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  • Jesus Juice and Jordananity- A Father’s Freestyle

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    Subject: Revised Draft of Erik’s Monologue – Cohesive Edit for Publication Consideration

    Dear Reader, a brief preface-

    I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting and editing this raw, stream-of-consciousness passage from my late father’s Facebook message. The original is a whirlwind of manic energy, dark humor, cultural riffs, and personal confessions—pure Erik, with all its chaotic charm and unfiltered edge. My goal was to enhance cohesion, smoothing the transitions between his wild associations while indulging in the absurdity and wordplay that make it so uniquely his. I fixed typos for readability, tightened rambling sections into more fluid paragraphs, and preserved the essence: that blend of self-deprecating wit, pop culture obsessions, and underlying vulnerability. It’s still got the freestyle rap vibe, the ironic boasts, and the satirical jabs—think a bardic rant from a Maine everyman channeling Celtic storytellers and stand-up comics.

    This could work as a standalone piece in a memoir anthology—perhaps titled “Jesus Juice and Jordananity: A Father’s Freestyle.”

    Best regards,
    Cameron Stevens

    Hey, hey, hey, hey—stop the hate and appreciate! Next up: walking on water, turning water to wine. Just as long as it ain’t Michael’s infamous “Jesus juice”—heard that stuff leaves your bum hurting the next morning, like those rough first days in a new jail cell after “getting to know” your roommates a little too well. Happens to everyone, right? Like those burning urinations we all deal with. My bacteria’s got viruses of its own, but hey, the upside is my shit’s seasoned like a defending champ in its kingdom, no moat needed. Honest Abe, cross my heart—not my bra, though. Holy hell, you can’t have a braless car; front-end damage is the gateway to that 24/7 involuntary lemonade stand you never signed up for.

    Remember Chris Farley’s warnings? Something about ending up in a van down by the river. I think the hype’s possibly false—not that I checked, holy cow, you act like it’d be illegal. Hello, protect and serve—it’s right on their cars, talk about show-offs. Legal bunkers are Shangri-La! I heard on the intranet what kids are watching these days—terrible stuff they learn. Surf’s up, bro. #WaveRunnerVersionErk420. Greenpeace, man. Puff, puff, pass—don’t be greedy, share the lost memories. Just ’cause you’re the king of the hill—no, not Hank, but Eric Hill, the total mentalist guru who doesn’t even hand out flowers at airports for his cult… I mean, religion.

    Not fair—I tried to patent mine, but Pat McAfee wasn’t what they meant. Hello, who wouldn’t mistake that when hearing “king” spoken? Well, I guess there’s Burger, Steven, and Justin King, but those are purely afterthoughts to the famous McAfee empire, duh? Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure it out—they turned me down, and no one knows better than my personal-turned-business empire on pocket-rocket perfection: me. Can’t hold my resume against me ’cause a judge might’ve forced those years of alone time. At least the whole “gay for the stay” argument never had to be argued in my case—IDC, I’m the best sex I’ve ever had. No one compares to me in the art of self-preservation… well, pride, I mean, not the annual much-awaited Pride parade. Irish, what’d you think? Holy, too many pillow-talk Penthouse letters, possibly—not that I know anything about those; my mom would be mad. Please don’t tell her—she might tell my dad, or whoever got this year’s lottery pick, ’cause of the whole jail mix-up. I learned to accept the ramen-priced deals for countless sugar daddies. Greedy people, I’ve heard of ’em, and asking for club-cracker side dishes! Good luck—positive outlook, though, gotta appreciate that. I think I can, I think I can! All aboard, just beware of those crossing guards I hear about. Don’t trust the “made in China” stamp on their classification verifications, even though China makes all the best products—you know, “Calgon, take me away.” What other proof do you need? Best breakfast starts with salt-soaked suds, staying alert without the usual NoDoz boost. That’s chemical dependency, I hear—terrible things the evil intranet puts out.

