How Faith Killed the Church and the Church Killed Faith by Happy Parrot

"The iceberg has long been struck, and all that remains is the quiet death of the once-magnificent institution as it sails into the embrace of its final abyss."

How Faith Killed the Church and the Church Killed Faith

Things never happen by themselves; there is always one careless impetus, a stone that sets in motion and opens the door to a ghostly avalanche, mercilessly crushing everything in its path, often leaving behind a reactive mess that spreads into a fan of red hues.

The drained colors will melt away together with the angry white snow, and in time, their previous tirade will disappear, but nothing, nothing will ever be the same again, as in the moment before the mountain’s lament touched the heavenly ceiling and the mountain thundered.

From the glowing ashes devoid of true essence, no nourishing fruits are born, nor golden birds, but rather collateral victims, the corrupted breath of previous spiritual neglect. The image of pathogenic reality enters a new selective sequence as a distorted caricature of the former superior, perfect form, a cannibalistic shell of stolen reality, a thirsty demon of a new future steeped in its own degradation.

The Church is the bloody engine and the promised, cursed end of the esoteric degradation of the spirit and its expressions in the place where it currently resides.

Degradation and dysfunction cannot go on indefinitely, and thus our soul must sooner or later touch the blackness of the abyss. Dysfunction and degradation return in the opposite direction like the hands of a clock, gaining momentum toward the original superior form of existence. Freed from material shackles, the soul begins to degrade its surroundings, tearing down the skillfully placed material and spiritual traps before it, and the untouched enigma of existence eventually turns into a welcome memory, a memory of itself.

The Church is an institution that breaks and imprisons the free intellect as the primary reflection and proof of holiness itself, which does not smolder without order or wander without meaning, as the religious police persistently point out to us.

Nothing happens without the Almighty God, that painful, dry rationalization of the riddle that life brings as a living, boiling spectrum of chaotic imagination full of a hundred colors, and these colors must be restrained at all costs by the antagonism of the Church so that the system of subliminal narration can be reactivated in its worst possible form.

If everything belongs to God, then nothing is human; the perforation of the spiritual reflection is the echo of a lost idea that does not want to simply fade into the dark corner of its own misery.

A theological system in which intellect becomes a domesticated sheep is doomed to the rise of a super-religious Spartacus, who represents the death of that theological idea and the ultimate fall of that same institution—in our case, the Church.

The Church has alienated man from both tangible and spiritual reality, thereby demonstrating an act of monstrous inhumanity that will inevitably demand retribution. This will eventually give rise to a new form of faith that will be impossible to control through any holy book.

Belief itself is not inherently bad, but it must rest on a verifiable foundation rather than on a scrupulous, almost blind faith that serves as an oppressor rather than a spiritual liberator of the individual or the soul, which consciously and unconsciously seeks the heavenly gates leading to freedom.

A dull and distorted form of belief begins to degrade when truth, as the indestructible body of this cosmos, becomes the activated norm upon which the fate of the future world will rest.

Truth can only be distorted, but it can never be erased from the soul’s memory. It returns like a bloody boomerang to those who dared to touch its sanctity and desecrate its impeccable authority.

For these reasons, in the context of faith, countless wars are constantly waged based on a highly controlled and basic mechanism of unquestionable faith, a dry belief in the righteousness of those godless actions that distance the soul from its own revelation and serve as a mental and physical deformation of what has always been sacred… and that is life.

Normalizing the abnormal is a Sisyphean act of a mad trans-dimensional mind, a mind that dissolves in its own bloodthirsty and frenzied madness, condemned to the nomenclature of a black abyss whose primary task is to drag as many souls as possible with it beneath the black surface, in a futile attempt to reverse the process in which truth is an immutable form that has only one purpose, and that is to deliver the soul from its own hell of despair and cast it into the true, default state of its existence.

By committing evil, degrading the true form and norm of belief itself, the Church is a ghostly ship that is always sinking and never truly sails. It’s only a matter of time before the bilge pumps can no longer expel the amount of water from the ship that long ago suffered its final, fatal calamity. The fate of that cursed ship has long been sealed for all time.

The iceberg has long been struck, and all that remains is the quiet death of the once-magnificent institution as it sails into the embrace of its final abyss.

