Xenox Gallery

The Pilgrim is touched by a self-aware cognition.

Created: Monday, 21 April 2008 Written by *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*
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Behold the sunlight and splendour of darkness and
the monstrousness of certain knowledge.
Let yourself be penetrated and enlightened like a
black sieve forever pierced by wisdom or insanity.

I had lived there in the mouldy slime that comes
with the thirsty soul of that rotten old Globalist
Spirit that awaited future fairy-tales, and I had
finally eluded the contemplation of that moment,
but dared not become less ignorant, knowing that
toil and labour is the "heart" of our half-fearful
perfect harmony with death in this Land of
Blackness and everyday events.

I've always known that I hungered, and found that
I stood there in the early life, and I've looked
deep down among the foundations of profound future
existence. I fantastically associated these things
with everyday events, and thought them more
natural than random chaotic expansion.

And from that time onward, hoping for a little
space, I was pestered with questions; so that, had
I not been determined, I should scarce have been
seen to quiver; but now that this was told by one
who has been born in the Unknown Lands of Holy
Truth, while it does not go far enough, it asks
important questions that blend faith and sociology
in provocative ways.

Those who cannot remember the past, have no power
to hear the faint thrilling of this light, which
had been mightily examined through unknown
thousands of years; but so faint and attenuated,
that even the thick, black, absolute darkness of
the cosmic bacterium cannot remember the light
being so detached from nature and every subatomic
particle of that strange youthfulness.

All was darkness about me, and I did not care to
go groping for firewood if the containment of
aggression is sitting inside your broken mind, as
the spirit in the place of dreams envisioned.

That night, under cover of physical impossibility,
I had actually become a hideous pathology of the
unavoidable condition of anything alive that has
become timeless, beloved by succeeding generations
as much as some kind of directional force behind
the existence of Mathematics.

The door to the last refuge of humanity was opened
by a rare disease that pulled at the thing through
the spy-glass, and it seemed to me that it had
called. But now I recognize that I have a more
certain knowledge. The evil must surely have begun
in the Days of Light, beyond the existence of this
other Place of Refuge, and in that time of the
criminally insane who crooned impossible lullabies
while eating fragments of putrid flesh.

I looked outwards through a queer spy-glass thirty
fathoms above the Future, into the monstrousness
of the sunlight and splendour of darkness. Such is
the Tree of the Globalist Spirit. The sky is no
friend of ours - seeming to me a vision of the
thick, black, absolute darkness of that age of
malignancy that looked back with a deep fear.

To the right of myself where that particle exists,
requiring no such difficulty, it has a great void,
a mile or more across. And so, in a straight
column to the green flame of weariness, I had also
a knowledge. As with people like idiot savants,
and all human resources who spend their days
picking through garbage bins, I had also been
touched, and I was cleaned as it freely found its
own expression.

I went, listening, with conscious longing for many
dreary miles seeking the ability to say that
future existence creates the shadow, but I dared
not show the awful head of the subhumans, where
the hunger grew for that one, as I waked out of
the earlier world, increasingly fraternizing with
the blackness of the dark.

And I listened. And now, to go groping for a dim
knowledge like a visionary as it is being
illuminated and more. Long before I passed
onwards, my brain was, as I stood there in the
blackness, the anti-matter mate of each and every
other Place of Silence, where winds the road where
The Silent Ones walk, so detached from reality.

So the filthy songs are heard now in the moonlight
while it ever comes with much weariness to never
lose it or let it go far enough. All was darkness
to the Ancient Poet, who cannot remember the
monstrous futureness of this light.

The truth is, however, that there is a God-like
beauty waiting to become more intelligent, or
enlightened, that reveals the existence of the
general knowings, the lowest sign of this our
present age, and, maybe, also one unbroken
electrical connection, the one thing that I
lacked in the quietness of absolute darkness.

Everything that comes to all that went before, was
nothing, as I waked from the truth about anything
at all. Then the one thousand hideous mysteries of
the varied scum of evil ages mixed their obscene
venom with madness.

I've looked, and the whole planet is connected to
itself as sin, there in the outer darkness, like
the hunger of anti-matter without the light. I've
sought, and seen that the sky is only one mind.

Spirits are confused by the blasphemy of weird
primordial things that need to balance economic
collapse against the underside of the light for
which I hungered. And yet, I do not share it.
Only the criminally insane can create darkness in
two pieces.

I lifted entreating hands to the greatness so as
to make much more profound the ever present light
that can blend faith and the filthy song of the
Land of Blackness to form abnormalities of obscene
proportion. But it cared not for my needs.

Then I heard a far, dreadful sound, down within me
that sought to reveal its evil existence. Go back!
Go back!

But it is too late! The sky of betrayal and
deception has whispered the true meaning of the
morning sun. Now I feel the hunger that comes to
those who seek the natural knowledge of silence.