"My world has just become perfect, midnight is also noonday, pain is also a joy, a curse is also a blessing, the night is also a sun - be gone, or you will learn: the wise man is also a fool." pg. 331, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Travelers, don your headphones for optimal listening . . .
It was November 11th, 2024, somewhere in the plains of the Ohio River Valley. The moisture was unsettling, warm for the season, but finally having arrived in a slow, steady downpour—the best kind for crops. October had gone away with its harvest, death already taken what it wanted and now we are all left with the remnants of what was. Pieces of justice lay scattered with the dead leaves, the many consequences bridging hope for a rectified future. Maybe the Spring will join the cords together and marry these pieces in some fractal harmony. We can only wait to tell. We can only quietly sit with the mystery of our thoughts, those creatures that riddle our mind like an open cinema, our ideas and beliefs broadcasted upon the belly of the Ego.
It was November 11th, another day for Zora to sit clear-headed within the stillness of solitude, gazing out the window, wondering about this life. An eternity of wordless answers swept through her mind. It was not a matter of articulating this expression, as some are wont to do for a jump in status and a lucky monetary SEO prospect. Journalism, they said, would be the ideal candidate. It’s quick and easy, if only Zora could demonstrate these freelance skills, pretend out the living word for the world-breaking news. Another hired organic AI generator, engineered for what else than none other for click-bait settings. It was mere grammatical spontaneity, fleshed out to seem real. It painted a horrible picture, a picture that turned her stomach. What is more horrible than the soul testing out a fabricated wardrobe of actions and ideas to see if it looks good to everyone? If it fits well, if it wears well, if it immediately swivels the ever-wandering eye over to its way, then it would be a good suit to parade. Sultry is the business mind, which has convinced even the peasants of its godly goodness. But neither is this tangent healthy for the mind to dwell on. So Zora shook the unpleasant thoughts away from her head, sighing and drumming her fingers on the wooden desk she sat at, as some way to figure out what to do next.
The rain continued on outside, its dull grey filter brightening the white frame round the glass. The silven curtains about it against the hunter’s green walls made it feel like a comforting forest in the moonlight she had nestled into. It matched her light green sweater she loved dearly, a somewhat over-sized meadow that magically fitted smoothly to curved features and her small waist. It was right—the atmosphere of the sanctuary. A place where the womb and the tomb blended into twilight. Where all things and thoughts are buoyed in the astral plane. After the storm. After the time when all things were disordered and the Earth was assaulted again and again and again. After a while, the pain becomes numb and loses its gravity, and you start to believe you’re not even real anymore. Dreams of flying through the air were her best dreams, she used to say. Not that it’s any different now, but maybe more warm and surreal. The night is a Sun also. This light glowing inside, brilliant wings of a horned angel with sword in hand—every time she closes her eyes, there it is.
She opened her eyes back up again. Nothing could surprise her anymore, and there was no need to explain it away. She had her composition book open on the desk in front of her, took up the pen with her right hand and recorded her download of information, without introduction, without conclusion. Just a pure stream of consciousness. It made sense, “the stuff of scriptures”, someone important would later say. Zora sat there with it and repeated the words back:
“The wormhole between the Moon and the Earth, where the dead are carried. Perhaps there is an entrance in the underworld—that cavernous world which lies beneath the soil. The cavernous world with its own sky, lit by glowing mushrooms and an air cold and misty.”
Opening her laptop, all the many liquid crystal eyes of the screen glistening and excited to study and relay the reading as she typed it up, she ended the email to Professor Ermis with the footnote:
“The entrances to Hell...do they too link up with Agartha? I recently read something by CS Lewis, saying that Hell is the place where we get everything we want...a kind of superficial ‘paradise’. But really it's the dreamworld I think.
The tomb is the place to sleep.”
This is what Professor Markus Ermis had hired her for. Not for grunt clockwork. But for the lightning of nature that thrusts the circular motion of recurrence up to another notch in its fractal structure. What he knows is that it is the key to a beautiful design. The mystic-child that is transcended woman.
PODCAST
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@MoonstoneMythoium
TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@moonstonemythos
BitChute: https://www.bitchute.com/moonstonemythoium
SOCIAL MEDIA
Twitter: @MoonstoneMythosInstagram: @moonstonemythoium
MUSIC
"Under Sticks and Leaves - Edit" by Presley Benson
"The Time is Now" by Presley Benson
"Moontune" by Presley Benson
Copyright-free Silent Hill music
#scifi #dystopian #philosophicaljourney #storytelling #spirituality #psychology #fiction #lynchian
Share this post