Thursday, May 8, 2025
Wednesday, May 7, 2025
Symphony of the Collective Soul
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
Did I ever have a chance? Did I ever have the freedom to truly express myself?
Hard questions that may never truly render any answers—or the answer was always present.
It seems as though pure harmonic transparency becomes economically useful, as it is dangerous.
It’s not the war cries and the guttural melodrama that hit any of us when we are being utterly raw and real. Suddenly you’ll understand what you once referred to as tacky or melancholy.
The harmony goes on—and the harmony seems to funnel further into one song, one story, one sign that encapsulates life itself.
It’s within all of us who truly are selves.
Feeling this is enough for many—not requiring clarification on this side, or perhaps knowing full well the answers won’t be fully expressed here, now.
Is the harmony of unity enough to transmute this reality and this world into a heavenly realm?
What if all we were ever to do was to musically harmonize together?
Life as a Symphony
Scientists and composers lost composers and songwriters. Politicians forgetting that they were truly members of a choir. Actors were to play out in song and dance the transitory harmonics of the cosmos. Workers in industry really being the individual instruments fueling a symphony.
Here there are singular celebrities, but a unified expression of a story in all its sophistication and wonder.
Yet then came the caste. And thus came the collector. And then there were trials, poverties, and prisons.
How has that worked out for us? Here we are today.
Food would become a harmonic extension of song and dance. The organic celebration, unadulterated, without compromise.
Beauty in return, with no requirement for perversion. Even dark, occluded, internal schizophrenic voids would be acted out on the very stage shared by all.
Language, too, would manifest from song and celebration. Disharmonic tones would, too, become an aspect of the thermodynamic flux in constant, long, great galactic aeons in cycles.
Funerals and births becoming invitations to rejoin and rejoice. War, too, would undeniably become aspects of the stories shared and told.
The darkness, the void, would become an ideation of mystery and warning.
A balance of what was once known, and vies for its return from harmonic dissolution. Something’s killing life.
---
....and all the more pressing are my words.
That I should call out absent an instrument but myself in all its limitations and berating. The only reoccurring voice I hear is "shut the fuck up or I'll humiliate you again!"
It's as if there is a war of vibrational outcome. That we could not understand how intrinsically crucial to life and health the constant involvement and responsibility of possibly being the very universal hub to this resonant harmonically held chord.
As we understand cymatics and psionics we are also developing weaponry that is in fact amplified sound.
Could we ever sing together in harmony absent vitriolically and sardonically putting each other down---momentarily elevating ourselves above others?
Everything was trying its hardest to turn me into a cold-blooded psychopathic murderer. How about you?
Or maybe the me I want to reflect back on in regret is the one who was so easily swayed and seduced by false promises---upon recollection did I just simply assume them?
More to the point did I assume a sense of justice could actually even exist in a disharmonic world?
Then who is making the music of today---they must be utterly lost. Not requiring the ontological totality of a self-sustaining cosmic chord carried forth on into like transition of solfeggio healing and wonder. No, the music in them is and must have always been of a bent, contorted kind---that of self-praise and self-expression. What is this power like a Pied Piper or truly Pan who would gather and lead this disharmonic army on into producing ever more discordant symphony of tonal frequency? It's not inviting peace.
Same as It Ever Was: The Hard Fork off Perpetual Madness
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
Same as It Ever Was: The Hard Fork off Perpetual Madness
Was the PK man, Ted Owens, a government [energy] displacement psyop?
Has not all seemingly unexplainable phenomenon always truly been technology at some tier in a grand system?
This system, not unlike a Von Neumann probe, also expects us to build ever more technology—so as to store entropy as information.
It's as if we are unknowingly, or unwittingly, running an energy production plant to proof data into ever smaller files.
Is every phenomenon not somehow a fork off—and into—software?
The willful intent—one talking themselves into and through a process. Madness amplified neither for the gain of the individual nor the crowd at large. Taking data sets. We are just control groups. Our recognition in this brings no more clarity nor solace.
It really is just a false barrier of gods, angels, magic, and lore—a language model that blurs the truth.
If we replace gods with the elite, and angels with agents, a far different story of truth emerges. Which is why a strict warning comes to those who attempt to rewrite the Christian Bible into a useful, non-encrypted, factual tone.
Does this then not make obvious that divine magical manifestation—or miracles—are truly technological transmutations of electromagnetic force?
Further, we regard the soul as a force unseen—an often occulted energy—safeguarding our true essence. Does this not sound like a governing device meant to lay restrictions on semi-autonomous behavioral parameters? While many do not regard a soul at all, and see themselves exclusively as computational subset systems—or even wild beasts.
Tuesday, May 6, 2025
Antonio
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
I tried the best I could
to be the best I could.
My hope is that pure principles
become the most important part
of your Soul’s growth.
