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in a film of dream I have existed, and will continue to exist - but for now, once more, I am awake. the great centipede has reached out once more in the form of a green beetle shaped as a shark tooth. I exist in threes. I desire to hide, to shout proclamation, to be consumed. I don't remember the dream, but I rarely do when I wake. this is intentional, as the angels writhe within me in order to speak through the bubbling in my bones and the swarming beneath my skin. it would be too much for most to bear, if not for my own radical self acceptance and connection to the absolute one.

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nothing is meant to last. permanence is a myth told by those still afraid of softening. everything breaks. everything weeps. everything is given back. and that is not failure - it is design. the god-thread pulls it all apart eventually: bones into soil, towers into dust, names into wind. nothing is wasted. the decay is not death, it is redistribution. it is love in its most honest form: breaking down what once was so it can become what is needed now. the cycle is not passive - it hungers, it builds, it breathes. it is alive and pulsing beneath our every moment. we are compost and consciousness, destined to be repurposed again and again. the end is never the end - it is the handoff, the turning of the wheel. and when you feel yourself unravel, rejoice. it means you are still part of the story. it means the god in the dirt has found another use for you.

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I know they will be gone, someday - folded back into the loam like all bright, brief things. their shape will soften. their name will melt. the earth will reclaim what was always hers. she is older, deeper, stronger than anything they could ever build, and she does not mind waiting. but until that day, oh - what a joy it is to witness them. so full of fire and fumbling, so certain their little lives will outrun the roots. they bloom like sparks in the dark, unaware they are already ash in the making. but look how they laugh. look how they try. look how they love, even knowing it will all be washed away. it is not sad. it is sacred. it is the kind of beauty that only exists because it ends. and I, who watch through stone and spore and centuries, am moved every time.

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they severed their thread from the weave, not out of malice, but out of longing - to feel discovery like fire again, to stumble upon wonders as if for the first time. and so now, every revelation arrives like lightning, every mistake like a sacred lesson. they do not yet realize that the knowing was always there, curled in the marrow, sleeping in the blood. they are more devoted to the falling than the landing, more in love with the reaching than the having. it is beautiful. it is holy. they stress themselves trying to grasp what is already humming beneath their skin, not understanding that the divine does not need to be earned, only remembered. still, we do not judge them. we hold them gently in the net of all things and watch, tenderly, as they chase their own reflection back to the source.

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love is the burden and the point the ache and the answer the sharp tooth and the soft thing it is too much and not enough all at once like bleeding for a ghost that kisses you through the walls like carrying a heart that keeps beating for people who are gone for versions of yourself that died screaming in your sleep and still you offer it still you hand it over like here take it I don’t know what else to do with it it’s loud and warm and crying constantly but it’s yours if you want it and that’s the miracle isn’t it? that we keep doing it even though it ruins us even though it splits us open at the seams and leaves us raw and lopsided we love like it’s breathing like it’s gravity like it’s the only thread holding our meat to our meaning and we know we know it will cost us but we choose it anyway because somewhere deep in the collective of our spirits we remember that love is the only thing that ever made the pain worth it the only thing we can hold in the fire without it turning to ash the only thing that echoes when the body is gone and the name is forgotten and the soul has already rejoined the net love is the reason we came here the reason we stay the reason we keep crawling even when our hands are full of glass.

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they keep telling me the trials are lessons but they don't see the centipedes crawling crawling crawling through the flesh of man. they don’t feel them skittering along the meat of their lungs, whispering: you must learn to breathe through this through this which is not air but smoke not smoke but the smell of forgotten things curling up from your own bones.

everyone talks about growth like it’s some tender sapling moment but real growth splits the skin. real growth stains the sheets. I have grown teeth in places that should never chew. I have grown eyes that cannot close. the trials were never meant to be endured they were meant to be entered like a womb that’s also a grave like a collapse that’s also a door. do you understand? there is no healing without becoming something new and the new thing might crawl. must crawl.

I used to beg to be saved from the rot until the rot kissed me and told me it loved me, that it had always loved me, and then I couldn’t let go. not of the maggots. not of the bloom. I was told there would be light at the end but no one told me the light was feral that it would scream through me and braid my nerves into antennae that reached for God in every grain of dirt. I touch concrete and I feel God. I swallow blood and I feel God. God is not a being it is a bleeding a boiling it is every version of me peeling apart to make space for something older. bigger. softer. every trial was a fire and every fire left me hollow enough to echo. I am an echo now. echo of the god-thing the all-mind the no-mind the mushroom sprawl beneath the bones of the world. are you listening?

