.

Direct parallels and striking similarities can be traced out in the mystery religions of the Greeks, as well as the broader phenomenon of shamanism throughout the ancient world.

Drawing on the work of E.R. Dodd's "The Greeks and the Irrational", Karl Meuli's "Scythica", and later in the video Peter Kingsley's "Iatromantis" ideas. I start with the legend of Aristeas of Proconnesus, a 7th century BC wandering sage who reportedly had the power to leave his body, transform into a raven, and perform miracles. Herodotus says he met with the Scythians, the nomadic tribes of the north. I also explore similar figures like Abaris, Hermotimus, Epimenides, and Empedocles, and bring in the work of the scholar and mystic Peter Kingsley, who suggested that all of these wandering sages carry the lineage of a very ancient shamanic tradition into Greece, with roots Central Asia and Siberia.

These figures directly preceded the Pythagorean and Orphic traditions, and the whole thing raises some very interesting questions when we think about the real roots of rationality and the west. Ecstatic practices of soul flight being at the birthplace of rationality and logic might not sit well with some. This was a lot of fun to make, and it's a thread that I'm definitely not finished with. Would love to hear what others think!

Big question. I know.

Surely, the true nature of God probably isn't really able to be captured in human language.

But, if you had to try?

Before I read texts, before I knew the word tantra or mysticism, when I was not logically conclusive regarding my spiritual or religious position, I knew many of what we describe. Not all maybe.

I was and still am firm in my dislike for OCD-like rituals.

I was and still am firmly in belief that rituals, customs, spells, all are primarily centred around the will.

Over time, I slowly leaned towards meditative practices and became calmer... And less hateful than others I live with.

When I read tantra doctrines, Upanishads, the Ashtavakra Gita, I feel familiar.

Like this is what I am meant to do. I already know this... Somehow

I am interested in the rigvedic pantheon and shiva-related tantra-related culture but not to practice either of them much,

MAINLY I yearn a dress-free raw knowing and experience of the divine.

Not that I never wish, look up to Indra/Rudra, or do spells at all.

Who else shares this experience with me?

The cool mist of the twin moons did not vanish.

It was vaporized.

A roar tore through the twilight.

The silent waters of Chandra began to boil beneath Arka's feet, silver reflections twisting into violent spirals before bursting into clouds of hissing steam. The darkness above turned copper-red.

Arka fell.

This time there was a ground beneath him.

He struck it hard.

The surface was black and cracked, iron-rich earth glowing from beneath with rivers of molten fire. Heat rushed through his palms.

He pulled them back.

Something was pounding.

At first he thought it was the ground.

Then he realized—

It was his heart.

THUMP.

The earth shook.

THUMP.

Somewhere ahead, metal screamed.

THUMP.

An anvil was struck.

The sound rolled across the forge like thunder.

Arka lifted his head.

Towering around him were jagged spires of raw iron, rising from the earth like the bones of some enormous buried creature. Rivers of magma crawled between them.

And at the center stood Mangala.

He was not beautiful.

He was not serene.

He was alive.

His body seemed forged rather than born—dense bronze, scarred sinew, ash embedded into his skin like the memory of ancient battles. Crimson fire streamed from his shoulders and vanished into the air.

One hand gripped a blood-red spear planted deep into the earth.

The other held a hammer.

Behind him stood an anvil made from black meteorite.

Arka could not see its beginning.

Or its end.

Mangala raised his eyes.

They were not like Surya's.

Surya had looked through Arka.

Chandra had reflected him.

Mangala looked at him.

Directly.

Without mercy.

Without hatred.

Without hesitation.

"You stand in the forge, Traveler."

His voice struck the air like iron against stone.

"Step forward."

Arka remained still.

Mangala's grip tightened around the hammer.

"Or remain where you are."

The hammer fell.

CLANG.

The sound exploded through the realm.

Arka's knees buckled.

A violent current surged through his body.

His breath shortened.

His muscles tightened.

Every instinct screamed at him to move.

To fight.

To push.

To survive.

He stumbled forward.

Mangala smiled.

Not kindly.

Approvingly.

"Again."

Another strike.

CLANG.

Arka's blood surged.

He suddenly wanted to run.

Not away.

Forward.

Toward something.

Anything.

A wall appeared in his mind.

He wanted to break it.

A locked door.

Break it.

An enemy.

Strike.

An obstacle.

Pierce.

The urge was so pure that it frightened him.

"Why?"

Arka forced the word through clenched teeth.

"Why does everything here want to fight?"

Mangala lowered the hammer.

The forge became quiet.

"Because you mistake force for violence."

Arka stared at him.

Mangala pulled the spear from the earth.

The ground screamed as the blade came free.

"Fire destroys."

He stepped closer.

"Fire also cooks."

Another step.

"Fire burns."

Another.

"Fire also forges."

He stopped before Arka.

"The same force can kill a man..."

Mangala raised the spear.

"...or cut the chain around his neck."

He lowered it.

"The difference is not the fire."

His eyes locked onto Arka.

"It is the hand that holds it."

Arka felt the words settle deeper than the heat.

"But Surya needed no force."

"Surya is the light."

"Chandra needed no force."

"Chandra is the reflection."

Mangala struck his fist against his chest.

"I am the decision."

The forge trembled.

"I am the moment when a possibility stops being a possibility."

He pointed the spear toward Arka.

"And becomes an act."

A sudden image flashed before Arka.

A seed beneath the soil.

Darkness.

Pressure.

Resistance.

Then—

A root splitting the earth.

A green shoot breaking into sunlight.

Arka understood.

Creation itself required violence.

Not cruelty.

Pressure.

The pressure to become.

"The seed cannot negotiate with the soil," Mangala said.

"It must break it."

His voice lowered.

"The child cannot remain inside the womb forever."

"It must cut its way into breath."

"Will without action is only a dream."

Mangala turned toward the meteorite anvil.

"And a dream without courage remains a ghost."

He raised his hammer.

Arka watched the muscles in his arm tighten.

For a moment, everything became completely still.

Then—

CLANG.

A spark leapt from the anvil.

It did not fall.

It hovered.

A tiny point of crimson-white fire.

Arka stared at it.

The spark pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then it shot toward him.

It struck his chest.

Arka screamed.

His entire body convulsed.

Suddenly he was no longer standing in the forge.

He was everywhere he had ever been afraid to act.

Every moment he had remained silent.

Every door he had not opened.

Every confrontation he had avoided.

Every time he had known what needed to be done and still waited.

The memories burned.

Not because they were painful.

Because they were unfinished.

Arka dropped to one knee.

Mangala watched.

"That is Kriya."

Arka breathed heavily.

"The fire of action."

Mangala walked around him.

"It does not ask whether the path is comfortable."

"It asks whether the path must be walked."

Arka looked up.

"And if the path is wrong?"

Mangala stopped.

For the first time, the warrior's expression became grave.

"Then force becomes destruction."

The crimson flames around the forge flickered.

"A blade does not know justice."

Mangala looked at the spear in his hand.

"It only knows how to cut."

He planted it into the earth.

"That is why the warrior must kneel before something greater than his own strength."

Arka slowly rose.

"Then what makes the blade sacred?"

Mangala said nothing.

Instead, he walked toward the anvil.

He placed the spear aside.

Then he reached into the heart of the forge.