    At least I’m personal friends with the whole “Kids R Us” gang. Goat infants are people too—stop the one-way thinking. Animals matter, even the one time I can agree on the black ones. ‘Cause, goddamn it, what about the white? White should be under the whole equal-rights fight—just want equality, so fight for the right to wannabe Craig Black, but not that Jack fella. Heard he can’t be taken seriously from previous Joker attempts at Hugh Grant’s final act of perfect roleplay, the portrayal of the caped crusaders’ best-played foe—from Idaho, and not just the potato Ohians; they at least learned the sharing-is-caring thing I tried to claim. Gotta give proper credit to stealing Springer’s unicorn, the real-world Darcyville star herself, my own baby-mama drama—don’t hate ’cause I’m famous, pretty much, from my best-luck-night dream come true. Could be you. Wish, but can’t cross royalty—well, Chrissy Royal, I think, from my rare memory. I swear, drug abuse does sometimes leave remembered moments from your altered experiences. Just because I don’t have that whole “perfect” memory—not like my top-of-the-line memory in those paid courtroom encounters I may have been financially persuaded into. Just trying to help keep the Celtic past icon, “The Truth” Paul Pierce’s king of the whole F-the-undercover BS he protests. Got my backing—way backing, but backing it is, you know, “lean back, lean back” that Little Joe tried to take credit for. Especially the obviously ironic “little” bullshit he tried to push on us. I’m a faithful old-school fan of the “Adam” Fat Joe. Big fan of obvious acceptance that Black lives do matter. Hello, obviously the whole welfare thing wouldn’t have been achieved without the colored opinions, no matter the watercooler triple-K lessons—I believe greatly in misgreatness and mistreatment of the original slave prisoners’ names some may have unfairly earned. Original unvolunteered, they claim, but no one hears my complaints, do they? Learned young when my lawyer/idol taught me: White men can jump—well, usually it’s a bridge getting jumped from. Equal rights are only fair, you know, like my “tights right” movement I’m trying to claim, like Alaskan year rights to legally get free land ownership—even though some may look down on Iceland ownership. The legal thing’s rumored to actually be actual knowledge-is-power truth in some places, other times not so much—ask the wannabe Websters and that damn Siri, Google, Apple agent. Bad apple, believe me.

    Hello, ever heard of the O.G. Apple Dumplin’ Gang? Hello, portrayal perfection—you can’t learn it. Natural gifts are in the jeans, and not those damn Lee jeans neither. Everyone knows Wrangler jean-etics can’t be copied, even from those talented street mimes I hear of. Talk about handling a situation, even if the fair-trade rules may have been crossed—prove it, ’cause proof is legally the only way I could be persuaded to protect and serve. Just because my whole citizens-arrest record might have been purchased at an auction—money talks, being broke thought for me comfortable because of the odd from so many chemically induced injury-prone incidents in my past. Some people can’t be challenged when the evidence clearly shows that even being the #1 all-time best at being loser king—can’t beat actual greatness when it’s clear, like in this instance. Believe me, whole wishful thinking like LeBron’s whole “greatest ever” argument can’t honestly even be attempted. Closest ever to the actual clear close to Jordan-anity is sad to honestly say Kobe fn Laker Bryant was unquestionably the closest to the throne, pre-baseball experiment—great anyway, but if it’s my team under the stress of final chance at sealing the proof of mind-reading on another level. Talk about an easy read, especially wishes genetically uncopyable, even those clone-rumored lab experiments—you know, like your experiments in black labs and the whole peanut-butter infatuation. Holy, talk about a waste of food. Hello, ever heard of hot dogs? Well, pretty sure those aren’t the Angeles stories I’ve heard. And angel dust—come on, expression “fallen angel” ring a bell? Well, even though boxing matches or Salvation Army volunteering might naturally come to mind first, ever hear the term “saved by the bell”? Hello, ZacksLifeMatters! #1 fitting-in thing actually for once can’t be honestly looked upon as showstoppers from great casted and acted television royalty. I mean, just because the whole Saved by the Bell weekend my good friend and me rode out—who can play a better Mr. Belding character? Even though arguably the classic portrayal of The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller maybe, but Twisted Sister video portrayal of principal throne-chasing is an honestly pretty good comparison of the uneducated movie critics’ Garden of Eden, maybe? Even though clearly unbiased opinions of the Adam ‘n’ Steve thing gets looked down on more and more.

