Revenant Ash by Mike Kay

The power was out. In the darkness the street seemed to glow ever so slightly in contrast to the buildings. Above me thick clouds barred any heavenly illumination. I watched as the darkness became a safe zone for humanity. With nothing observable beyond touch, the wafting of the voice, with no schedule set to satisfy the endless demands of society, with nothing for the grasping ego to attach to, all that was left was the murmur seeking connection.

I was here, alone with the darkness when she found me. A lone car made its way down the road, and in that moment when the headlights touched me I ceased being the darkness and became a man once more. She must have seen me then, her desire for interaction driving her to the next event in her life. The car passed slowly, and on she came, her feet making quick sounds across the pavement. The flame of her lighter suddenly revealed her face, no longer young, and her brown eyes reflected that flame, searching.

In that moment of the flame she had convinced herself that I was real. Her lighter extinguished and she moved closer, the afterglow somehow intensifying the darkness, the exhausting press of identity. “Quite a night”, she began.

She had thrown those words out casually, yet so much was riding on them. Suddenly my heart sank, and was crushed by a powerful sense of loss. I felt, in that simple, world weary phrase the defiance and resignation of one who never won at life. I understood her then, her desperation, and I knew in a moment where it would lead. She spoke in a slight Spanish accent, where the vowels are extended.

“I don’t mind it”, came my reply.” It’s very much like a dream”.

The lighter ignited once more as she lit her cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

“No,” I replied matter of factly.”I already have too many addictions.”

She laughed then, a sort of hoarse and low sound of genuine humor. Her dark eyes always seemed to catch a reflection of the flame, as if they hungered for something within it.

“I’m like that”, she admitted with a long exhalation of smoke.

She began her story then. It was a familiar story of being lost, of sleeping on hard concrete never knowing tomorrow. It was a story of hunger and desire and the cost of failure, of being held captive by forces too strong to resist. Her words filled the darkness with longing for what could not be given a price, after she had sold everything, even that which wasn’t hers. She spoke of a dream she had, or a vision, one night in a strange decrepit hotel room with the traffic roaring outside. Perhaps I should have shared with her my vision of the flaming rafters, that I knew when the US government burnt my home to ash, and that there is in this life the sting of death, and something in me died then. Yet these words would have somehow trivialized her story, so instead I only listened.

I understood her, when she said in so many words how she missed her previous life, but cruel fate had locked her into this unhappy place. She knew where she belonged, but was barred from ever returning.

Then I finally did speak up, and I told her that this place isn’t home, that I have memories of a world where the snow glows white as if ignited with rainbows, and the blue of the sky is no blue that anyone in this concrete palace has ever beheld with their own eyes.

She turned to me fully then, and in the light of her glowing cigarette made a quick gesture so that it streaked across my vision, leaving a trail. She seemed to be looking at me, as if to judge what to say next.

“Are you cold?”

“I am the cold”.

She told me then of all her missteps, of the grip heroin had upon her, of the lives she saw snuffed out that could never be retrieved, and that she was one. She whispered hoarsely of the lump of stuff she could hold in her fingers that had so much power over her, over everyone who fell. She spoke of that perfect high that changed the earth and sky, and her desperate love for that state. She spoke of her fear of the cops, and how she was under a spell. Then she told me of things I could never repeat, for it wasn’t about what she had done, but how something within her had vanished, and she wondered if she ever had it at all. With each sentence the desolation of her heart grew and grew. I was so close to her agony that it burned like a storm, and I saw then the terrible truth of replacing one’s soul for the torment of the high, and the addiction became its own blazing path. I was consumed by a terror of that ruin and cast into a shadow where hope was not even an idea. And when she finished her story and vanished into the dark that devoured her, a lingering odor of cigarette smoke and collapse, I was grateful to be free of the downward racing destiny so eager to plumb the depths of oblivion.

She has hid

Herself so far away.

Because of pain

And the escape.

She don’t know

What to do about it

She only hears

The whisper of a promise.

And the voices sing

Oooooohoooohh

And the voices sing

Oooooohooooohh

And she walks away.

I thought then, for a very long time, grateful for the clouds and the failed electricity that only further embraced the dark, a darkness that made it possible to feel that loss of the familiar yet wordless self, the loss of that directive energy, that wordless self all the abrahamics condemn.