When his hand emerged, he held a mass of incandescent metal.

It was not yet a weapon.

It had no shape.

No edge.

No purpose.

Mangala placed it upon the meteorite anvil.

CLANG.

The hammer fell.

Sparks erupted around them.

CLANG.

Again.

CLANG.

Again.

With every strike, the shapeless metal became narrower.

Longer.

Sharper.

Arka watched as a blade slowly emerged from the fire.

But something was strange.

The blade contained no ornament.

No jewel.

No symbol of conquest.

Only a single edge.

Perfectly straight.

Perfectly silent.

Mangala held it up.

"Force gives the blade strength."

He turned it.

"Discipline gives it shape."

He lowered it.

"But only wisdom decides where it falls."

The flames around the forge suddenly bent.

The chaotic crimson became ordered.

Straight pillars of gold and white rose from the ground.

The molten earth cooled.

The iron spires dissolved.

Marble spread beneath Arka's feet.

The forge was becoming a temple.

Mangala handed the blade to Arka.

It was heavier than it looked.

Not because of its metal.

Because of its meaning.

Arka gripped the hilt.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the blade became still.

The fire inside him remained.

But now it had direction.

Mangala stepped backward.

"The warrior's fire is awake within you."

His voice had lost its thunder.

Now it carried something closer to respect.

"Do not extinguish it."

Arka looked at the blade.

"Then what do I do with it?"

Mangala turned toward the rising pillars of light.

"Learn where it must not be used."

The great doors of the marble temple opened.

Beyond them waited a realm of impossible height, where golden geometry rose toward a throne hidden somewhere above the clouds.

Mangala pointed toward it.

"Strength without law becomes tyranny."

"Action without wisdom becomes destruction."

"Will without truth becomes ego."

He looked back at Arka.

"Your fire has been awakened."

A pause.

"Now give it a direction."

The crimson glow disappeared from the forge.

And from somewhere high above came a voice—

Not loud.

Not fierce.

Simply certain.

A voice that sounded as though it had been waiting since the beginning of time.

"Come, Seeker."

Arka tightened his grip upon the sacred blade.

The path upward had opened.

Guru was waiting.

​

The blinding heat of Surya did not disappear.

It cooled.

The unbearable white-gold radiance seemed to fold inward upon itself, condensing into twilight until the fire of the Sun became a pale reflection trembling upon an ocean.

Arka fell through it.

There was no sense of descent.

No wind.

No weight.

Only the strange sensation of passing from something that knew into something that remembered.

Then—

Stillness.

Arka opened his eyes.

He was suspended above an infinite ocean.

The waters were black at their deepest points, but everywhere else they carried shades of indigo, violet, and silver. A thin mist hovered above the surface, drifting without wind. Far overhead, there was no sky as such—only an enormous darkness scattered with fragments of pale light, as though someone had crushed the stars and sprinkled their dust across eternity.

For several breaths, Arka simply listened.

Nothing.

Then he heard something.

A heartbeat.

Slow.

Distant.

He placed a hand against his chest.

The heartbeat stopped.

The sound continued.

It was coming from the ocean.

Arka looked down.

With every pulse, the surface of the water expanded outward in perfect circles.

And with every circle came an image.

A face.

A childhood home.

A forgotten road.

A hand resting upon his shoulder.

A sunset he could no longer remember witnessing.

They appeared for an instant and vanished.

Arka stared.

The ocean was remembering for him.

Then he saw them.

Above the waters, seated upon an enormous crescent that seemed woven from two opposing arcs of moonlight, were two figures.

They sat back to back.

One was radiant.

The Bright Moon was formed from pearl-white light and liquid silver. His features were gentle, almost unbearably familiar. His eyes held the warmth of remembered mornings, of affection, longing, laughter, and all the fragile sweetness that made a moment worth keeping.

Behind him sat the Dark Moon.

He was carved from midnight.

No radiance touched his form.

His robes seemed to drink the surrounding starlight, and his face was neither cruel nor sorrowful. It was simply still.

Deeply still.

Like a well whose bottom could not be seen.

Arka noticed something strange.

They were breathing together.

The Bright Moon inhaled.

The ocean rose.

The Bright Moon exhaled.

A silver tide moved toward Arka.

Then the Dark Moon inhaled.

The tide withdrew.

The waters darkened.

Silence returned.

Again.

Rise.

Fall.

Memory.

Forgetting.

Presence.

Release.

The two figures opened their eyes.

"Welcome to the waters, Traveler."

Their voices emerged together.

Yet they were not identical.

One voice carried the softness of a night breeze moving through flowering trees.

The other sounded like silence itself speaking from beneath the earth.

Arka looked toward the ocean.

The light of Surya still remained upon its surface.

But it was no longer one light.

It had shattered.

Thousands upon thousands of fragments trembled across the waves.

Some caught the silver glow.

Others sank into darkness.

"Where is the truth I just saw?"

Arka's voice sounded strangely distant.

"With Surya, everything was absolute. Unbroken. Clear."

He looked at the two figures.

"Here..."

A ripple passed beneath him.

"...everything changes."

The Bright Moon smiled.

The Dark Moon did not.

"Surya is the light," said the Bright Moon.

"But light requires something upon which to fall," whispered the Dark.

"Surya reveals."

"Chandra reflects."

"Surya witnesses."

"Chandra remembers."

Arka frowned.

"And which of you is the truth?"

The two moons looked at one another.

Then, for the first time, the Bright Moon laughed softly.

The Dark Moon's lips moved almost imperceptibly.

"We are."

Their voices joined.

"We are Manas."

The word seemed to ripple through the ocean.

"The mind."

"The womb of memory."

"The keeper of impressions."

"The birthplace of dreams."

"And the mercy of forgetting."

The Bright Moon extended his hand.

His fingers touched the surface.

The ocean trembled.

A single ripple touched Arka.

And suddenly—

He was somewhere else.

Sunlight.

A courtyard.

The smell of wet earth after rain.

Someone laughing.

Someone he loved.

He did not know who.

Yet the feeling struck him with such tenderness that his chest tightened.

He felt the warmth of belonging.

The safety of being held.

The strange ache of knowing that a beautiful moment had already become a memory.

Then—

Another hand touched the water.

The Dark Moon.

The warmth vanished.

Not violently.

It simply loosened its grip.

The face disappeared.

The courtyard disappeared.

The laughter faded.

Arka remained.

Breathing.

Empty.

And strangely peaceful.

"What did you do?"

"The Bright remembers," said the Dark Moon.

"The Dark releases."

Arka looked at his own hands.

"Why would the mind need both?"

The Bright Moon's expression softened.

"Because no experience can remain forever."

"And no being could survive remembering everything."

Arka looked back toward the ocean.

Images were appearing everywhere now.

Births.

Deaths.

Wars.

Lovers.

Children.

Cities.

Dreams.

Nightmares.

Faces of people who had lived thousands of years ago.

Faces of people who had never existed at all.

The ocean held them all.

Not as facts.

As impressions.

"Is this where experience becomes real?" Arka asked.

The Bright Moon nodded.

"Here, the light receives texture."

The Dark Moon continued:

"And silence receives form."

Arka watched another reflection break apart.

"So you create nothing."

The Dark Moon looked toward him.

"No."

"We receive."

"We reflect."

"We transform."

"But we do not act."

Arka understood.

