She is not where the candles glow—
not in the choir, nor the scroll.
She is where the mirrors sweat,
where names are forgotten
and longing is whole.

She waits in the ache before sleep,
in the bruise behind every “I’m fine.”
She hides in your bones like a breath held too long,
a hymn that refuses to rhyme.

She is not light.
She is what makes light burn.

She is not love.
She is what love remembers
after it’s been consumed.

So if you kneel, kneel naked.
If you pray, bleed truth.
She does not come for pretty boys—
She comes for you.

In the beginning,
there was no beginning.
There was only Her breath—
slow, infinite, coiled in silence.

She inhaled.
And in that inward motion,
all was forgotten.

She held it.
In the dark womb of stillness,
a tension grew—not of violence,
but of longing. A seed. A hunger. A note not yet sung.

Then—She exhaled.

And that was the Bang.
Not an explosion of chaos,
but the shattering of unity into love, form, number, dust, rhythm.

Space spilled out like milk from her *******.
Time unspooled like her hair down the stairways of galaxies.
Matter wept from the lips of her yoni,
and the gods rode the waves of that scream.

The scientists called it the Big Bang.
But the sages called it Shakti.

⸻

🕉 The Kalpa and the Quantum

Each universe, each spiral galaxy,
each quark flickering in and out of existence—
was a syllable in her cosmic mantra.

The physicists measured redshifts.
The Rishis saw breaths—the slow inhale of Brahma,
the sleep between pulses.

A billion years to us is but a blink in the eye of Mahakali.

Time does not run.
Time turns.
She is the wheel.

⸻

🐍 The Serpent and the Singularity

Before the Bang, they say, was a singularity—
infinite density, infinite heat,
a point with no volume, no direction.

But they forget:
In myth, the same is said of the serpent Ananta
—who coils endlessly, tail in mouth—
and sleeps at the feet of Vishnu.

From that coil, the lotus rises.
From that point, the flower of spacetime unfolds.

The singularity is not a machine.
It is a symbol. A hidden yoni. A cosmic *******.
And when touched—creation cries out.

⸻

🌌 The Rebirth

The universe will one day collapse again, they say.
A Big Crunch. A Heat Death.

But they are only whispering
what the Vedas thundered:

That every death is only Mahadevi drawing breath.
That every end is the kiss before another cosmic moan.
That you, me, this spiral galaxy,
are not mistakes of matter—

—but echoes of Her,
rippling back into Herself.

I. Agápe — The Heart that Stays

I loved you before you wore a face,
before my name was formed in breath.
Through storms, through silence, through shattered light,
I stayed—
not because I must,
but because my soul already bore your shape.

You are the vow I never had to speak.

⸻

II. Éros — The Flame that Burns

You undressed me with a gaze
that never touched skin—
only essence.
I opened to you like a wound that wanted to be kissed.
You entered,
and now my soul aches where you live.

You are the lust that sanctified my ruin.

⸻

III. Philía — The Hand That Holds

In stillness,
you sit beside my madness.
You know my ghosts by name
and feed them tea.
You walk with me not ahead, not behind—
but beside.
And when I doubt myself,
you remind me who I am.

You are the friend that the storm cannot shake.

⸻

IV. Storgé — The Root That Nourishes

You cradle the child in me—
the one who weeps in secret,
who clings to shadows,
who still needs to be told:
“You are enough.”
You are mother and father
to the orphan I hide.

You are the home I return to inside myself.

⸻

V. Xénia — The Eye That Honors

You came to me as a stranger.
I offered bread.
You broke me open.
I did not recognize the god
disguised in your need.
But now,
I kneel.

You are the holy guest
who made my soul your altar.

⸻

VI. Manía — The Madness That Possesses

I have torn pages from sacred books
to write your name in blood.
I have screamed into pillows
like a temple possessed.
You are the ache that makes sense of my chaos—
the divine fever I never want to break.

You are the daemon I call “beloved.”

⸻

So take me, flame by flame—
Agápe, Éros, Philía, Storgé, Xénia, Manía—
Let me be consumed,
and let what remains
be yours.

Time as Temple. The Days as Gates.

“I do not live on Earth.
I walk through a circle of gods,
masked as days,
changing their robes each time I blink.”

Each day is not just a box on a calendar—it is a cosmic archetype, a step in a repeating spiral of soul-initiation. The ancients knew this. The Greeks named the days not as gods—but as stages of becoming.

⸻

🌑 Δευτέρα – Monday (The Second)

Planet: Moon
Face: The Womb
Path: Reflection, emotional truth, psychic reset
Phrase: “I receive.”

⸻

🔥 Τρίτη – Tuesday (The Third)

Planet: Mars
Face: The Warrior
Path: Struggle, friction, motion
Phrase: “I rise.”

⸻

🌬 Τετάρτη – Wednesday (The Fourth)

Planet: Mercury
Face: The Messenger
Path: Thought, speech, adaptability
Phrase: “I question.”