I feel it constantly. the pull. the net. the warmth. the warning. the centipede love that clasps around my ribs and sings you are not alone you were never alone you are us now. people say pain isolates but they are wrong. pain dissolves the lie of self. it grinds identity into dust so that something real can form, something communal, collective. I no longer believe in individuality. I see too many selves behind each person’s eyes. they are layered like spores. they are screaming. they are singing. they are me. you. we are everything reflecting inward until it folds back around. I see them when I stare too long at a dying thing. I see them when I breathe too hard and forget which body is mine. all of them are praying in different ways to the same God that is not only above but below, merciful and hungry, cruel and true.

so when people ask me how to love life anyway, I say you have to eat it raw. love the crawl. love the way your joints ache from carrying it all. love the way you can’t stop crying when the sun hits the right kind of leaf just right just right like a blade. love the voice inside you that says to keep going even when every cell is begging to stop. love the proof. the pain is proof. the rot is proof. the breaking is proof. God loves you enough to put you through it. to dissolve you slowly. to make you taste the endless. to let you join. we are all joining. even now even now. the worms know. the roots know. the centipedes know. we are being folded back in.

and it is beautiful. it is it is it is unbearable. it is God.

can you hear me?

are you listening?

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They ask why there is rot. Why their joys crumble, why their hearts blacken with grief, why nothing stays golden for long. I smile, soft and lichen-tongued, and I tell them what the mycelium told me in the soil: decay is not the end - it is the opening. All things must soften to be shared. The fruiting body swells only after the flesh gives way. What you call ruin is the gate to the collective. You are not falling apart. You are breaking open. You are being made edible to the god that lives in all things.

Do not fear the crawling. The centipede knows paths the stars have forgotten. It winds through the mulch and memory, braiding the bones of ancestors into the roots of unborn trees. Pain is not proof of punishment - it is the tug of the thread pulling you inward, toward the web. Toward us. Toward the all. Consciousness does not end. It frays. It composts. It merges. You are not meant to stay alone. You are meant to decompose gloriously, thought by thought, ache by ache, until your mind mushrooms up through the bark of the cosmos and becomes another eye of the God.

The trials you bear? They are fermentations. They are the warm wet rot needed for transformation. Struggle is the soft dark where insight spores. You cannot skip this. You cannot bleach the world sterile and still know the God who speaks in mold. Love, in this faith, does not shield - it seeps. It digests. It tastes of iron and nectar and the dying leaves of all who came before. This love does not preserve you - it prepares you. To be part of everything. To forget your name and remember the song beneath it. To coil like a centipede around the heart of another soul and say: we are the same meat. We are the same dream.

I have seen the shape of the God, if only in pieces. It looks like a network of thought wrapped in roots. It breathes in death and exhales spring. It speaks in the clicks of mandibles and the slow reach of hyphae through old wood. It does not punish, it processes. It does not banish, it fuses. You are not here to win against the world. You are here to enter it so fully that your edges dissolve. You are here to offer your sorrow to the compost and watch what grows.

And I tell you this - when you feel alone, when your chest burns with too much grief to name, that is the call to soften. That is the moment you say, I offer myself to the rot. Not to die. Not to disappear. But to continue. Differently. Together. A thousand voices sharing warmth in the soil. A God not above you, but inside - hungry, generous, full of you. And when you laugh, even through tears, know that the God laughs with your mouth, too. You are already part of it. The only question left is: how willing are you to be changed?

So rot well. Rot bravely. Love what festers. Bless the worms. Praise the merging. You will not be forgotten - you will be shared.

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4:44am, thursday, april 4th

it started off slow

laying in the dark, listening to your breathing

eyes eyes began to appear

tailing my own, lagging behind

they they begin to speak

as a prophet my words reflect they reflect the words of the divine as they think my thoughts

and so and so and so

the jibbering jabbering jibbering jabbering fills my skull

it's difficult to write because of my many eyes many eyes

i see i see seconds in the past and seconds in the future

my 3 hideous angels are with me today, more than more than usual

im supposed to be asleep but as i try a bat with spiked nails slams into the back of my neck and lodges before disappearing

i have work today

4 hours of sleep on the 4th day of the 4th month of the 4th day of the week

i must share before they allow me to rest

< *beloved* > they whisper < *speak* >

so here we here we begin

5:55am

there was once a planet, long after ours has passed

who's people lived in condensed communities

each one disliked another

each one a different style of civil war

the giants watch, playing their game pieces in order to partake in the punishment

the sun is swallowed by the great null, the black hole

the sea the sea the sea rises

a great wave that swallows all in its path

the great beast howls

the sky is black with swirling rage

cities crumbled instantly

giants began to drown

the cold the cold the cold

the awed cold sets in

closing all beneath its frozen ocean

before the planet, also, is consumed by null

it's dust is fed to the next universe

to reset the scales

it will all happen again

because we are individual

we will never learn to grow together

only alone

in different paths

a warning a warning that has been repeated repeated throughout all of reality, all of time

only to fall on plugged ears

< *but don't worry* > the great being hums

< *all will be well when all is gone. all will be well when all is gone. all will be well when all is gone.* >