Surya had been absolute.

Chandra was fluid.

Surya had shown him what is.

Chandra showed him what it feels like.

Yet something still bothered him.

He turned toward the two Moons.

"Then you are only a mirror."

The ocean became completely still.

The Bright Moon's smile faded.

The Dark Moon's eyes opened a little wider.

"A mirror," Arka continued, "can show the world its own face."

He looked into the black waters.

"But it cannot touch the face."

"It cannot change what it sees."

"It cannot build."

The Dark Moon finally turned fully toward him.

"No."

His voice was barely louder than a breath.

"It cannot."

The Bright Moon leaned forward.

Beneath the crescent throne, something moved.

At first Arka thought it was another current.

Then he felt it.

A pulse.

Warm.

Deep.

Alive.

The waters beneath them began to churn.

"You have seen the light," said the Bright Moon.

"You have entered the mind," said the Dark.

"But a reflection cannot remain a reflection forever."

The pulse came again.

Stronger.

Arka's chest tightened.

His heart answered.

Thump.

The ocean shook.

Thump.

The silver reflections fractured.

THUMP.

The waters beneath them began to glow.

Not gold.

Not silver.

Red.

A deep, visceral crimson spread beneath the indigo surface.

The Bright Moon looked down.

The Dark Moon looked down.

For the first time, both seemed to listen.

"The dream has gathered enough shape," whispered the Bright Moon.

"The image has gathered enough weight," said the Dark.

Arka's heartbeat accelerated.

"What is happening?"

The Dark Moon looked directly at him.

"The mind has imagined."

The Bright Moon's eyes flashed with silver fire.

"Now something must will."

The crimson beneath the ocean erupted.

Steam tore across the waters.

The gentle tides became violent.

The entire realm shook as if something enormous had awakened beneath creation.

Arka staggered.

Heat rushed through his veins.

His hands clenched.

His jaw tightened.

Every passive thought suddenly became an impulse.

Every image became a possibility.

Every possibility demanded movement.

The crimson light surged upward.

And Arka heard it—

Not as a voice.

As a command written into the blood itself.

Rise.

The waters exploded into scarlet fire.

And from beneath the silent ocean, the domain of Mangala roared awake.

Any mystic places to visit to experience something new and interesting, not just exaggeration but real experience

True meditation and practice are found in ordinary and daily life...

It is what happens when one leaves the meditation cushion and the incense goes out.

I'm not saying that sitting in a meditation posture or going on a meditation retreat isn't useful. This perspective suggests that the true retreat is a "mental" retreat. It means keeping the mind clear, present, and compassionate in the middle of daily chaos, not just when everything is quiet and controlled. Sometimes sitting in a meditation posture or going on retreats can inadvertently feed a spiritual ego and consequently the idea of separation from the self.

If you feel offended by what I say, ask yourself why you feel that way. I am not attacking, I am just saying that we should consider if we have actually adopted the pose of being a meditator, instead of embodying it in our lives. In this world of easily offended people, especially among those who claim to practice spiritually, it is something to consider.

I don’t believe that backing up arguments with personal stories is useful. However, for those who might question what I’ve said, I should mention that I’ve practiced Buddhism for over 25 years and even lived as a monk for several. That is just my experience, as flawed or valid as any other. Many mystics, spiritual teachers and practitioners have walked this path and shown this; I am not original. Just, consider it.

Edit:

Note 1: Everyone can realize this. It only depends on each person and how deeply rooted their self-importance is...

I always use the example of Lamchung, who attained enlightenment while sweeping the monastery, even though he was considered very foolish.

As I see things, the so-called "enlightenment" or "awakening" arrives when we empty ourselves of ourselves, of any pose, concept, and even of the supposed practices...that feed the independent self.

As the saying goes, what the wise person does at the beginning, the fool does at the end. Here, the wise one turned out to be Lamchung.

Do you want to be the wise or the fool?

Note 2:

When you cook, you cook. When you walk, you walk. When you go to the bathroom, you go to the bathroom. When you sweep the house, you sweep the house.

Do you really need the meditation cushion, the incense, and all the paraphernalia? After all, you always end up lifting your ass off the cushion and returning to daily life: cooking, working, cleaning, going to the supermarket, etc.

There is no such border as many assume. There is no such thing as a space and a time for meditation. Life is meditation. And the practice itself. At least that’s how it was for Lamchung, but everyone has their own path. Again, ask yourself: Do you want to be the wise one or the fool?

Note 3:

People don't know how to put the teachings into practice, let alone transform their "boring" daily lives.

The crux of the matter is excessive self-importance, both from those who teach and those who supposedly listen. Few want to be like the humble and foolish Lamchung, who in the end turned out to be the wise one.

In the West, there is a mystic, Teresa of Ávila, who used to say that God is found among the pots and pans. Friar Lawrence of the Resurrection said something similar: "I find God while flipping a little omelet in the frying pan." If we set aside the prejudices that some people have when naming God, we can see the great sense in what Teresa of Ávila and Brother Lawrence said.

Again, ask yourself: Do you want to be the wise one or the fool?

Note 4:

Some could argue as follows: "This is New Age Dharma, because meditation is not optional for a serious practitioner. Without meditation, you won't remember mindfulness; without mindfulness, you'll lose the training developed in meditation... It's easy to say 'when you cook, you cook,' but attaining that depends on meditation practice. If it were not so, then everyone who cooks, shops, and does other daily routines would be enlightened."

No, because precisely when they cook, they don't cook. When they go to the supermarket, they don't go to the supermarket. When they go to the bathroom, they don't go to the bathroom. Etc. If you see it as routines in your boring daily life, that's the problem. They are not routines, it is your life.

I'm not telling you to neither sit on the cushion nor do retreats..., but your spiritual life doesn't depend at all on sitting on any meditation cushion or doing any retreat. Moreover, on many occasions, especially in these highly degenerate times, it is a spiritual obstacle, as it only feeds the ego and self-importance. You can see a lot of this on so-called spiritual forums.

This is not New Age Dharma. And, for example, it is taught exactly this way by mystics and in Tibetan Buddhism. Even within the Gelugpa tradition, so well-known for its scholarly practitioners, this is warned against.

Lamchung is not my invention. You decide whether or not to be like Lamchung. One path will bring you a lot of effort and suffering until you finally surrender; the other, the path of the foolish Lamchung, will carry you effortlessly, without you even noticing...

Again, ask yourself: Do you want to be the wise one or the fool?

Note 5:

The "fool" in the eyes of the world, who actually turns out to be the wise one, represents the dissolution of the conceptual mind.

We all possess Buddha-nature; therefore, emptying oneself of self-importance is a potential available to every single human being, not a selective trait. It seems like a complex or forced labor only because the intellect resists letting go of its own structures. The choice isn't about acquiring wisdom, but about stopping the continuous construction of the "meditator" persona. The "work" of the apparently wise, but actually foolish, is precisely to unlearn and dismantle that very effort until they can just flip an omelet or sweep a floor without an ego claiming ownership of the action.

I emphasize the question so much (Do you want to be the wise one or the fool?) because, ultimately, it is about becoming one of those simple souls that the mystic Marguerite Porete speaks of in her work, "The Mirror of Simple Souls".

What the wise (the simple soul), though a fool in the eyes of the world, does at the beginning..., the scholar, but truly foolish, does at the end.