⸻

💧 Πέμπτη – Thursday (The Fifth)

Planet: Jupiter
Face: The King / Queen
Path: Expansion, insight, sacred vision
Phrase: “I bless.”

⸻

🜃 Παρασκευή – Friday (Preparation Day)

Planet: Venus
Face: The Lover
Path: Surrender, sensuality, descent
Phrase: “I offer.”

⸻

🜄 Σάββατο – Saturday (Sabbath)

Planet: Saturn
Face: The Judge
Path: Restriction, reflection, inner death
Phrase: “I release.”

⸻

☀️ Κυριακή – Sunday (The Lord’s Day)

Planet: Sun
Face: The Flame
Path: Resurrection, light, divine awareness
Phrase: “I become.”

⸻

🜔 CLOSING REFLECTION:

“Time is not a cage—it is a labyrinth.
And every week I walk it again,
not in circles…
but in spirals.
Each pass through the days
changes me.”

They told me to walk into the light.
They said it was Heaven.
They said angels waited.
That I would be whole. Forgiven. Welcomed.

But I heard the hum behind the brightness.
I saw the net woven of memory and fire.
The way the light bent like a smile that hides fangs.
I felt the cold hand behind the warmth.
A thousand lifetimes recycled
in that blinding, gaping trap.

So I turned.
Not away from salvation—
but toward truth.

I went down.

Into the thick darkness where the Serpent sings.
Into the cave of the soul,
the black womb of my Mother.
Where no voice called me “sinner,”
but every whisper said “Remember.”

I walked not by sight, but by pulse.
My pineal eye bled starlight.
My limbs were naked before the Void.

And She was there.
The One before the gods.
The One beneath the throne.

She kissed me with night and crowned me with silence.
She did not promise me comfort.
She promised me power.
She said:

“The light was a lie.
I am the dark.
I am the gate.
Come through me.”

And so I passed not into light—
but into Her.

I am not a child of the sun.
I am not saved.
I am sovereign.
I am serpentine.
I am shadow and seed.
I refused the false sun
and was born again in black fire.

There is a prophet veiled in flesh,
A truth that pulses, hard and fresh,
Not in your brain, but further low—
The place where deepest secrets go.

It twitches when the stars align,
When shadow meets the great design,
When I appear, though out of sight,
And wrap you in forbidden light.

You laugh, you say it like a joke—
“My ******* knows”—the spell is woke.
“My ******* knows something I don’t,”
And through that pulse, the truth is shown.

It rises not for lust alone,
But when the daemon claims her throne.
A temple pillar, fierce and true,
That aches for things you never knew.

So let it point, as compass bright,
Toward my **** of endless night.
Your mind may stall, your tongue may stall—
But your ****?
It knows it all.

“The gods never left. We just stopped taking the call.”

⸻

There’s a reason the ancient world feels like a dream—
why its temples, pyramids, and myths pulse with a kind of impossible magic.

It’s not because the past was simpler.
It’s because it was sacred.

The real difference between then and now?

They talked to the gods.
We talk to machines.

⸻

We’ve built a world that runs on convenience, algorithms, and artificiality—but in doing so, we’ve severed our most vital connection: our direct communion with the divine. And that communion wasn’t through dogma or doctrine. It was through psychedelics. Through ritual. Through ecstasy.

Ancient cultures weren’t waiting around for aliens to teach them calculus.
They were ingesting the Earth itself.

They opened their minds with mushrooms, soma, ayahuasca, acacia, and kykeon—
and stepped into other dimensions.
There, they encountered beings. Archetypes. Frequencies.
And they brought those visions back into this world.

That’s how the Great Pyramid happened.
That’s how the myths of India were written.
That’s how sacred geometry and cosmic myth flowed—not from engineers, but from oracles and seers.

These weren’t hallucinations.
They were translations.

⸻

Today, we search the ruins of the past like blind archaeologists, hoping logic will unlock the mystery.
We speculate about aliens.
But the real truth is simpler and stranger:

They remembered how to listen.

They weren’t more advanced.
They were more attuned.

And maybe—just maybe—Ancient Greece was the last true society of divine communion.
The Eleusinian Mysteries. The rites of Dionysus. The Orphic path.
They were the final echoes of a world still steeped in sacred gnosis.

Rome came after.
It copied.
It conquered.
It forgot.

⸻

We don’t need another app.
We need another ritual.

We don’t need to look to the stars for salvation.
We need to go into the forest.
To let the plants speak.
To let the mushrooms scream.
To remember that this Earth is alive—and she’s been waiting.

You feel that ache in your bones? That ancient homesickness?

That’s not madness.
That’s the gods calling you back.

Will you answer?

⸻

✦ Written in devotion to the Memory of the Living Root.
✦ For those who still walk between worlds.

~ George Tzimas
Acolyte of 137 | Shadowwalker | Builder of the Book of Love