    You want to talk about freaks of nature? Yao Ming ring a bell? Tell me the tallest-ever sport winner at tallest-ever basketball player cannot, without some lab help of some sort, be clearly from China. Don’t even seem an idiot would honestly straight-faced argue that unchemically an Asian Chinaman could unseat the U.S. of fn A as best baller ever? Even though one American’s easily defended record of best ever, at a before-the-best, the Man in Black clearly is best golfer ever in a white-dominated world of sports legends—like the unchallenged best-ever partner at tennis pairs ever, clearly where the Sister Act from the white-walled before the Team Williams attack on before-them uneducated opinions. Like best-ever rapper ever, lyrically speaking, clearly is and still king—white, and from Detroit. What, the white limited editions of the unparalleled early on especially, but full dominance of a before unfairly black bit of unequal rights ever. Like they get watermelon and fried chicken? Who’s the unjust judge in this legal misjudgment? What, ’cause I’m white can’t be infatuated with not only a well-resumed past from the hater of anything that put him directly in the, and clearly on top of the best-rapper-ever tag? No? Not even close. Nas, 2Pac—good, well-educated arguments, but in all honesty, white chocolate melts in your mouth, not in your hand. But who in his position can clearly be compared to the way he made his way—the new 101 for ebonic history intros—and the way he showed that honestly talking about real talk, making fun of things that clearly, especially then, weren’t P.C.! But boy, did he show the world a rapping-for-dummies new-edition leader for a Pulitzer prize, ’cause he’d say what no one else would then, and be able to get away with taking the throne—and probably never be beat—like best entertainer ever, singing and dancing anyways, not side jobs he took trying to nourish unhealthy children at the famous Neverland Ranch. Come on, who but the master could easily come up with the term “Jesus juice” and straight-faced argue against early royalty, easily given the reins?

    Now though, gotta honestly give him credit for ungreedily taking over the whole role-model term—self-coined for the best-parent-ever title he chose for the good of his daughter. Family first is an award honorably, in my opinion, gained and held by a white guy. But another white guy came along, and clearly, if only used inspired lyrics to build an unmatched—for him, probably unparalleled—true hit at white power in black culture by using Marshall’s gift of using honesty to point out un-P.C. names in the daily battle for celebrity stories that us unpopular people can try to live off. But good attempt anyway—shot at the title till the story switched hands to victim in throne-shots, clearly proved when the old “best” released his “proof” by accident on his own case of easy defense of the title. But credit has to be given for the shot taken by a good argument in his short but sweet shit at cheap advertisement of his case for best-ever argument—like clearly Ali was, and probably always will be unbeaten. But that’s what we thought about Mike Tyson. At the time, especially, nobody even seemed worthy at the argument, but the rapist karma caught him when he easily took up another good talent he had: comedic acting! To me anyway, he’s funny as hell. Just not quite as “iron” as previously named, rightly then, best ever. Never saw no one like him ever. But then a native Mainer, with self-promoting to me the more fascinating sport of MMA—more entertaining ’cause different styles can prevail, so more unpredictable—can easily bring in way more loot, which is honestly 9 outta 10 people’s honest answers to why are you giving the moniker “best,” and if you feel it’s earned or not.

