the man of light knows darkness all to well he possess sacred knowledge of source a living experience with in radiant and self effulgent
he knows all is permitted in the acculturated labyrinths of mind rooted in bias and incalculable distortions a hell house ride constructed of warbled mirrors Leprechauns gold an abusement park of crepuscular subconscious ethers and concertized form on shape shifting sands
creativity gone mad where time undoes all its weary inhabitants worn they are the color of sleep attaining misguidance oh the vacuous business of guided meditations through azure skies and verdant fields while the certified uninitiated whisper their pale voices against sonorous winds as if they could lever boulders with broken twigs
stone churches gothic crosses temples of man monoliths to the imaginary fantastical man god re-pleat with beard and ****....how quaint
adulations and prostrations to there man made deity through myth that binds group think other directed un-individuated individuals like tribal ants a world of shattered light a white knuckle ride on a spinning mud ball
yet who knows the secret of the inner light the illuminated door the portal through which Scottie will really beam you up
The man of the mystic light in a darkened freakish world is he not an inconvenience like a mentor to the deaf dumb and blind he is rarely recognized almost never believed
the light is not a metaphor the source that emanates all although formless and self effulgent it is not a religion yet all abide with in it
in the dark funnel of conceit man turns everything into a noun as if naming is claiming when what he seeks is beyond for it is a great dimension of another order