Thursday, December 15, 2011



Each day  as I gaze momentarily into the 'Fear Culture', visions of a momentum in 'Spiritual Genocide' greet me with a lucidity I have not seen before. The 'Light Workers' are fighting their fight, as if they are sentient beings sent by the 'Light' to rid humanity of 'Evil'.  'Evil' only exists in the minds of men and nowhere else in the universe. The 'Light' is being threatened, tortured and even murdered for the right to its beliefs. Whether true intent nurture those energising this fractured matrix, they are still craving somewhat of a dignified death.

A dignified death! 'Light Workers' are allowing, by invocation, more etheric beings to help them with their beast. Spinning spells with their sword, plunging into a syntax which dignifies death. No one has not had a good life. No-one has been bound to this psychopathic mind. Are we not pure desire, but from loyalty to another mind. A mind of subtle graciousness, it cannot be replicated. Nor can it be imitated. We know this. This is Gnosis. 

The tincture of this anomaly which seeks dignity, comes from an ancient desire to be bound. Indoctrinated into schizophrenic bliss. A blissful chaotic contentment, in which immoral vacuums of desolation coat each of us, as the metal rain settles onto our gracious mother, then proceeds to poison her. This is prog - Gnosis. 

We know too much. We are the first ones who know 'too much' in two thousand years. We died a thousand times to bring this knowing to all, access to the Library. Within those walls we became saint, sinner, and to dinner came the enemy. With luscious gifts and saviore faire to taint your perplexity. And we bought it!  We owned it as if it were our blood and bone. Then we gladly gave our thrones away for plastic chairs.  

The silt of the earth has been littered with 'Fallen Prophets'. Those of us who break
themselves open, then broken further by the broken blade. The 'Marked Ones' who are denied of their fulfilment. This is misogyny at play, with its devious and deceptive intent. This game we were ordered to play is OVER. You have said it so. 

As we drift beyond the Red Sea, in ships bound together with divine intent on our journey homeward. We take the last glance back to bid a mediocre storm fair well. For even in its unmagnificence, it created you to be brighter,  than you have ever been before. This inconsequential rift trying to replicate human divinity has allowed us to see, within its murky waters, a reflection of a sorrow we need to heal. That we are here to heal. 

So the Soul is on the 'Chopping Block', the guillotine which separated each of us from each others love. Remember.... 'THE BLADE FALLS FROM THE SKY'.... make no mistake of that.


© David O'Brien 2011  

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