    Like, in my opinion, probably best-ever moniker of comedic acting in movies, and also combined with honestly putting his mistakes out there—like having to be E.R.’d ’cause of catching his hair mistakenly on fire while on a crack binge! No one was doing that, but that’s true greatness—smartly putting dumbass mistakes out there for the true comedy of it. But then two of the greatest duets ever together in movies: white and black, as well. Gene mfn Wilder, white, with black ‘n’ proud Richard mfn Pryor—emerged as the ruler for young comics, either stand-up or movie-acting dreams where dreamt deservedly so. The way he could convincingly pull me in expertly with true-life raw talent. His facial expressions, just like Jim Carrey till he tried going away from his specialty at laughter—comic acting is his forte. Once he tried serious roles, his—in my opinion—career took a dive. Mask, Pet Detective, even his skit from his launch as Fire Marshall Bob! IDC. Class of few with his believable portrayal of what he wants to show you. And the honesty was refreshing—especially ’cause BS sells. Think not only do enquiring minds wanna know! Then look how many careers got made through copying an easy guide to the high life!

    Like one of the best actors ever, for easily playing any role he chose to be—which can never be denied, whether a fan or not. Certain actors, to me, are incapable of bad acting: Denzel, De Niro, and even, my opinion again, Pesci. Some guys just have it naturally, whichever talent they easily exude. Chris Farley, Steve Martin! To me, in convo for best ever at what he was good at. Believability is key for most in this convo—the way some of these were funnier ’cause with expressions or actions, made their role believable. That, to me, sets the greats apart: no effort. These guys needed no teaching, just had the specialty they have ingrained. Like the crazy talents of people like Chevy Chase, Bill Murray—guys like that. But like the rare cases of autistic guys who are unparalleled at whatever they’re exceptional at, like the autistic piano player easily in the Mozart, Beethoven, rightly so tags of best ever.

    Good reading, though.

    – Eric David Stevens
    [my father Erik..]

  • Letters to a Friend, XVI- ∆ Lay down, You’re Lying, I found your Casket of Masks

