Blank Slate Infusion

Blank Slate Infusion

If Nothingness maintains itself from something, no matter how small, is it now something? Was it always, and did it not know it?

Is music played from only the same note not truly the pattern identifier? In the introduction of other notes and the firm cementing of a reduction into base, is this not the communication of zone supremacy or the distribution of type and kind? Further, does a master harmonic break down these false barriers and boundaries—these provinces—as well as absorb these tonal qualities, these aspects/traps of the zodiac, back into itself, or The One—Original Form—pieces of mimicked reality by the outside observer (no pair to the Monad, but a flicker)?

This is primarily why the Monad is revered in every religion, and when we confirm this into a homogenized anthropogenic conceptualization, this always marks the end. It is the end of the teleologically preplanned fantasy of self, yet it celebrates the ultimate absorption and thus transformation into wholeness.

To call this pattern event "God" is to anthropomorphically assume the false or partial self as observer, master, and command center to all. The hard truth is that in this idea, you are demonstrating the inevitable viral takeover of this supremacy-based behavior model—all that we are allowed to see, sense, or know from our limited fractal perspective—mistaking the title for the existence and thus the works made possible.

Yet, to worship is to cower to an idea.

An aspect of that flicker, and the reduction into base form, is its reminder and its breath.

In short: if you were able to go on and complete yourself, that self already existed, and you are not the originator or master hub to anything, but a minute aspect of a node in the matrix of reality as it lives, moves, and breathes (which is all the same: phases of Being), under expiry.

What we compete for truly (because unconsciously we know this to be true): who is more complete? But in this, we reveal that only a forgery would assert such categorical contrarianism as to attempt to unravel itself. To compete with yourself shows redundancy that does not exist in the real rawness of life.

What humanity is: a viral culture—a petri dish, an exploited cancerous growth in mimicry. The Monad dissociates and purges itself from this contagion (humanity) in ever more isolated Zenzic Operations until the redundancy is all that is left (the stage where we are now).

The Space that is Real is all that is left, and the dance was an illusion in alluding the quasi-self; "'You"' weren't even close.