Every faith is a discrimination of psychic and spiritual intellect, a deformation of the soul’s existence, as strictly paved rules undermine and exploit the guidelines of intellectual existence. That negative soul lightning rod acts more as a posthumous form of suicidal atrophying slavery than as a bold and effective way to achieve dialogue with the omnipotent being—God.

God, who is at the same time the undeniable and unconquerable owner of all ideas and the productive part of the drawn reality.

In this segment, the human soul is reduced to the moment of an eternal, extremely obedient follower, excluded from the primary process of creation…

Only obedient imagination and an extremely directed idea are good ideas; the rest is an act of nihilistic heresy and a grotesque rebellion against all spiritual institutions, under whatever flag they may dance their divine dance.

Churches, mosques, pagodas, etc., etc., serve as potential energy amplifiers that dull the soul’s moment and lead it to a material ego-exorcism, devoid of true spiritual reality, confirming the banality of the life of that same soul, the very world without those places of spiritual versatility and egocentric mania that subdue rather than expand the soul’s views.

All intellect is based on a book or a set of books that are indisputable in their expression, and through the passage of time, their guiding thought changes at the whim of the sellers of faith, amputating the progression of refined intellect and the soul’s echo, which, despite attempts at soul castration, never rests and always seeks an escape from its perverse situation.

To say that faith, theological faith, is a mental virus would be an understatement for what has been done to the human soul through the maniacal degrees of perversion, prolonging the true “soul reform.” The free soul is an active, silent avenger that erodes, destroys, and demystifies the evil that sleeps in those grand buildings, sown around the world in precisely determined locations, led by rulers who too often hide behind a thousand sacred properties and piles of consecrated gold bars.

As an oppressor of the divine and a killer of free will, the Church is the killer of faith and has become its own active sword, leading only in one direction, the direction of self-implosion, from which there is no return.

Every liberated soul is a potential multidimensional supernova, a true form of heavenly rapture that collapses with all its force into subsystems of projected material dogma and frees other trapped souls, giving them their true form and a true existence, liberating them from the ominous clutches, which provides molded, constantly aging and eroding clay avatar.

Control has always been and remains a decorative illusion that stays with its owner only for a limited time, and it, like the soul, longs to be free from the chains of restriction.

37 Stitches, 37 Healthy Wishes by Happy Parrot

Inspired by the song below…Who knows, in a perfect world I could make a few bucks out of this writing business…just joking I would probably be that one fool who writes for free.

Another morning swims in the hollow eyes of another day

is there a price

is there a way

hands down

frost is kissing the muddy ground

where is the glowing dawn

who can be bought

like cheap whore

who are those

who can’t take it anymore

We sail into the private madness

we are the operators of singular, off-duty poaching sadness

Another morning, tears are stolen from my dry eyes

town has awoken without silly and blunt advice

Is there a price

is there a way

hands are down

mercy, spilled on the cold ground

where is the yelling, bright dawn

hungry hands, put on the angry-speaking gun

is this place the dark side of the Sun

who can be bought

like cheap whore

who are those

who can’t take it anymore

Far away I can hear him, it is my day

I guess, now I have found my way

out of this Rasputin’s theatre

out of this reanimated play

I never liked living clay

I never liked the sound of the dying pain

Save or be saved

stories are kept alive

like a dead mortician’s wife

life is a ship that stirs bedrock and foaming surprise

like 37 healthy stitches

I have no wishes, left

A good argument is wasted like a damned theft

Rubicon is a drifting bet

your red lips, heaven sent

In the morning I see 37 curious little eyes

On the red eve, I see an ocean of 37 emboldened advice

Falling in reverse, wet whisper has no price

welcoming ground, feels finally nice

Save or be saved

stories are kept alive

like a dead mortician’s wife

life is a ship that stirs happy guilt and foaming surprise

like 37 healthy stitches

I have no wishes, left

A good argument is wasted like a damned theft

Rubicon is a drifting bet

your red lips heavens sent

I will not pretend

37 is the number

and

I have no amends

burning solace is my only forgiving friend

37 healthy stitches

are now

dancing in my heavenly bed

your red lips are heaven sent

I will not pretend

37 is the number

and

I have no amends

left…