“Thou shall worship and kneel” – said a mongrel called a true believer. His physiognomy revealed a continuous battle of illogical marvel, his gestures a stiff appearance of sacrosanct imbecilism, his condescension to anything better put a continuous radiant smile on his face, his uprightness proved his conviction of rectitude and some eerie form of righteousness that he believed he is the epitome of.
They hate heavens in every man of the way that is kin to heavens, they hate the noble well-won pride, that inability to kneel like a conquered barbarian, that understanding of years of experience, that resilience of years of battles, that erudition of years of study, that reason of many well-weighed thoughts, that character that doesn’t find them equal. He is a devil to them, they called people like him a devil many a times, they would put him aflame among speeches straight from the bible.
The heaven thrives in greatness of freedom, of every genuine gesture, of passionless objectivity of awe, of magnificent harmonies pitched to the highest laws of the universe, they breathe the world-soul, exhaling and inhaling upon songs of beauty, of religionless reflection found in every true man and woman. Their achievements are measured by the concord with all that is so, their failures are every time when they are removed from this wonder. Toiling life, it must be so, in the generative worlds of phenomena, this apparition and sensuous games all passes.
There is no sin, some weird Levantine invention, there is only remoteness, all gestures of life that are resounding with the most sacred sublime, delicate or tough, in love or at war, for the latter – is not the world powered by war? Not the slaughterhouse of men and draining of their bloos, but the sacred war of forces, powers, ideas, there is motion and rest in seamless continuity, motion is war, rest is peace, but the beauty of this war is comprehended only by the fiercest of warriors, the most genuine of lovers, the greatest of ingenious thinkers.
Warlike, we coin ourselves out of mud, to engage in artistry of creating a monument, a carmina, a star of our spirit, a voice that when strangled becomes the stupidity of darkness, uncreative and gasped, shouted through pain, when free is giving a speech to the mysterious hearing, to the sacred spheres of muses. Oh man of anger, how does the heaven comprehend you? You are waging a small war, like the Gods of destruction. Oh man of equilibrius eloquence, how sweet your speech sounds to the liberated Gods.
Yet, do you think your words, your chants and prayers are of any meaning, stripped of life and essence? They are the samelike speech you hear everyday, it is empty. To make speech sacred listen to silence, learn the fulness and maturity, profundity of its idea, and it becomes contentful, it becomes whole and so diverse and splendid that millions of books may be written from it and upon it.
Then words of a true men, true women are the only speech of a child, wrathful, disgusting, beautiful and nonsensical – they are made sacred through life that said them, they are rendered resoundant through the breath that said them. Do you think that Gods are just greater men? They are deprived of mortality, how can they be man-ful, if they are of unhuman mask, how may they be attached to animal cries and toils of your kindred.
Yet clearly never remote they are not without character in their simplicity, that simplicity conveys the impactful all, all within first dyad are diverse, the Dio-Meter, twin-metre of first ante-cosmic justice, the Artemisan bow, that tool of Parthas Athena, Isis, shot into the Ocean of potential forms must become the motion, the diversity, the multiplicity, the masks of Divinity, finding this harmony in tension of opposites raised to the greater hypostasis in ideal proportions. It is a masterful way of nearing to the mystery.
You are not climbing to Divinities and they do not descend to you, you grow into them, as they embrace you, you call the true call, and it responds in echoes that reflect from notions of the Divine.