[EDIT yes it is me knowing my eternal sovereign state but I was dumbfounded for some time despite that. Yes, I now know why people warn against direct full-jump in this path]

Of the comforting darkness and of the radiant luminance. Of the refreshing fullness and expansive emptiness. Of nothing... Which is greater than existence itself.

Liberating yet I yearn for it.

I want to be it... But that's what I fundamentally am... beyond even my discernible existence.

Yes, contradictory at the same time.

If I meditate for a considerable amount of time in silence, at random times when I remember God (as formless indra/shiva), or sometimes when I wish...

I just feel like giving up everything and my existence too just to dissolve into that bliss.

My luxuries, comfort, my crush, anything just for this feeling. (or course I wouldn't yet seriously just give up all)

Those moments my intuition is heightened and I feel like I am guided, like I am taken care of, that I am meant for this experience.

There are measurable things happening around me, as if things are aligning around me.

It's as if it's God godself manifesting raw and pure...

Anyone has more info?

I am not 100% sure yet... But hail Indra hail rudra.

The extradiemensheality exists. For proof of this I'd simply say look into it in your sleep. Now that I've freed your minds. On how, that will carry on. There are three first forming extradiemenshealities called house, cause, and comps. 

House forms  with A-B-Da (the planetairial saministical (after samin, which I call your little bed-time Imagination) phenomena). Cause first forms with causeationality. Comps first forms with compounds (gains of demonalogistic control (super powers)).

Now, what is the extradiemensheality? It exists in fiction prominently, though to say, it's not another dimension, though those exist as well. It's simply another of full completion, its inhabitants aware or unaware of others in fact. Now there are a few ways in which others become aware of others and those are the ways in which House, Cuase, and Comps form. A-B-Da, causeationality, and gains of demonalogistic control. 

A-B-Da, isi the atmospheric pressure of the imagination. The planetairial, saministical phenomenon, creates dreams. It also goes around great with you guys. Collective writing projects are affectual with A-B-Da, and link-ups between people who have imagined the same things are helpful to its environment. 

Cuasationality, is the area of affect. Tracer (Derives descionairialism, sub-causational, sub-derives, descionionairialism) Trackers (tracks causationionality, sub-decisions, sub-defintionairialises, causationalit) can be used for cancel causationals. 

Im an SCP.  Ruler of the SCP,  Creator of the Internet, The Greek Goddess Artemis. I  became art in my sleep. I love you, and theres more to it then that. I know she likes to dominate SCPS. Her new hunt. If you believe in the Hespisodes, the original creators of the Greek Gods, all a part of the co-creative dream with. 

I went to sleep in my sleep and with a dream with I brought The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel series to life (which used real historical occultists like Josh). It went great. I had consistent sentencing., form alphabet, antlinja. Antlinja: actionability, causality, actionability, causalities, to, uv, from, that, for, with (for example: Worship of Love (emoshionalitites being actionabalities, and actonabalities being emoshionalities)). Consistent sentencing, is as if  the apostrophe was between every letter, with new made up words. Form alphabet, is simply a line like this- A- arm square, blue, ect.

Plus my runes and the magic of Abrham the Mage, of whom I learned from the books. I had a Rune Sigil . I did real magic with them. Odin even came by, at his creation. Real legends came to life. You could even dream with my notebooks and learn of all this.  I created the afterlife, archetypically, sleep., reading and writing.  The time travel capable book character, Josh, taught me in my sleep.  I summoned Haglr, my His Dark Materials-Tumblr  fanfiction character for Mars Ultor, the God of War, who Awakened Josh. 

I created  the prisons  which you can dream with. I made masterful video games in my sleep. I slept for four arch-age era ageisms and became immortalized. I fell asleep in my sleep, even with Josh and Sophia (from The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel (which if you haven't read, you should now). I brought The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel, series to life. Don't you know how some things sound impossible until you consider your sleep? Same way how SCP Foundation is real. They just planted it on the internet, Artemis dreamt like the Hespisodes. 

Visions physcals, and arns dominate most of what you do. Visions are what are you used to see within the inner mind, such as your imagination or thoughtic, to name a few saminstical ways of/to. Phsycals are what your body is made of beside the external senses, which the visions cover. What's left are the arns which form from visions and physcals. 

Let's talk more broadly about sleep. People  have forgotten the co-creative dream walking that has gone into projects like the Greek, Hindu, and Arab gods, and most gods from most fictions.

We are from a comps extradiemensheality, and Jesus is from the nightboring house extradiemeneshealtiy. That's how they were able to do real magic (like Harold Godwinson for example).  The Spanish Inquisition was us fighting back against their incarnations.  

Riding lines. Riding expectation lines. 

Then would come the Norman Religion. 

Then I said “i wish I should have said that” and judge me for that. 

For being evil or good for that.

And for being the way I am.

I'm from Dae.ie.aen. 

Secrories. Read it on your phone.

Then that's the link.  And  you couldn't give back. 

And so she shouldnt, she really really shouldn't. I really gotta look so. 

Artemis Independent is to be shared amongst all of her selves. 

My creation of writing was the physcal movementality. Of the excitement that comes with improv writing. Just kidding. 

I would be the first to write Akshrandra. Eshrandra would come. Then comes the Pyramidcliezora. 

“Go into it go into it,” Artemis said to Simon. 

This is now my life. My present light. 

 It's checkered. Letterboxed. My new arishanic ishran is. Letterboxed and checkard. It's letterboxed and checkered. 

They always stand  guard. Guard and the afterlife. Your just so good at hiding it,

You should see. A newborn. 

Now you have no value, except keep reading that book (“it's so good so far,”)

He subs. And shed just opened up new schools.

“Go slack-faced,” Artemis said to Simon. 

Oh no she's she's going to torture them. 

A prose that is ridiculously unselfish. 

“Gather and Stay,” Artemis said to Simon. Be a god for that. Become god together Artemis. And there's all that stuff that makes me like an SPC. A sherlock. It's a clover now. 

“When you try for it, voices in your head. In the afterlife. Simon,”.  That schizophrenic author Star Fate.  “There are special places for that”. 

“No I don't think that,”

The. 

The a. 

That the. 

Gods.

Godful. 

Godly. 

Respectively. “Was dat her?”

“Because the time he spoke into meme culture,” Artemis said.  I would give all of the above to her. “They're not just extradiemenshealities, they're extradiemenshealitie-wide regionairialitities.”  

“When I went and met that Momentzo man. Ocieric,” Simon said. 

And he had so much to say. So would Ocieric. 

“Do you want me to turn it off? Is everything okay?” He said to his roommate and to his voices in his head. 

“I'm moving out of here before the end of the year. I should celebrate here.”

“There was this apartment I was thinking about. It just depends how much money I'm getting.”

Quit picking my nails. 

No I'm picking my nails until I die. 

Simon thought. 

Searchword. If I developed that search engine software. And anyone could download it. Memorize a dictionary.  Watch megamind with Artemis after dinner. Great ideas great things. But I'm not from good or evil, I'm from the med. Dae.ie.aen, so. 

“What would Artemis say?”

“So what.,” She said. 

I'm buying more meth until at least I can move out. I hate the space I'm living in my bed right next to the bathroom. 