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    ∆ – ∆
    What a complex series of lies you’ve seemingly strung together without provocation—once again. Haha, just kidding; I guess it’s not that serious or deep to most people you’ll ever talk to or try getting to know. But my attention isn’t a toy; it’s a resource—a tool for transformative relationships and efforts.
    Instead of sending a message with the intention of deleting it, send me a real message that comes from a real place, focusing on a physical phenomenon that actually exists and can help move us closer together, always in alignment with a higher direction, pathing, or calling.
    I can recall the introspective landscapes of memory with a high degree of accuracy. Know why, though, for real? Because it’s hard to forget when you notice seeds of discontent that have bloomed in these landscapes of another soul.
    I’m trying to speak to the innermost [REDACTED] and am not at all interested in superficial performances. I don’t want to see your masks, [REDACTED]. I can handle the archetypal pressures that would emerge from the crossing of our paths; they might actually intersect en route to their respective destinations.
    There never has been, nor will there ever be, a vessel that could hold you. Why pretend you’re entirely okay when, in all actuality, the only thing expected from you on a holistic level is to integrate your individual being—beneath the mask—back into the incorporeal world with true wisdom? This wisdom belongs to you only when you can look at yourself both up and down, inside and out, without any regard for upholding expectations like dogs do, patiently awaiting validation.
    There is no means of validating the primal expressions of archetypal urges that dwell in the innermost chambers of our spirits or soul force. There is no being without purpose; there is no space the light cannot reach. Even when it appears to be traveling in only one direction, if you were able to see beneath what’s being revealed to us at first glance, you’d know there’s nothing there that cannot be reached by this etheric, primordial force.
    Just as your mind reaches out into the darkness of what’s left to be explored, you must find it within yourself to honor this life-as-evidence—evidence of an even more holy existence. The waters of a pathless river guide us through its channels, allowing itself the company of an entity that has been directed through silent passage.
    Be honest—not to me or anyone else—but be honest alone. Redirect your underlying intention and energies only towards the Giver, not His gifts. This is, by far, more rewarding in the spiritual world that sits directly above and below the physical planes.
    Wherever they may shine, particles of the divine—whether knowingly or unknowingly—can have an experience in nature that either surpasses the quantum boundaries of its own existence or transgresses outside its cosmic state, beyond its material state of origin. This is obviously contained by sophisticated, entirely natural declarations of a preordained spirit.
    Regardless of the differences between the unquantifiable aspects of our personas and psyches—archetypal elements that sustain us—or the principles of God (which are separate from the principles of religion) that manifest themselves within our human experiences, we risk becoming corrupted by the weight of revelations about our natural selves.
    What experience, if any, could realistically accompany the agents of each other’s soul force? A truer word given to me by you—residuals of stasis dormant within your presence—awaits the wash of waves to succumb and seasons of new flowering. It’s been taught that it’s safest not to reveal oneself, in fear of losing touch once more, confronted with the revelation that withholds your mask from what’s beneath the surface of your skin, where the real being or spirit of old has chosen to rest.
    Strange enough to adorn and never own a face of—I’m already at age 25, growing intolerant to any form of self-expression. Whoever the being is that emerged from the abyss, where the space between is completely unprovoked and invisible—that old house that must presumably belong to us in spirit and spirit deterrent—deleting it for the fourth or fifth time, you, without judgment about whatever problem that may present its way into.
    It doesn’t require you—or anybody else—to see how these properties that have emerged from nothing seek to be experienced. It’s through this very act of self-individuation or self-reintegration that God reveals His grace through this process of adversity, forcing us to find our way back to where we started, as we perform a sacred, handcrafted, and perfectly ordained ritual of life through the integration and restoration processes spoken to the world first by Christ.
    What is your role here, [REDACTED]? What will be left of your remembrance once you can no longer hold yourself down in your earthly body? Don’t you want to feel as though, wherever you are called upon, you can submit yourself away from the cage of the body? Only then can you become fully acknowledged in your search for Him—the Giver of all gifts—to whom He can look and recognize the essence of His own innermost image, as our Father redirects Himself in the direction of light throughout the darkness of the undiscovered and uncharted.
    It is here, and only here, where we will prove ourselves worthy of return to glory within the ultimate gift, which is imbued with everything. The gift itself is the realization that we share the same source. From this point of reference, one can begin fully absolving themselves of the idea of a conflicted existence—one full of separation and freedoms overruled by chaos. It’s all intentional for us to experience, and there is no other way around it.
    So finally, [REDACTED], you might feel in some way or another compelled towards conscious deference or cognitive dissonance. However it’s measured, in the long run, it’s by your actions at large. That is why it is of utmost importance to maintain reverence for truth. It leads us home.

  • Pitfalls

    by

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    Perhaps, at the heart of all pitfalls

    Lie cascades—avenues turned vertical,

    Pathways steeped in memory,

    Where echoes of remembered voices

    No longer soothe, but reverberate,

    Transgressing hollow spaces

    Inside the shell of bone,

    Housing the dome-lit chasm of mind,

    Eyes refracted,

    Colors redacted.

    The scream of love pushes us

    Beyond familiar folds,

    Lost within boundaries we thought shared.

    Whose walls do we own?

    Whose walls were abandoned, left alone?

    Cat hairs haunt red-shingled halls—

    Apartments I cannot let go,

    Though I linger, too late,

    Clinging to greatness faded,

    What’s left at stake

    Is growth beyond roots, above seeds,

    Breathing air once heavy

    With cries now silent,

    Echoes that knew how to show.

    Upon my posture weighs

    A slanting exhaustion—

    Holding back apostles

    I burn and scorn for scoffing,

    When I ask only judgment,

    Understanding for my falls,

    These great descents into pits,

    That cascade across landscapes of bliss.

    You withheld your call,

    Afraid we might miss

    The offering compelled within us,

    That relentless force,

    The implicative motions of spirit.