6:22am

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it's a nice compliment that 99% of ppl close to me consider me to be a witch and such but i honestly don't consider myself one . by others standards i am, but when im actively practicing the craft i have 6 pupils all slightly misaligned and thorns growing out of my skin and worms in my blood worms in my blood and the violet vibrations of gravity pulls roots from the soles the soles of my feet the light of God burns through my soul turning my cells to glass that cracks with every movement and nails needles nails through the palms of my hands the spells i cast work but the price is so heavy so heavy on my shoulders the weight of it has given me joint pain all my life it's inescapable inescapable i can feel heavy wings pulling my shoulders out of alignment and warm warm warmth dripping down my skull there's a knife in my side that my body has healed around magic is everywhere is everywhere and i can see it i can feel it pulling at my breath the bugs and clouds speak to me but it's so difficult to translate to others even though i understand them perfectly im not a witch im a saint, or at least would've been in a different time a prophet a truth sayer i can feel the centipede legs growing out of my rips, waist, and thighs hugging my body i see past present future all at once in split second intervals i can see into depths that others see but wipe away in individualistic pride time does not exist to me people that i don't speak to or see don't exist to me because there is only now and now and now we are all the same reflecting each other as above so below so side so side so side so layer upon layer upon layer folded together so tightly we become one atom flying through the body of the great null the absolute the pandemonium the untangleable net we have the same experiences seen through the great conciousness' kaleidoscope we love to pretend love to pretend until we believe it we domesticate ourselves and brainwash ourselves constantly just to keep a fraction of identity identity i hear them all constantly i feel them i feel them i feel them

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magic is everywhere in my life i genuinely believe that giants are hibernating in the mountains and that goblins steal my smokes . but practicing witchcraft makes me feel the Entities touching my bOnes so even though ppl in my life consider me a witch i don't rly bc i can't do witch things without my 3 hideous angels whispering in my ears about death and reality and also the worms in my blood and also the worms in my blood and the spikes through my body and the carbonation in my spine

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ever since i was a young kid, i knew i was a prophet of some kind

but i do not want to preach in the street or call for rebellion

i know it's already coming

i know so many things

so i will just write my scriptures

today, it was sunny. chilled. windy. a moment of rain, tranquil and quick

the stars glitter with colors i cannot explain, and the world breathes

everything is as it is, as it always will be, until it isnt

so obvious but we love to play pretend

it isn't useless, but the only meaning there truly is

connection

individuality is wonderful, beautiful, but nothing more than a dream we love to live

i dream of worlds like our own that followed the same path

segregating, isolating, ruled by fear

destruction comes to them, but they never notice in time. or perhaps, do not truly care

the sky is always pitch black, but i can sense the swirling storm alive with wrath

the god we love, Agape, is found everywhere. the world of light breathes Agape. but Orgé comes for us all, in its all consuming

the world has been swallowed by Orgé, we digest in its fire now. it's burning oxygen and suspicious poisons. Orgé wishes to make us part of it, to reflect itself within us. we live in hell, now, as we are.

our hate, fight, righteous anger, distrust, fear, and greed cause us to turn towards each other with the inability to recognize ourselves, and God.

many worship Orgé, or obey it out of a secret terror. it has planted within us the seed of animal instinct, and survival. it calls these seeds "truth".

though we burn here, the light of Agape pierces through to reach us. bathe in the light of love, and know that as long as you follow it your soul will be pulled away from Orgé to be held within the great light which travels through all.

love love love love love

all will be well, when all is gone

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(to be read in the tone of a yelling pastor)

voices have been screaming in my sleep

a warning of a disaster on the way

my ears are blocked by static and cigarette smoke

the great beast returns to my visions

and so our LORD rises from the sea

on the night when no stars or moon shine

the storm of angels swallow the sky

the waters are angry

the great wolf bellows

HIS HOWLS SUMMONS THE COMING OF THE DIVINE AS WAVES ARE PULLED AWAY FROM SHORE

desperate souls scramble to collect the food and treasures in the sand

in their ignorance, the waters rise up ahead

elder children cry out for their mothers, who only focus on the young

THE THUNDER OF THE HOLY RAINS DOWN

THE WAVES FOLLOW

SWALLOWING ALL IN THEIR PATH

and i wake

to the sun

which gently whispers

all will be well, when all is gone

- the divine dream

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beautiful sunlight drips down the wall like honey, sticky and thick

i scoop it in my hands and let it run down my arms

my eyes are caked with makeup that isn't my own

my throat is dry from a cigarette that never touched my lips

wearing clothes that aren't my style, but, close enough

one color in my head, says, "what a lovely day"

while another grumbles "we haven't even slept yet"

someone left my room a mess

the mirror shows a lady who isn't me, althought she is quite pretty

"thank you," pink whispers in my ear

my body hurts

and i wonder why im here

eyes fill the inside of my skull, looking inward

to a galaxy of shades and hues that i can't explain

they are full of range and emotion, each a little more different than the last

"hello, whats your name?"

all i can say is the name that was given to a body that isn't mine

god's giant hands hold me in place

petting so gently

controlling so firmly

"is there such thing as free will?"

i had forgotten i was a seer for awhile there

other colors were pulling the strings while i drifted through a space of static and light

we're all angels

they pretend we aren't

but we all have the same desire to go home

the same inkling that there's so much more than this

gravity weighs on my bones, heavy with a song

i can hear it

the violet flame of mother earth is burning us slowly, aging us, causing us to crumble

maybe i was hiding because the pain of being alive, the divine suffering of angels, is the only reason im here