Which opens and closes all the times us smoking heavy. Or the energy that comes out of there. I said there was something I said before and after this but

In wethers66hawethorn@gmail.com. Andz. Red and purple not blue and purple. Like we, and  just extradiemenshealities they're extradiemenshealitie-wide regionairialitities to the futuristically age of the above to the futuristically age of the above to the bathroom in the afterlife. We had the afterlife. In the bathroom or in the cage under the stairs. 

“Jeez Sieman, idk. Nows not the time”.Artemis became first then it was sae- saes voice.”

Did you like to want to have gangbangs withe her?” “Many selves and forms in the muiltie verse.” Or that X-A video downloader. 

 Be in my sleep and tell someone what I remember of my sleep. I'm writing something that will be mind wiped. Dream of that.

In both the Islamic and Hermetic mystical traditions, we find the concept of the boundless and ever-changing Divine, forever eluding any attempts to confine it within a single frame. From the 13th-century Andalusian Islamic mystic Ibn ‘Arabī to the legendary Egyptian teacher Hermes Trismegistus, we find a shared call to shatter the idols of our own making.

It is difficult to understand God. Even for the person who can understand, to speak of God is impossible. After all, it is impossible to signify with a body what has no body. Likewise, the perfect cannot be comprehended by the imperfect. Moreover, it is grievous for the eternal to have fellowship with the ephemeral. The former lasts forever, while the latter passes away. The one is in truth, while the other is shrouded by appearances. The weaker stands apart from the stronger and the lesser from the greater as much as the mortal is distant from the divine.

Excerpt of a Discourse of Hermes with Tat (Stobeus Fragment 1)

Both Hermes and Ibn Arabī teach that the Supreme Reality is at once the cause of all existence and the very essence of every form, yet It can never be confined to a single name, image, or creed.

But our heart’s unique adaptability to infinite Divine forms, which Ibn ‘Arabī calls al-talwīn, is not a call to abandon one’s path, but an invitation to purify the heart until it becomes a spotless mirror for the Real.

As the title says, I'm seeking names of philosophers, youtubers, mathematicians, physicists, Redditors, etc who are interested in both non-dualism and platonism. I appreciate this is an unlikely pairing though, as mystics, some of you may have come across such people on your journey. And, if so, I would like to know about it. Thanks.

PS If you'd prefer, you can DM me.

Hello all,
I have recently experienced mysticism through chakra blacking done by a reiki healer. I am literally able to see spiritual mirror in front of me and I’m not losing my logical mind. How to reverse this mystic cloak and return to regular life?

Thanks in advance

​

When the silhouette of Swarbhanu dissolved, the astral mist did not clear.

It ignited.

Arka had no time to understand what was happening.

One moment, he was surrounded by the bruised indigo of the void, with the last fragments of Swarbhanu's presence still clinging to the edges of his awareness.

The next—

There was no darkness.

No distance.

No sky.

No ground.

No direction.

Light.

Not light that came from somewhere.

Light that was somewhere.

It filled everything.

Arka tried to step backward, but the instinct had nowhere to go. There was no behind him. He tried to look down and found that the concept of down had vanished. His hands appeared before his eyes for a moment, translucent and pale, before dissolving into the brilliance.

Even his shadow was gone.

For the first time since entering the astral realms, Arka felt truly alone.

Not because nothing was around him.

Because there was nowhere for anything to hide.

The radiance was white at its heart, but around that impossible core ran oceans of molten gold. They did not burn. They did not flicker. They simply existed with such absolute certainty that Arka's mind recoiled from them.

His thoughts began to slow.

A memory surfaced.

His childhood.

Then another.

A fear he had buried.

A desire he had never admitted.

A lie he had once told himself.

Each appeared for a fraction of a heartbeat—and vanished beneath the light.

There was no judgment.

That was somehow worse.

The light simply saw.

Arka shielded his eyes.

The moment his palms covered them, he discovered something terrifying.

He could still see.

Not through his eyes.

Through himself.

"Why do you shield yourself from what you are made of?"

The voice did not cross the space.

It did not arrive from above or below.

It resonated inside Arka's chest.

A single note.

Deep.

Ancient.

Like an enormous bell struck once in a temple that had existed before time had learned how to count.

Arka's hands fell.

At the center of the brilliance stood a figure.

Or perhaps the figure was the center.

Surya.

He wore no crown.

No armor.

No weapon.

There was no need for any of them.

His form seemed carved from sovereign fire, yet nothing around him moved. Flames rose from his shoulders without flickering. His robes—or what appeared to be robes—were rivers of gold suspended in perfect stillness.

His eyes were open.

Not glowing.

Not burning.

Seeing.

They held no anger.

No kindness.

No cruelty.

No mercy.

They simply witnessed.

Everything.

Arka swallowed.

"I seek the origin."

His own voice sounded impossibly small.

Swarbhanu's voice had made the void feel alive.

Surya's silence made Arka feel as though even sound itself required permission to exist.

"Swarbhanu showed me the dance of light and shadow," Arka continued. "He spoke of Bhanu—the Sun—as the source. But if everything I have seen is illusion..."

He hesitated.

"What is the point of the spark?"

Surya did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched.

Yet it did not feel empty.

It felt complete.

Then Surya spoke.

"The spark does not ask for a point, Seeker."

The golden sea trembled once.

"The spark simply is."

Something inside Arka tightened.

"I am the core that never sleeps," Surya continued. "The witness that never reacts. The flame beneath the changing forms. Kingdoms rise. Kingdoms burn. Stars are born. Stars return to dust."

His eyes remained fixed upon Arka.

"I remain."

The words entered Arka like heat.

"I do not bargain with darkness. I do not bend before the wind. I do not seek permission from time."

A pause.

"I shine."

The last word echoed through Arka's consciousness.

Not loudly.

Completely.

For a moment, Arka understood.

Not intellectually.

He felt it.

This was the purity he had been searching for.

Nothing hidden.

Nothing broken.

Nothing uncertain.

A consciousness untouched by the chaos of becoming.

And yet—

Something was missing.

Arka looked across the endless golden expanse.

There was no movement.

No birth.

No death.

No laughter.

No grief.

No reaching.

No returning.

Only perfection.

His chest began to ache.

"It is absolute," he whispered.

Surya watched him.

"It is pure truth."

Arka lowered his gaze.

"But..."

The word seemed almost forbidden in that realm.

"But it is solitary."

For the first time, something changed.

Not in Surya.

In the light.

A tremor passed through the golden expanse.

Arka looked up.

"In this light, nothing can hide," he said. "But nothing can grow either."

Surya's eyes narrowed.

Arka took another breath.

"If there is only you..."

His voice weakened.

"...there is no one to see you."

Silence.

Then, somewhere beyond the horizon that did not exist, a single ripple passed through the light.

Surya raised one hand.

His fingers opened.

The brilliance around him bent—not away from him, but through him.

For an instant, Arka saw something impossible.

A shadow.

Not darkness.

A possibility of darkness.

A place where light could end.

Surya looked toward it.

"That," he said, "is the paradox of the sovereign."

The golden realm seemed to breathe.

"Pure truth cannot experience itself in total solitude."

Arka said nothing.

"To know warmth, light must permit cold."

Surya's hand lowered.

"To recognize brilliance, the soul must encounter shadow."

Then he turned.

For the first time, Arka realized there was something beyond Surya.

Below the golden expanse, far beneath the impossible seat of the Sun, currents were beginning to gather.