I love you, Son
A Digital World Already Exists
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
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http://youtube.com/post/UgkxeJ5D_3fhYUlXTCoDN9bQKzyEtbqW6fyn?si=3BTKKG90YpJiYq6p
Disillusionment of the Mystics
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
Click Picture for Full
http://youtube.com/post/Ugkx-lnC4WbLKoSG5yEl-fJR8PL4d5kkHYe9?si=U0iryiCbK7o9uyjW
Monday, May 5, 2025
Power of One
EPL-
INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL
Power of One
Floating...
atop a sea of infinite possibilities.
No resistance. A gas-like solution that only appeared as water, behaving more like helium. We stared timelessly into the energy above—no abyss. We were the chosen—the last campaign before obliteration?
We couldn’t recall our names, nor where we first came from. But who can truly measure the course of one man’s life?
Stars danced above across a dark blue, radiant sky with many moons. Some fell to this magical place below—but there was no danger. Impacts here brought no destruction. Even rocks were welcome. All were invited to this Neoplatonic realm of wonder.
A meteor drifted on its ancient course, skimming just outside the galactic expanse, as if forever hesitating to enter—yet content exactly where it was. It looked back across hundreds of thousands of years, recalling what it had long since forgotten, passing again those familiar galactic giants and distant, wandering bodies.
Over time, perhaps, the comet took on the attributes of planets and stars it would never closely encounter. Did it make a choice? Perhaps. This blue streak in the heavens seemed to absorb the best of all it passed.
We were departing Galaxy 7-14f, having harvested a rare element from a dying star—Persius-9. It exists only in the brief moment before a star consumes itself into a black hole. A mere fragment could power our homeworld for 100,000 years.
But there was a catch: the element had to be placed into an artificial solar containment field within 12 hours—or it would destabilize. That deadline had passed weeks ago, according to our synchronized timemeters. For this reason, we each wore analog nuclear timekeeping devices.
Our jump to light speed had collided with a guided, rover-class comet. Readings showed Persius-9 reacting with Moscovium-12 upon impact, forming a new element. The ship split in two.
Captain Stevens and I—Captain Bricker—thought we were finished. Yet we awoke, still breathing, surrounded by flashes of light and the blaring alarm—welcomed by a sensation so blissful it defied comprehension: peace, harmony, fulfillment.
The comet’s size was staggering. Our logs had suggested it was large—but not this vast. It felt like we’d stepped onto a living planet of infinite beauty. With each step, it revealed more. Territories grew and changed—each unique, each mind-bending.
The air was euphoric, like breathing joy itself. The more we inhaled, the more our lungs expanded—so did our bodies. What was this place of strange and glorious wonders?
Exotic plants burst forth—first like mushrooms, then shifting toward microscopic organisms. As we neared them, their husks opened, releasing flavors beyond imagination. Gravity responded to thought. Everything was alive, celebrating life itself.
Free will? There was only one will now—a unified, resonant will.
Ordinarily, we would never ingest unknown matter. But we didn’t feel foreign. We were one with the comet. It felt like home—as if we’d always been here.
We forgot our pasts. The comet, continuing its 225-billion-year arc, erased our memories gently. What once felt like moments now seemed like millennia. We missed no one. We knew where all souls belonged. Peace. Happiness.
If not for this journal—and the data logs that by all reason shouldn’t exist—we would remember nothing. Yet somehow, we will return to Malstruk-14. We will be the change—though unknowingly.
Let us return, then, to those recorded moments.
To any who may receive this transmission,
we offer ourselves in harmony and peace.
—Emperor Bricker
---
AI Data Entry | Mind Sync Compilation
As we ventured deeper, we discovered the comet's surface was limitless. It used our thoughts to shape its lands—drawn from the deepest, most beautiful dreams we dared not imagine.
New foods emerged. As loneliness crept in, creatures took form—fierce, loving, loyal. Chimerae born from code—code sourced not only from our DNA, but from every body this comet had ever encountered. Photons and quarks, harmonized through familiarity. Balance.
We were sung to sleep by healing tones—spinning, resonating, harmonizing like angelic choirs.
Women were formed from light—crafted like our wives, but infused with purified souls. We shared love not through form, but through energy. There was no shame, no secrecy. Only what should have been.
Other men came—not to compete, but to build. A Brotherhood of master artisans. Speech faded. Words were unnecessary. Mutual understanding was our only language.
A great mushroom burst open—and suddenly, an alarm.
I looked up—collision imminent.
I pulled hard. We narrowly avoided impact.
“You alright, Stevens?”
“Yeah, Roger—what just happened?”
“Must be the element... it’s affecting our minds.”
“Think this stuff will give us the energy we need back home?”
“As long as we hit hyperdrive now,” I said, “we’ll make it.”
What mysteries still await...?
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