Sand and wind bit his ankle as he quickly ascended the Light. The steep overlooked a vast emptiness, the sun commanding all of the sky as their Emperor. Jagged waste contrasting smooth masonry upon which the boy strode. Indiscernable past a cool demeanor, an ocean raged internally.
An air of import and expectation hung over the quasi-principality. Without technical independence, a global council might deem the practicum of the Wastes impish, backward. But technicalities matter little amidst the desert. A one-minded people may never rule a collective of free-thought, probabilistic Force be damned. A culture independent and yet ‘beneath’, at least on Imperial terms. Yet the skeptic will note that these terms are wrought with banal exploitation, ill constitution held by it’s fragile skeleton of the past..
Intense human affair often requires the cool gaze of destiny to avert its anguish, cycles renew. Electric mind, creative potential. Stifling heat had little affect on his ascent towards the Chamber of the great Ones. Depths of his subconscious were still, long formed by the gentle erosion of Nature. The thinking portions were flooded with stimuli, however – preventing ease, tugging, prodding. Noticing the unease, he stopped and held out his hand – checking its positioning for bodily unnerve. There was cause indeed to be nervous. Those aware of the magnetism begot extra measure to put forth bold imagery , display of collective brilliance as of individual. For the youth of the city, especially those of the Mind – womb, it is scrutinized how he or she functions as a part in the whole. Potent, but occasionally short lived waves of thought or action left the culture increasingly Windswept. God Now. He hears the deep jungle, of the music. Searching, cacophonous; the vibe- a loose steady rhythm. Strikes of the viper, dissonance awoke in the space between. The horn precise, regal, sharp – yet wild and without restraint. Mystically ablaze language of the elder Ones. Brooding funk. Dancing intervals. Pharaoh -white hot Pineal. From the lips of the man he longed to call his metaphor. Ka, vital spark. How could he present something timeless to his Minos? Vision permitting great personal understanding, how could he bear to stand in the realm of the timeless transcendence? Sheut- Akh, wide-eyed repetition. The oracle places two fingers on his temple, calling forth the essence. Behind every answer is another, the veil only exists in our imagination. Having forgotten what it’s like to be combed over by a higher power, he longed for the familiar ease with which he towered over his companions. Nervous, forced smile marking the guarded entrances- what’s this, people smiling? Laughter? The ill-lit chamber still alive, danced an intricate dance of the heart, and music billowed like smoke. A welcome hand beckoning, gospel to the soul. “Come boy, drink some wine”. He grabbed a cup from the hands of a beautiful woman who sheepishly averted her gaze, protruding her neck downward and to the side. Paying no mind, the artwork of the room became elaborate and spoke for the first time. Nothing was sectioned, tends of thousands of strokes taking at times discrete form. Primordial, life-giving sorcery permeated the structure, it’s semblance the waking dream of Gaia. Drawing the mind beckoning toward infinity. Unaware of the extent to which he became caught up in his own vision snapped immediately back into the present at once. The question was repeated in a wispy, ghost-like tone. “You gonna stand there and drool, or you gonna show us your shit?” The severity of the moment stood up once more. Time screeched to a halt and one heart beat conspicuously faster than the temple’s constellated patterns. Becoming aware of hot blood’s flow, He slid the bag from his right shoulder and produced a silver device. Shadows of the room crept forward almost imperceptibly, indifferent anticipation – no one feigned disinterest, however. It was now or never. The fate of the boy would soon be decided. One chosen annually, that was the potential. It had been 17 years since the last naming ceremony for the metaphysical society.. Such a lengthy dry spell hadn’t been known in quite some time. But his vision rested just beyond cocked fingertips. A wireless screen previously hidden from sight came into view, receiving it’s signal to play. “You look nervous boy, good thing there’s DMT in your wine”.
Confusion, disbelief. Patters, concentric, circling rapaciously around the wall- waves blue green and golden dolphins smoothly sailing alive, animate. Smiles tiny, infinite broke across grey space, Cackling insanity. Realization. Thunder boomed. Emissions of fading light cascade vertically, a spiritous waterfall. Taking hold. Monolithic senses amplified by wave after wave of psychedelic. Never so aware of his own creation; version after version of mediocrity had so long kept an absent-minded response mechanism at the forefront. His own perception had been undeniably eroded. Light had returned.