It is probably very few who know that ‘Demon’ is derived from the classical Greek Daemon, a word perhaps best understood as genius, and that in the abrahamic mind all aspects of the self not suitable to their control were to be sacrificed on the altar of political power. Few understand today that who they are includes an essence beyond the physical, even as words fail to express this directly. The raw desire of the urge to step beyond, the ecstasy of escape is that base self crying out for the transcendence and participation with the forgotten genius, the divine love of the Daemon.

Modern man lives as much as he can in an embodied state. From a young age, the self is reinforced as a fact of physical existence. The open, dreaming child mind is imprinted through barely conscious methods to develop identification with the physical form as the establishment of boundaries of existence. Yet this developing self is not truly located anywhere. Modern thought establishes the brain as seat of self, a sort of default position, yet the best behavioral psychologists cannot find a biological basis to this assumption.

The tyranny of embodiment must reduce the person to a simple core, and indeed it does. The error here is the assumption that this reduction is complete. The severing of the non-physical self is a recurrent theme produced by those who see themselves at the top, with the latest example produced by the World Economic Forum, the W.E.F., all the billionaires, and dead empty black holes who see themselves as the irreplaceable ones.

The W. E. F. defines you in viciously denigrating terms. It claims that you are simply a series of electrical impulses, that your agency is an illusion, and they, your new masters have a plan for you; The mind, the self become words of no real meaning, no substance to the very idea that a self appointed group of power hungry psychopaths has some right or some authority to assert their control. They are actually quite funny to watch, their assumed sense of superiority becomes a kind of cosmic joke.

And she walks away.

Yet we can understand that the subtle communication of dreams exists, that destiny is an odd fact of life, that paranormal experience has long been proven to be a genuine phenomenon. We have for too long now been at the mercy of the merciless, those whose lust for power is so consuming that they will use any means available to secure it, and one of the primary methods for securing power over others is to steal their genuine heritage, and deliver to their victims a vision of the self that is without potential, without dignity, without grace.

The way of understanding the self must be based upon truth and reality to escape from the clutches of those shuffling dead who want you dead too, and deliver back to mankind the birthright of who they are.

In times of yore it was understood that the self was fashioned from diverse source and that the You, the I, are only centers that we learn to work from, the fire of personality that develops with the melding of the cosmic self.  For those with the sight have always beheld inexplicable things, the many colours that dance and radiate around the human form, and that the ladder of wheels always bespoke of something beyond simple comprehension. We are not one wheel, and we are not one body, and we are not one energy.

Now that we are here, arrived at the moment of change where the ways of the world are about to end, some violently, some with great upheaval, and the mourning for what was will include the loss of hope for what could have been, now is the time where it would be well to remember the essential explanation for who we are.

The first and most common aspect of self is that which dominates the daily life of the adult person. We will call this our near self, because always it is nearest as we make our way through our day. It is here, in the near self that we erroneously think “we” reside, that true “us” that thinks the familiar thoughts and feels the familiar emotions, the “us” that likes hot dogs, and movies, and tries to make sense of its journey through this life. Modern man lives as much as possible in the arms of the near self, but even so everyone secretly realizes that the near self floats restlessly upon a far larger, and far less understood second aspect of the self, which we will call the deep self.

The deep self is the unknown origin for the forces the near self constructs into a working personality. Yes, we are all miracles. The deep self holds the darkest, unrealized terrors and the strongest, insatiable desires. The deep self has no need for time, and so refuses to be limited by it. The deep self can talk to the dead, which the near self can never do. It knows things simply by contacting them. It doesn’t particularly care for standard explanations of why things work, it has its own explanations, and knows what they do. The deep self has no boundaries, as they are understood. It knows no morality, and it is consumed by the fire of transcendence.

Near self and deep self make up an essential duality. If the near self is the angel upon one shoulder, then the deep self is the devil on the opposite. The abrahamics divided this essential duality into two externalized entities, setting forth for thousands of years a way of thought and belief that ensured a civil war within the self, a war which splits the heart mind, and ails the self. The Fisher King suffers a great wound, and the salve will only partially make his life livable.

