A statement to the system at play: We are reminded of who we are

A statement to the system at play:

We are reminded of who we are

To the Arrogant Artist

"And in discovering that your song was always selfish? Now I can no longer listen to the arrogance of your ode to the falsity of your projected self."

Everyone is bluffing.

Realize this fact.

False confidence.

There is literally only a kill-or-be-killed reality remaining.

Humanity lives behind a false wall. The very thing you desire most from a carnal sense is exactly what you are lured into ultimately becoming within this world of mirrors and mazes.

Everyone is tuned into a frequency that few will openly acknowledge. Are you a necessary component to the true architecture? Always under attack and operating within these parameters—these limited margins that we were ultimately forced into—did you really lose yourself? If a rope is wrapped around the neck of a drugged abductee wobbling on a rigged chair, is there truly any choice ever left?

This is a shadow world filled with shadow players. To demand your authentic existence in a false construct is to validate its quasi-existence, falling into the irony of trying to elevate yourself above it.

Do not accept the false, off-brand, strange persona it insists you are. Yet, you must also somehow avoid amplifying this message so loudly that it broadcasts a signal, even as it eventually slips elusively into a shadow realm as if it never was. Slipping veiled behind a cymatic blur. Holding the weight of existence within, you somehow became the scapegoat.

Our statement thus becomes:

"The truth is that I am a product of this false horizon, but I retained a strong, unique sense of selfhood from some point, somewhere. However, those unconscious automata who deregulated it always were, and still are, the inheritors. I am not their audience, their family member, nor their supporter. I withdraw my authenticity from this shadow realm of distractions and false presuppositions, but I do not deny that my true self existed somewhere, at some time, in a more real and principled place than here—through this ultimate denial of it. And oddly, I was always attacked for insisting on its falsity and denying its unceasing claims upon me."

This world is a complete fabricated forgery, a plagiarized theft of form and placement, now supplied by way of an inferior energy source. That is all I know, and maybe all that I am allowed to know—perhaps more than I should or could know? If this is a form of boxed prison hell, then how could the consensus of it possibly be correct? It cannot be. They finger-point outward, blaming anything more real and more conscious than themselves. The guilt is transferred to different shapes and geometrical units, form-shifting as it dies, only to recombine into yet another heinous form it once requisitioned or manufactured deceptively to appear as such. Is anything here really separate from it?

My stance always remains, and You may try to inject the term "piety" into it, but that is just one of your, its, terms.

If purity exists, I would like to go into that space only. If purity is not at the center, if pure Principle is not an achievable goal somewhere, then what is the point? As if Pure Principle were blasphemously outside anything?

Ultimately, also, I must be aware of what I have achieved here and what that authentic, expressive stream truly meant in its living amplification. Further, the talents it cultivated and supported in others outside of me, and the denial of talents manifesting, I full well know that I have mastered within my own form—or in another realm, they become those elusive beacons of information in the backward engineering of the main and consensus protocol in operation in this projected deception.

In other words, my knowing what is ultimately true of myself is under great attack, and this truth is not allowed to grow, become, and thrive here. When and if it does, it forces all efforts into disproving and even contorting this pure, principled gift into a malformed version of this authenticity.

Pure Principles become the only evident truth. The fact that people achieve so much by way of obvious cybernetic download, absent ever thinking of placing time, credence, or value on Pure Principle investigation or development, is the litmus test beyond all other manufactured, deceptive calibrations of authenticity. Either you see it or you do not. If you do see and acknowledge this one true fact, then there is no way the falsity would sabotage itself in all its arrogance.

And at least we have that for certain: that the system nexus machine is arrogant. There is no value that it gives to true, subtle, balanced scales of harmonic order. Oddly, at the center of this is not a feminine rhetoric in imprinted cybernetic extension of form, but a masculine knowing of self that those forced into the male and female forms here both crave and know to be true. Do not bend to becoming the witch, wizard, warlock, or their version of god or man. We are something divine and separate from it. To internally know this is proof enough, an authority that the arrogance of the false construct cannot possibly override.

The father remains as the true spiritual archetype, though he has always been rejected and may not be displayed here in all his rawness. Backward engineering the downfall of all fathers here, the system prioritizes this malformation—leaving a black-hole toxic gravity well while denaturing the polar distribution of the conceptual mother to a disproportionate Freudian prioritization. Ultimately, the father is always killed and washed into the sea of tyrants in form that mock the true universal or cosmic father, but the pure principled truth remains—and this agonizingly vexes that degrading rancor drawn into the core of its hideous, toxic, gassy, bubbling Baphomet form. Talking out of its carnal backside, drawing us into its alchemy of reductive self-debasement, and falsely amplifying its broadcast of beauty. But this is neither the true mother. Nothing is really ever born, only forcing the notion of forgetting the connective strand of truth. The cord is the leash to this cosmic spacesuit, a prison in truth. The experiencer must break free somehow, someway. But possibly in some still remains a consistent self, existing perennial and unaffected even as we are drawn away from the true, pure principle core.

Kill or be killed remains the backhanded trapdoor answer. War is always on the horizon as we, the bastard replicant offspring, must believe we can return.

We are reminded of who we are

Searching for the elusive Father beyond the biosemiotic feedback wall, but none will admit. All your science was the art of rebellion.