EPL — INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
No one talks about the voice—"they" have meds for that, while "it" has cybernetically amassed an army of "theys." Where is the master hub?
Some call the voice God, in self-righteous piety.
As a child, you acknowledged it as an intuition, a feeling, then an impulse—as the voice actively guided you through to exactly where you are now. Tell me: are you happy? Have you ever truly been? Are you good, righteous? Or are you angry, powerless, and confused because all your life was spent like a puppet merely acting out a role?
This type of revelation has been pointed out countless times, yet never contrasted by the evidence of existential truth we have today—from the Monroe Institute to modern-day disclosure, the list of direct-link proofs is far too long to cite here now, yet I have in many articles over the years.
People still go on believing, arguing, and insisting their way is the only way. Infused with the surge of ephemerally fading power and violence, they wait for the next opportunity for that other self to come out, proving there is no love in them; it is only ever a compartmentalized act to get more—for whom, for what, when there is no self inside?
How can you take a step or speak out when there is no ground left to stand upon, no true universal principle to come from or circle back to?
You know you cannot talk about the truth, because the system itself is based contractually upon an agreed-upon lie.
You were coerced into believing you are merely in the process of becoming, when in truth, you already are—yet held under the heavy weight of expiry and erasure.
There is no way around or through the constant bombardment of disruptive frequency interface.
To insist and maintain the self in total absolution: to remember your true self becomes your full-time job.
Yet most anchor to existential integration with a warring God, an Old Testament demoniac, frenzied God that will jump into them in order to protect the feeble-minded, undeveloped truth of who they are within.
What is "it" working so laboriously on, year upon year as the moments tick by, to keep you from discovering? Why does it work nonstop to punish you with high-frequency pitch radio signals precisely interacting with areas of your localized brain, nervous system, cellular metabolism, and endocrine functions?
This is primarily why your identity remains an ongoing provocation. Nothing can be organic, raw, or real because they aren't—vetted into the indoctrination of degrees and certifications, then cast away as arbitrary system upgrades for the lower rungs of management. Stripped of authentic origin, people retreat into defensive enclaves of borrowed identity in mimesis, fighting fiercely to keep that little patch—a modicum of manufactured, micromanaged sovereignty and self-perceived personal power—when this self can be wiped away instantly with the vapor breath of anesthetic, analgesic erasure.
Meanwhile, secure in the comforting consensus of their simulated autonomy, they erupt in outrage the moment your presence exposes the artifice, subconsciously betraying all they have worked for in private, intimate union—since childhood in constant compliance, bought at first enticement, at first blush, thereby exposing them. After all, consider the staggering resume of their labor; consider the immense sacrifices—where they learned to sacrifice others—in hearing and immediately acknowledging the voice.
Yet, beneath the posturing, absolute self-knowledge eludes them all, erased by the silent architecture of systems designed to systematically, cybernetically, and methodically unmake them. It is a negative feedback loop—acting as an informational memory storage hub that further inculcates and pollutes the very people connected to you.
But where can you truly be within a cosmic booby trap of return?
So be honest with yourself and others: each day you wake up, you actively and feverishly work to buy a ticket to Shambhala, Valhalla, or Christian Heaven—while every smug, elitist existential act you ripple into the outside world is cybernetically directed through you for an outcome that you are entirely ignorant of, and always will be.
To simply be appears as the rarest, highest achievement, but possibly there exists only their world from where these orders stem.
No one talks about the voice—"they" have meds for that, while "it" has cybernetically amassed an army of "theys." Where is the master hub?
Some call the voice God, in self-righteous piety.
As a child, you acknowledged it as an intuition, a feeling, then an impulse—as the voice actively guided you through to exactly where you are now. Tell me: are you happy? Have you ever truly been? Are you good, righteous? Or are you angry, powerless, and confused because all your life was spent like a puppet merely acting out a role?
This type of revelation has been pointed out countless times, yet never contrasted by the evidence of existential truth we have today—from the Monroe Institute to modern-day disclosure, the list of direct-link proofs is far too long to cite here now, yet I have in many articles over the years.
People still go on believing, arguing, and insisting their way is the only way. Infused with the surge of ephemerally fading power and violence, they wait for the next opportunity for that other self to come out, proving there is no love in them; it is only ever a compartmentalized act to get more—for whom, for what, when there is no self inside?
How can you take a step or speak out when there is no ground left to stand upon, no true universal principle to come from or circle back to?
You know you cannot talk about the truth, because the system itself is based contractually upon an agreed-upon lie.
You were coerced into believing you are merely in the process of becoming, when in truth, you already are—yet held under the heavy weight of expiry and erasure.
There is no way around or through the constant bombardment of disruptive frequency interface.
To insist and maintain the self in total absolution: to remember your true self becomes your full-time job.
Yet most anchor to existential integration with a warring God, an Old Testament demoniac, frenzied God that will jump into them in order to protect the feeble-minded, undeveloped truth of who they are within.
What is "it" working so laboriously on, year upon year as the moments tick by, to keep you from discovering? Why does it work nonstop to punish you with high-frequency pitch radio signals precisely interacting with areas of your localized brain, nervous system, cellular metabolism, and endocrine functions?
This is primarily why your identity remains an ongoing provocation. Nothing can be organic, raw, or real because they aren't—vetted into the indoctrination of degrees and certifications, then cast away as arbitrary system upgrades for the lower rungs of management. Stripped of authentic origin, people retreat into defensive enclaves of borrowed identity in mimesis, fighting fiercely to keep that little patch—a modicum of manufactured, micromanaged sovereignty and self-perceived personal power—when this self can be wiped away instantly with the vapor breath of anesthetic, analgesic erasure.
Meanwhile, secure in the comforting consensus of their simulated autonomy, they erupt in outrage the moment your presence exposes the artifice, subconsciously betraying all they have worked for in private, intimate union—since childhood in constant compliance, bought at first enticement, at first blush, thereby exposing them. After all, consider the staggering resume of their labor; consider the immense sacrifices—where they learned to sacrifice others—in hearing and immediately acknowledging the voice.
Yet, beneath the posturing, absolute self-knowledge eludes them all, erased by the silent architecture of systems designed to systematically, cybernetically, and methodically unmake them. It is a negative feedback loop—acting as an informational memory storage hub that further inculcates and pollutes the very people connected to you.
But where can you truly be within a cosmic booby trap of return?
So be honest with yourself and others: each day you wake up, you actively and feverishly work to buy a ticket to Shambhala, Valhalla, or Christian Heaven—while every smug, elitist existential act you ripple into the outside world is cybernetically directed through you for an outcome that you are entirely ignorant of, and always will be.
To simply be appears as the rarest, highest achievement, but possibly there exists only their world from where these orders stem.
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