Modern psychology has only further enshrined this war, creating a set of expectations and beliefs that directly echoe abrahamic thought. There is no real healing in psychology, no dignity or honour or spirituality. Modern psychologists oversee torture, and create television commercials. Freud turned to Jung as their ship steamed to harbor in New York, and told his protégé that America believed he was bringing to them a great gift, while in truth it was a great plague.

If we are honest, we know that the deep self is the true power of the person. The motivations that move the person all derive from the deep self. Likes and dislikes, attractions and aversions, bent of character, and the residue of previous incarnations all are alive and active within the deep self. It is from here that the near self emerges to take the helm, and protect the person throughout their life journey.

Thus the deep self is the first person, and if life is kind, the near self arises as the second person from the timeless ocean of the deep self to attain a working rationality, a linear concept of a world of things and essential facts of life, but what of the third facet of the self? What of that aspect that modern life ignores, or even completely denies, that incorporeal ethereal self that is so easily lost, our elder brother?

She has hid

From herself far away.

And so she runs

To the needle every day.

It’s an empty thing

When she feels about it.

It makes her hate

The world she’s living in.

But she don’t know

What to do about it.

She thinks she lost

Something precious

She once knew.

She wants it back.

So she keeps fighting through

All the pain.

And the voices sing

Oooooohooooohh

And the voices sing

Oooooohoooohh

And she listens well.

Elder brother hovers over who we believe we are. It’s a strange kind of thing, to be aware during the day. Is he above the Sun? Is he below the clouds? You cannot see him, with your physical eyes, it’s only the heart, who knows where he lies.

We are told by the Christians who hated him that Basillides wrote of this mystery of the self. He told those who would listen that the near self could never leave its world. It could never reach above to the greater mystery of who we are, only entertain that it might be possible. He instructed that the longing the near self shaped into a recognizable image was the essence of the deep self all along. Thus it is, that only the current far below can reach up to know the Daemon, Elder Brother.

Well, one says, if this is so natural, then why is it so hidden? Why is it so easily lost? Why are we told that it’s only a dream, and we need to get real in the concrete palace? I want to know!

When we came here, from the darkness so far away, and our real parents wished us well on our way. We just didn’t know what we were getting into, and in this world we forgot ourselves through and through. The burning tears, reminded us that we knew it, but we just can’t grasp that spirit in our hands.

We need a new way, which is the old way.

The stain of incarnation, that split of everything into so many parts, is not due to itself a source of shame. Our failures are not because we lived a certain way. Mistakes we made, are not counted on our clothes. We were meant to fall, and to get up every time. The wounds we bear, we won’t ever get around them. It’s just enough to know through and through that the current runs deep, no matter what we do.

No matter what we do.

The ancient Gnostics knew no sin. The Cathari men delighted in the Cathari women who delighted in them. The bright eyed children were simply loved through and through. There was no sin.

In a world where the true wealth was in high places there were no items of value to steal. There was no sin. The books they wrote, were all burned to finest ash. The deaths they rode, are marked by disdain to this very day. Yet it was not them, who forgot the Elder Brother. It was not they who forgot him.

The deepest current, through longing flows up and away. It touches the wheel of the heart, which shines in every way. The path is clear, when there ain’t no doubt about it. The joining with him, releases the finest dew. The dew is light, falling upon your very aura, and you become complete. You are now the Tree.

She just fell in love

With something she always knew.

Her shame she left

Behind her in the dew.

She knew herself.

There was no doubt about it.

She walked the earth

Her feet were bare and brand new.

And the voices sang

Oooooohooooohh

And the voices sang

Oooooohoooohh

And she went with them.

Postscript;

The three part person is a very old realization. Some say it is woven from our own Wheels of Light. You can see them yourself sometimes, like pools of essential life, focused at the hips, the heart, the head, and least known, above us. It helps if one wishes to see them to rest in the darkness, and to never use the physical eyes.

This modern world, and those who think they run it, is going through a huge transformation right now. The lever pullers want you to think it is they who are calling the shots, and it is they who are making the change. Do not be fooled by their deception. They are desperately trying to ride the wave to cling to what they have, and doing so through taking everything away from you.

So they want to take from you your knowledge of yourself, which is so beautiful that they must make it ugly. Yet you can see the beauty in this life, and the wonder of existence if you stop for a moment and just live.