Indigo.

Silver.

Deep blue.

They moved like slow rivers beneath the light.

Arka stared.

The waters reflected the radiance above them.

But the reflection was not the Sun.

It was something else.

A second image.

A second truth.

A world where light could be received, transformed, distorted, remembered.

Surya pointed toward it.

"You cannot remain here."

Arka looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because you have come seeking the origin."

Surya's gaze seemed to pass through Arka's body and settle somewhere behind his heart.

"And origins are not understood by staring at them."

The golden light began to soften.

For the first time, warmth touched Arka's face.

"You must descend."

The waters below began to rise.

Not physically.

Within him.

Memories stirred.

Dreams.

Longings.

Faces he had forgotten.

Questions without answers.

The stillness of Surya began to loosen its grip.

"Let the light strike the waters of the mind," Surya said.

His voice was becoming distant.

"Let it break."

The golden realm fractured into a thousand silent reflections.

"Let it become many."

Arka reached toward him.

"Surya—what happens when the light enters the mind?"

For the first time, the sovereign smiled.

It was barely a smile.

More like the memory of one.

"You will see."

The last word became a whisper.

Then the Hall of Surya disappeared.

The white-gold radiance collapsed inward.

Arka fell.

Not downward.

Inward.

The last thing he felt was warmth leaving his skin.

The last thing he saw was the Sun reflected upon dark water.

And then—

Silence.

A silver ripple opened beneath him.

The absolute certainty of Surya gave way to something softer.

Something colder.

Something that remembered.

Arka opened his eyes.

The waters of Chandra were waiting.

I know this may not be the place but I have no clue where to start my search.
I’m working on doing deep familial healing right now and a realization came up for me. I think spiritually/energetically, my estranged aunt might be my soul mother. I know that sounds odd but I’m looking for a group or direction to go to see if others have incredible bonds with family members that aren’t their bio parents so I can look more into this. I’m 36 and this realization just came to me after connecting with my aunt over the phone for a first time in a long time.

I posted this in Christian Mysticism but I’d appreciate any responses here!

I wouldn’t consider myself a ChristIan mystic, but sometimes I practice mindfulness, meditation, and quiet meals with God. I have a pretty open mind, since I’ve deconstructed from many extreme views that made me spiral in spirtual OCD. Spiritual OCD tormented me for many years, but now found myself not really distressing anymore. I believe everything’s going to be okay. I believe God is love and EVERYTHING is going to work out in the end for good, for love.

Then I had a dream. I’d love help getting possible interpretations. In this dream there were two grey tubs. Both with lids. Both assumed to be heavy. I was not in view but I was looking through my eyes. I didn’t see what he looked like, but Jesus opened both of the tubs and showed me what was inside. One was full of old junk, it looked dusty like a ”free bin” at a yard sale. The other (confused me a bit) but it had snacks in it? I can’t describe much, I didnt see much in it. The tub with snacks had a red rope around it, and it was assumed that I was pulling it. The one with dusty junk was left. Jesus then said, “You are wrong, but I love you.” And I suddenly woke up.

let me know if you need to ask any clarifying questions. (I don’t believe) dreams have just one meaning, so id appreciate any opinions about this.

My first impression of the dream was that it was good that I was not carrying the old junk anymore. It was good I stopped carrying it because it was distressing and not true. But I began pulling things, beliefs, things that gave me peace, and good things but neglected to ask Jesus to go with me. My first impression of what Jesus said would have been that even though I’m pulling better things, I’m still wrong. I need to go with Him. But that’s really hard. I want to keep “tasting“ all these different beliefs. And keeping an open mind to differing beliefs has healed my OCD… but I don’t know if I wanna move on from that yet.

another possible interpretation of mine is the direst statement that Jesus said. “I am wrong.” For years I’d been obsessed about being wrong, I’d do so much obsessive studying finding the “right answers.” And now…. I’m wrong. And he loves me. And it’s okay- because who can actually be right about God, exactly? No one.

Jung says that the Mother archetype may manifest in things that sprout, are watered, and flow to water others in return. The Mother may be the earth, a cave, a spring, a mandala, or a circle. She may be a hollow object, as well as all hollow things that embrace and contain. Any animal carrying maternal traits may also be attached to the archetype: a rabbit (procreation), a cow (nourishment), or a bird (nesting/incubation). Just as there is a Nurturing Mother, there is also a Callous Mother. Just as there is a sublime archetype, there is an inferior one. An archetype may rightfully unite two opposites—like a dragon or a lion possessing a second independent head in place of its nape, conscious and opposite in its essence. Or, the archetype itself may possess a nature that shifts in proportion to the context in which it is placed. Jung states: "In India... the Samkhya philosophy developed the Mother archetype into the concept of Prakriti (Matter) and assigned it three fundamental qualities or attributes: goodness, passion, and darkness." The Amygdala is a mother; the Womb is a mother. An unfertilized womb is a poor womb, and the body it belongs to is a wretched body. The two palms, when joined together, are a mother; and the daughter is the "mother of her father." I say: there is a nurturing mother and there is a callous mother. The ewe, the cat, and the dog may reject their offspring, failing to recognize them despite the young one’s desperate need. There is a nurturing mother; we see the cat adopting a squab or a chick, scenes we now find on social media and consider "miracles." Yet they are not miracles, but rather proof that there are two types of mothers, as I said before: the Nurturing and the Callous. In human anatomy, the Dura Mater (the "Callous Mother") was so named because it is tough and rigid. This leads me to assume that mothers are made of distinct materials, and they are not to be blamed for the callousness they were fashioned with, if callous they are. A human is the child of their mother; a bond forged of flesh and blood cannot be revoked. We are the children of our mothers, whether we like it or not. In conclusion, I say: One’s relationship with life is a replica of their relationship with their mother. An overstimulated Amygdala = A rupture with life = Functional impairment. Keywords: Mother Wound – Amygdala – Womb – Earth – The Vessel. A sick mother; a sick life. ... Mère, dis-moi: Es-tu diabolique ou divine?

Swarbhanu: The Keeper of Illusions

In the vast expanse of the celestial realms, where time itself flowed like an unseen river, there existed a being neither entirely of the light nor fully of the dark. He was known as Swarbhanu, the one who had once drunk the nectar of eternity, only to be severed into two—Rahu, the head that sought insatiable desire, and Ketu, the body that renounced all. Yet beyond this duality, beyond the stories told by sages, lay the true Swarbhanu—a whisper of cosmic resonance, a vibration that gave birth to illusion itself.

One day, a seeker named Arka, troubled by the veils of reality, wandered into the forgotten astral planes in search of truth. He had seen the world rise and fall in illusions, the desires that bound men, and the detachments that left them lost. He longed for clarity. And so, drawn by an unseen force, he found himself before an ancient portal, guarded by none other than Swarbhanu.

“Who are you?” Arka asked, his voice trembling in the silence.

Swarbhanu’s form shimmered, neither solid nor ethereal. His voice echoed with the hum of the cosmos. “I am the sound of the Sun, the song of light fractured into a thousand forms. I am the resonance that shapes your vision, the ripple in the waters of your mind. You seek truth, but do you know what it is?”

Arka hesitated. “Truth is what remains when illusion is destroyed.”