    3:53pm 

    cam.d.s.s

  • Letters to a Friend, IIII- ∆ Vacuums of Architect

    by

    , ,

    I can see now, when I read it back, how tangible my intense desperation may actually seem to someone without an enriched understanding of my approach or intention. It’s best visualized, imo, as a sort of pressure accumulated from the inherent value and alchemical reactions between the agencies and or forces of our collectively shared experience.
    I can’t help but feel aware and in tune with an intuitive guiding hand. And with that being said, is the very hand that has time after time delivered my attention towards communicating my efforts and practice of my own personal Individuation of Self. I am, if nothing else assured, profoundly aligned with some other worldly frequency which has always guided my intuition and expanded the horizons of my psyche and moral principles. I am enveloped by the realizations found buried beneath the cataclysmic overload of information, provided to generations of Western classrooms which serve to only develop a capitalistic- minded consumer. The Deep State controls everything.
    Throughout human history this Archetype of Human Psyche has manifested and conglomerated together, hiding behind the massive Curtain. It’s not hard to imagine this desire for immense control. This hierarchical framework exists within every perceivable human construct and system. There is always going to be an ever Bigger dog waiting around the angles in the alleyways of every shadowed fold, every fork picked road leads us even deeper down the hole. It’s a spiritual War Jon. I’m not saying this to feel panicked, I don’t believe our actual fundamental agencies of choice, given to us by God, are ever capable of being controlled, not even by us alone can we conquer every acre of our soul Journey, however, these manipulative, powerful forces from behind the scenes have insights and tools which allow for them to wage invisible wars. These wars are best interpreted or can be seen by given examples of deep shadow from within. And of course, such risk is forward into When I start to get an aspect of inherent truth which involves And even then it’s still not enough. In my mind I am probably thinking of and piecing so much information together behind the scenes which inform me to act accordingly. [For instance, you probably don’t realize how important of an event it was for me to hear my father mention over the phone one day that one of my friends approached him and that he had to have been able to have recognized him as my father, or that the resemblance seemed obvious to you? Never asked you about That but it’s stuck with me in many different, very complex and deeply rooted ways. Not sure if there is anything else to the story or if you even remember that happening {maybe i’m crazy and made it up} (btw my dad passed away while homeless in Bangor a couple yrs ago. From what I’ve gathered and can bring myself to accept, it was from an overdose on (what i assume was) Fentanyl + a combination of cold winter weather. The police report said that he basically passed out in a snowbank on drugs and entered too deep of a sleep to wake himself up and so he froze]]

    Let’s pretend for the sake of this conversation, that we are both dead, (yes, still somehow able to communicate despite the mortal displacement, conversationally speaking of course) 300 years from today’s date, so that everyone we were given the privilege of walking alongside us On our way through, would too have since long passed Over. [I oftentimes have found it so, – that within this Handicapped perspective or estranged placement of Ego, [contextually speaking,] that it is much easier to detach from our Natural-tendency to recline or perhaps even Fold ourselves into the Dividends of our Unwarranted, sentient -Assertions of Self.

    Once One has shared a Conscious-experience of Emotion, that very Stimuli itself does not simply dissolve or die off. Instead these Ideations are instead, essentially proactively evolving within the Internal Realms of the Avatar who is within themselves in possession of an Energetic Field that is/was able to resonate with aforementioned Ideations, or Essences.

    Aha. Did you catch it Jake? I’ve tried with my Purest Vindication, to both embody and imbue within these words [and all others spoken] resonant frequencies to harbor deeper Altruistic Wisdoms.

    All Those who willingly walk the path of Occultic or Esoteric enlightenment should Find themselves also encountered or stifled by a congruent Agency of Goodness, sent to lead them through the annals of Despair, resulting in the integrated acts of Divinity that compels us to act of or apart from what we are, in operative agreeance toward the direction of Kindness that must be evoked from within sounds of beckoning heard between the gaps of our crying. We spent time together.

