Fuomo was reading Plotinus’ “Enneads” late in to the night, the chapter from the second Ennead, “On Actuality and Potentiality”. He pondered deeply upon one sentence and asked in his thought:
Fuomo: Is it not that all that is in actuality in the intelligible world is not necessarily present in the generative worlds? Is the potential for forces, cosmic ideas, great weaving of highness merely, only and rarely an actuality on Earth in the human world? Do they have to be invoked, craved, initiated, unveiled by a weird twist of fate, chance, destiniy? Do they plant their seeds like lotus flowers and when they can, they bloom, when they can’t, they fall into mud, if they bloom, they are cut down by an unhandsome hand, like a tormenting memory of an old good, a spark of genius, an ignited resolution. How to sustain them? I lived through so many beautiful, splendid things, yet where are they now? Lost in the chasm of time, not even semblant of the slightest things they invoked into me in the past. There are like seals upon the wax tablet of memory, we know they are there, somewhere, solitarily upright, but we can’t retrieve them like a memento of an old man that moves his life on strings of his ever-clenched fingers, dry and without recourse to what he was. He could be a hero in a past, a coward, too, but how is it relating to his overmatured, worn out mind?
Peripsol: The only sin of this world is that these moments of potential beauty that become actuality must pass, we are suffering this theogonic harbor together, yet we found ways of preserving them in our awe and terror, in our magnificent eyes, you only heard a whisper of it. Trembling of agathos daimones is greater, more profound at preservation of moments that are lost. I gaze into infinity with countless faces of friends and foes alike, I gaze into the cosmic sea with multitudes of roses and thorns. Yet, stand with me for a while on the cliff of exhaustion with abyss beneath us, we are tired, so you know? Rotas Tenet Opera, the wheel of the cosmic play will turn, it holds to its works, we sustain ours, we dream of returning to the bliss of immemorial perfection.
Fuomo: I, a mortal, why don’t you quit? Why don’t you stop?
Peripsol: Compassion is the daughter of harmony, restraint a sister of eloquence – without it, worlds fall, those that fall are in a purgatory of its own errors until the mahamanvata will be done. Cycles of aeons are eternal to a mortal, would you like to let go of your love?
Peripsol: In time you will, but there are other, greater secrets that we are forbidden to let go off, because we forbade ourselves, because we took the yoke of sustenance on us.
Peripsol: Do you remember “Apocalypse Now”? “Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad?
Fuomo: The horror, the horror…
Peripsol: That is why all Divine forces are objective, impassionate, they seem cold to you, remote.
Fuomo: Yet, you are a friend.
Peripsol: Lesser physiognomy is acting through the generative worlds, I am separate, united, old and all, I am a God just like you, I am you just like you are me, the degree lies in the the force of my Ka, and the raging mass of my cosmic being.
Fuomo: Ah, Dragon Gods, like waves upon the Poseidonic seas.
Peripsol: Horus is your personal God, I am your messenger and a friend
Fuomo: Let it be.