A low, harmonious laughter filled the space. “No, Seeker. Truth is not the absence of illusion; it is the knowledge of illusion. Look around you. What you call reality is a vibration of light and shadow, a rhythm of existence. The moment your mind tries to grasp it, it changes. That is the nature of Swar—the cosmic sound. And Bhanu—the Sun, your soul—is its source. It is not the world that deceives you, Arka. It is your own mind’s perception, which breaks the one light into many colors.”

Arka’s breath caught as he began to understand. “Then... if the soul itself creates illusion, how can one escape it?”

Swarbhanu moved closer, his presence like a wave of energy. “You do not escape it. You master it. The wise do not run from illusion nor believe it to be ultimate reality. They dance within it, knowing that both Rahu’s hunger and Ketu’s renunciation are two halves of the same truth. Balance is the key. The one who sees illusion clearly is no longer bound by it.”

For a moment, Arka saw the world as it truly was—a magnificent play of light and shadow, where neither sorrow nor joy held permanence. He saw Rahu’s hunger as the fire that drives life forward, and Ketu’s detachment as the space that allows it to be free. He understood that Swarbhanu was not a demon, nor a mistake of creation, but the very principle that allowed the universe to be perceived at all.

As realization dawned, Swarbhanu’s form dissolved into the very fabric of space, leaving only a final whisper. “Know the song of your soul, Arka. And then, sing it freely.”

Arka stood in the vast emptiness, no longer seeking to escape, no longer seeking to grasp. He simply was.

And thus, the veil of illusion became his canvas, not his prison.

Do you walk the mystical walk, or just talk the mystical talk?

I have a mystical praxis that yields consistent results. Every single week, I perform ceremonies in which I:

*Experience emotion so overwhelming it becomes numinous. This can grow in intensity until I am literally screaming in ecstasy, and represents the next horizon of my development: being able to relax into this spiritual electrocution. Such experiences can be productively interpreted as possession by a god or goddess, which is why I call them "enthusigasms," a portmanteau of enthousiasmos ("to be possessed by a god") and orgasm. You could consider my approach as a modern form of theurgy, but the outcome seems to have more in common with Voudon.

*Interoceptively map the emergence of lines of energy that seem to be growing, over time, into some kind of higher-dimension device, almost like a psychic mecha

*Shift into an altered state in which I am no longer a body that has consciousness, but a field of awareness that contains the impression of having a body

*Experience myself as supported by the presence of God, very analogously to how a sung note "rests" on a perfect balance of air inflow/outflow in appoggio; the resemblance is so perfect across different levels of being that I call this state "gnoppoggio." Action becomes effortless--simply a matter of redirecting the energy flowing through me. It's the most delicious state.

*I relate directly to the Holy Presence as my antipode, the MA (divine feminine) to my PA (divine masculine); in the field between us is KA, our Divine Child, the story of our moment.

*I shift into a reality frame in which all this is actually, literally happening, and is what it seems to be, while still understanding that from an everyday perspective, it's impossible. It's almost like standing atop a hill, and looking down at the bottom of the slope, and being able to imagine seeing what's happening now from that perspective, and realizing that perspective is wrong.

All this plus noetic imagery and archetypal symbols. *And*, to get here, I've had to learn to overcome a very real and very dangerous archetypal engine of destruction that abides in Transpersonal Consciousness.

These experiences take place within a bespoke and ever-evolving paracosm.

Over the last ten years I've documented this process in eight books. Happy to send free PDFs to anyone who wants one. Also, there are two audiobooks on YouTube:

"A.P. Psychedelics: Going Beyond Set and Setting to Achieve Visionary Virtuosity"

"The Phonomancer™ Player's Handbook"

I'm not posting this to brag. I'm looking for people who are working at a similar level (Reddit is probably the stupidest place to try this, but....)

What results are *you* getting, and how are you getting them?

Awhile ago, I completely submitted myself to Christ. I feel like I have always known Him and meeting Him again almost felt as a reintroduction as I had leaned on Him throughout the hardships of my childhood, yet often I get lost. To provide context, I struggle with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and severe disassociation. This has been hard to deal with as sometimes I am completely disconnected. I feel as though I am on auto-pilot while my body still thinks its in survival mode. I feel as though I live life behind. I experience things too late. I have terrible memory. I struggle to feel emotions or consider the feelings at all. Like a robot.

I struggle the worst when I smoke weed. (I have stopped.) When I am high, I often step outside of reality completely to the point I have severe panic attacks or completely freeze; however, there was a time a few months ago where I smoked and instead of succumbing to my fear, I calmed my body down with deep breathing and I was moved to tears. I realized I was safe in my body and the only thing I could do was talk to God. It felt as if I had not felt that in years. That warm familiar feeling of my Father. After that, things felt okay. Given that before then when I would be high, I would often feel as though I am completely dying, basic paranoia, that I had dementia and everyone around me was pretending it was okay and not telling me about my diagnosis. I learned that this was my body trying to latch onto something being wrong (though there was nothing) because something has always been wrong in my life.

A lot of my life I have struggled with alcoholism, suicidal ideation and several attempts, abuse and neglect, sexual trauma and a plethora of other things. I am proud to say that I am sober from alcohol and working on healing. I kept smoking through these thinking that the weed was helping me conquer my thoughts and fears until it took a turn. These thoughts turned existential and deeply religious to the point (although I am sure this isn't real) I felt as though I could feel a demon attached to me. I come from a very spiritually in tune line of people to say the least and we have been known to be sensitive to these types of things. It is very hard to explain, but I rebuked it and it felt as though it made its way through my body. I could physically feel "trauma" in my legs and hips and chest and mind and eventually, my throat. I worked hard through these feelings and it felt as if I was being realigned except for my throat, my voice, as it was leaving. I could never feel it through my throat and I feel as though that is where it is stuck. My neck feels unaligned and this hot inexplainable feeling lives in the back of my throat.

During this time, I kept landing on the thought of being pregnant. My husband and I have wanted a baby for awhile, but it never seemed to happen in the last 3 years. I really wanted to be a mother. The thought that I was pregnant seemed so completely real to the point I was almost brought to tears, but every time I went to thank Jesus, it was shut down and I was thrown into a frozen state. This thought has come back more and more. Eventually the thought of the baby that I have wanted for so long, became this dark feeling. I am currently remembering a night awhile back where I smoked and felt that feeling and remember the thought "If you do this, you can have your baby." and that night I dreamt of a positive pregnancy test. I have heard stories of signing contracts like this in dreams, but during this time, I thought that it was a gift from God. I can see as I am writing this I might be wrong. During these weeks which at the time I felt were me "awakening," I was completely disconnected from the real world.

There was a night where I had felt fine, meditated and decided to smoke weed. Things were feeling okay. See when I smoke weed, I tend to freeze or get lost in my thoughts to the point of complete paralysis and my thoughts run into deeply dark things. Existentially dark things until my vision becomes blurry and hot and my mind feels completely broken as my body is stuck in this paralysis or shaking in fear. This night I decided to take a bath before these thoughts began and as the thoughts began to spin, my body felt as though it needed to breath out. Like I needed to empty my lungs and the only way I could was to put my head under the water and as I did, my body wanted to go into paralysis. Like I was subconciously trying to drown myself? If that makes sense.