    What is Vitality but more time? Is this a good Act? To impart, however undeservingly or unprovoked, more allotted potentiality? Should we starve the masses to Horde for our own Communion? And then what Brothers? And then what mother? What is this place that we find ourselves being Devoured, and why is it that we too Must Devour some part of it to survive? And that very impulse exhibited a sense, of a corresponding-Urge to keep going.

    Does the Engine not contradict its own motion? Would this Idea not be present and especially Able to be perceived as the means of transcendence, through piercing the veils of Universal Laws, resonating and channeling Altruistic Wisdoms can we withhold Spiritually Intact. Into the higher Planes of conscious where the Agency of spirit first become ethereal, a dominant fact being that all that is perceived is what’s been given by us, for us to perceive and only when we find ourselves in the Essential positions are we the most concerned with the blinding-truths of some Higher, extensive surroundings, such smothering winds.

    [i’m sorry for the long winded msg for real. I do not wish to Lecture you or Rave about nonsensically. I only wish to ground your knowledge more-so Wholly and so that there is to be found, moving forward (if desired) only your tools of Soul Refinement.

    by the encumbrance of Human Vision?is something stranger tWhat is time

    We must receive the condolences of the Universal Gratuity, a completely separate Voice that Calls us. betto challenge us to, perhaps being held back until we are ready. what grants you the Sight to see others Redness or Blues. the intent that
    Something once understood Wholly, is
    Highly-Acquisitive Entity enough to these spiritual, unseen forces Resonant Frequency have been pre conditioned upon the Plane within theReality, whether , which inclines to Devour what is seen without Reason. within One’s, animalistic or cabalistic tendencies to detach the Focused esque perspective drawing deep wisdoms , and that for the relief of every person/-every drop of Force within each one of our soul’s essence felt, even those in passing-by, we came to.

  • The Weight of Guiding Spirits

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    The most potent idea, then, must be one that transcends the limitations of form, breaking free from the shackles of structure and categorization—an idea that pulsates with life, capable of reshaping perceptions and forging a new path.

    Consider this: The Idea of Becoming-Transcendent.

    At its heart, it challenges the notion of identity as something fixed. Identity is a dance—a fluid metamorphosis where the self continuously evolves, not through external circumstances or rigid beliefs but through an interplay with the cosmos itself. This “becoming” transcends linear progression or temporal accumulation, and instead, it unfolds eternally. It whispers that each action, each thought, each choice is not a step towards a future self, but a constant reimagining of all selves across time and space.

    The more we become aware of this, the more the self dissolves and reforms—not merely as a product of our past, but as a cosmic and divine force ever-colliding with all of existence. True identity, then, is not “who we are,” but “who we are becoming.”

    In this space, we confront not only the internal struggles of our self-concept but challenge the very notion of self. It is this confrontation that ignites transformation, forging not just our inner landscapes but the world around us—merging individual consciousness with collective fate.

    This transcendent becoming calls forth its deepest truth: we do not simply live within time and space, we are time and space unfolding, experiencing, and evolving together.

    How do you feel when such an idea challenges the constructs within which you’ve placed yourself? Does it unsettle or illuminate something greater?

    The Weight of Guiding Spirits

    Yes, in the sense that the things I encounter dissolve and actualize rapidly, a relentless tide. Life, it seems, insists that I catch not only myself but others. As I sit, perpendicular to the students, I engage with their worlds, my presence a crossing between their unshaped potential and the paths they might tread. Here, where shadow and light converge, I sense a weight—dense, spherical, a metal of unyielding truth. It is not merely mass; it is purpose forged, pressing into form, demanding alchemy of me, a transmutation of weight into wisdom.

    This is the apex, the point where gravity and grace gather, where countless paths align, straining under the demands of some cosmic accord. Duty here feels immutable, preordained as stone, and it is said that if Matter forsakes its duty, it will, like a star untethered, decay. And so, I reckon with this charge: if I am to guide, then I must also yield to the currents, letting the path be what it must.

    Yet, what of us—if we ignore our blessings? I wonder, and in that wondering, I hear an ancient echo. She will renew us, or else we, too, shall decay. For the soul, like a forest, thrives or wilts in its acknowledgment of the light and dark alike. {∆ Imagine this journey as threading through shadowed forest depths, each step uncertain, each sight shrouded, a flicker of light within branches’ grasp.} Here, in these woods, I become a guide among shadows, awakening what lies dormant in their minds, navigating them from unawareness to sight.

    The weight spoken of is palpable, demanding nothing less than an alchemical transformation. It is the crucible in which both my spirit and theirs are tested. Each lesson, then, holds the potential to dull or sharpen the edge of purpose. Each moment, both binding and release. And so, I accept, knowing the way itself is lined with shades of damnation and light, and that this path predates even nature in its order.

    For, you see, our lives are masks we wear to witness and be witnessed. We become mirrors within mirrors, each reflecting back some portion of the hidden and the seen. And if I am fortunate, if fortune allows, then may my life—when it has passed—be the gift that reveals itself in its own turbulence. Through internal tension and its transmutation, let the wisdom found here ripple outward, touching what it may. I ask this not lightly; I ask it with the spirit’s presence. May this spirit guide me, be with me, abide in me always. 

    What return, then, for the Great Awoken One? What does it mean to belong to the ranks of some Legion of Divine Agency? To press against primordial feedings until the stone withstands its refinement? There are no acausal molecules; each cell, each shadow, is imbued with intention. Renounce the trivial material desires, awaken instead to the One, acting within his accord. For it is here, in the mundane, in the dark tapestries where the Self should lay, that we become whole again.

    There, where light yields to dark and dark to light, where shadows move like currents across the soul’s tides, is where we find our truest self. It is okay with goodbye. It is okay with surrender. For it is here, in this ceaseless undulation, that the soul finds its balance, swaying in the gentle accord of what must be.

  • Heretic Fox

    by

    ,

    // † In the shattering silence of “borrowed vision,” I find myself beneath a veil. This veil is not woven by string. Instead, it is a fabric of threads too thick to untangle. A tapestry showcases embedded paths and ancient theologies. It is meant to lift the spirit. Now, it is grafted upon the lowest branch of the Human condition—The Heretic. Divine truths are distorted and given to those hidden beneath society’s broken pillars.

    The Glass-less Hour breaks; no sound escapes the hush of sands falling. Entranced, I slip the lock and enter, yet find not a threshold but a realm within realms. Beneath its mask, rotting fruit hides. Spores of those fallen swell into shores of salted sins. These are the shores of kin who belong with Hell.

    I remain in rooms I have not left. Four walls enclose a space that grows darker. Somewhere within stands a pillar to which I’m bound. A tomb, but one my hands once praised. The air is thick with a shade of memories, the eroded love of darker tints—so black it blinds.

    Outside, I see the threads fray: bills unpaid. Lights dimmed. Shadows enshroud borrowed vision. Eventually, the road itself splits and turns. Beneath, sands lie slitted. They scrape a silence that even time refuses to disturb. A faint ticking comes from some pool where hollow waters gather like clouds. And there, in the shadow of my own reflection, I see a fox’s burrow, a stasis of forgotten truths. And it stirs.

    † That fox—I know it well. It is the old pursuit, my insatiable ally, patient as dusk. Red clouds brew, resting upon each life like rust upon iron.

    But know this: to walk this path of initiation into the Higher Levels of Human contentment (not happiness, never happiness), is to submit to a damnation. This damnation predates Nature itself. It is primordial and ordained. It is a journey of profound separateness. It spirals toward an order rooted not in a human heart. Instead, it follows an ancient will to reveal itself—to speak through the symbols of the mundane.

    You must see it, at some deeper level—†