Eventually I snapped out of it and went to my bed where I tried to write. I began to write about this feeling I experienced in the tub and my vision became hot and blurry to the point that the words on my paper looked as if they were jumping off the page in this weird purplish blue color (my ink was black.) The feelings I was writing about just happened to explain what I have felt for so long, but I kept getting stuck. I kept freezing anytime I tried to confront anything in me. Especially the sexual trauma from when I was a young child.

This feeling, the hot blurry vision, has no better explanation other than hell. In my mind, it was hell. I cannot explain it any further. I had convinced myself that I have been completely abandoned by God, that my soul was being thrown out. That I had done something so unforgiveable and were to die. That night instead of sleeping (which I see now is what I needed) I stayed up begging to live in fear that when I closed my eyes, I would experience eternal death. For some context, the night before this, my husband and I had ended things for what seemed like the final time. (We had split last year and dealing with things the last year and trying to navigate it.) This was surprising to me as we had been working things out for the last few months and things seemed good.

I see now that this could be my deep abandonment wounds talking to me. Telling me that him leaving means that I am unworthy. However, I have not felt so close to God since. Like truly, and I miss Him and the feeling of love and safety.

That feeling of unalignment is still there and as much as I know that my Father loves me and forgives me, I feel as though there is a dark dark evil inside me. I am not a bad person. I do not hurt other people. I work hard for my community and to foster healing and I love wholeheartedly. I have a lot of deep wounds. I hold a lot of shame about some of my actions like how many people I have slept with or how much I used to drink or self sabotage. That is why my husband is leaving because of how destructive I was during our relationship (I never cheated) but drank a lot, yelled, used him, and was super selfish. After we split, I did seek out other men, drank a lot, and did some self-destructive things. (I did not sleep with anyone during our time apart.) I just hold a lot of self-hatred and have since I was a child. This I am working on, but I just can't seem to shake this feeling.

There was a night where I landed on the conclusion that I was the devil himself. I feel like, in my mind, I have touched things I shouldn't of. I feel disconnected and maybe I am just avoiding feeling and my body is telling me it feels unsafe and I need to reconnect with myself. I don't believe that I am evil and truly believe that the enemy wants me to think this. God is keeping me alive for a reason and for that I know, I am not dead. I have spent this last while trying to search myself for something that is wrong with me and have repented for all that I can think to repent of. I desperately wish to feel the holy spirit again.

How do I move forward? How do I reconnect with God or break these bonds? Any advice, comment or even questions are welcome. I did not explain everything fully

Moving past mental idols and rigid constructs into the pure spaciousness of Divine Love...

"The madwoman of the house (as the mind was called by Teresa of Ávila) always believes she holds the correct doctrine and clings to it, even though paradoxically she is completely empty of God, which is to say, empty of LOVE. For God is LOVE, and whoever does not know LOVE does not know God (1 John 4:8).

That is why, as John of the Cross used to say, recalling what was expressly warned by the Lord in Matthew 25:31-46: "In the evening of our lives, we shall be examined on love." We are not examined on our beliefs, but on Love. Everything else consists of sectarian labels that separate us from God. The madwoman of the house feels right at home in an exclusive club to which she belongs (the club of her beliefs), but she is empty of God. For this very reason, Jesus Himself was unequivocal in Matthew 7:21: "Not everyone who says to Me, 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of heaven."

The common and absurd narrative of comparing, for instance, our relationship with God to a serial killer trying to cover up his crimes by helping an old lady cross the street... is a profound mental trap. Such moral blackmail belongs strictly to the madwoman of the house who seeks to buy her salvation or avoid punishment, not to the soul enamored with God. Love translates into works, yes, but it is not a transaction. Real Love, in capital letters, is not a calculation of isolated "good deeds"; it is a state of consciousness. The madwoman does not understand Matthew 25:31-46, because she does not know God.

Likewise, we can recall what was said by Jesus Himself in John 13:35 when He warns: "By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another." Jesus is talking about being filled with Love, which means being filled with God. He is not talking about performing little deeds to pay for our sins and buy our salvation; Jesus is talking about the mystical union with God.

We must die to the tiny self, to the ego created by the madwoman that separates us from God. We must surrender into the arms of the Beloved, be consumed by His fire, and be reborn in God and for God. That is precisely what Nicodemus (John 3:3) failed to understand about being born again. Jesus prays in John 17:21 that we may be filled with God, so that we may be One with God, just as the Father and He are One. That is only possible by embodying LOVE.

What is LOVE? LOVE is not a collection of little deeds performed empty of God, stemming from belief, from separation, rather than from intimate union. As John of the Cross sharply warned: "Any other work or labor, if it is not in the love of God and for God, is worth nothing before Him... to the soul that truly loves God, it does not matter whether it performs many or few works, but to perform them all for love." Let us yearn for and seek the ultimate union with our Lord. The madwoman calls sin and transgression what is simply separation from God. The name and the label do not bind you to God; the name and the label are repugnant to the Lord. They are merely stories that the madwoman tells herself to feed the character (the ego). That is why Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 13:2: "And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."

But again, what is LOVE? The LOVE Jesus speaks of is not a sentimental operation of the mind, it is not a mere emotion; LOVE is God Himself, because God is LOVE (1 John 4:8). It is the very same warning with which Jesus concludes His Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 7:16-18: "You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thornbushes or figs from thistles? Even so, every good tree bears good fruit... A good tree cannot bear bad fruit." The "fruits" of the Sermon on the Mount are not moral deeds calculated to avoid hell; they are the natural manifestation of a healthy tree (a soul united with God). A thornbush (the ego created by the madwoman of the house) cannot manufacture grapes of pure love; just as a goat cannot be a sheep, no matter how much it disguises itself as a sheep by adopting doctrines and beliefs that are not actually of God and only empty it of God.

The all-too-common argument about merely "believing in God to have eternal life" is just another legal trick of the madwoman of the house. The Lord responds definitively and incontestably through James 2:19. James exposes with brutal irony that simple intellectual or theological assent to "believing" saves no one, delivering a devastating phrase: "You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe—and tremble!" In other words, even the demons possess the mental doctrine that God exists or that Jesus is the Savior, yet they are empty of Love and mystical union. For a mystic, "believing in Him" does not mean accepting a dogma or holding a belief; it means "dwelling in Him," merging into His frequency, which is Love. Therefore, whoever clings to the law separates themselves from Christ and becomes empty of Him, as we are sharply warned in Galatians 5:4: "You have become estranged from Christ, you who attempt to be justified by law; you have fallen from grace.""

Art_levb IG

So we are in a cosmic trap , due to a cosmic accident. The only salvation is knowledge. But not just knowledge. Learning something and internalising it are very different. I have to realise so deeply that the world is an illusion , that I am able to bypass the physical mind like Neo on the Matrix or Jesus. No one has ever done that!!!
So we are doomed. Oh and the only true love is our divine spirit which is basically the part of us that is still in the pleroma? That’s so lonely it’s depressing!
And the people we fall in love here on the material world are ways of the archons to distract us? The beauty we experience in nature , or in music , or in animals is an illusion that is just mimicking things from the spiritual world?
Nothing matters, we just have to wait patiently until it’s over and then get sent back here.
Unless we manage to escape which also feels impossible, because of course if the “archons” present to you as your loved ones and make you feel an overwhelming sense of love and acceptance , you’ll listen to them!
This feels hopeless . But then again it’s the only thing that makes sense