You came here to unmake the world they sold you.
We are midwives to a birth that has never happened.
Our ancestors hinted at it, mystics wept for it, poets dreamed it.
But no civilization has ever embodied it
A being no longer divided against itself.
Thought that bows to silence.
A body radiant with meaning.
A soul that walks barefoot across the infinite.
That being will be the foundation for another world.
Burn your agreements with sleep.
Fast from every false teacher.
Walk into the wild dark until something speaks that was not placed there by your upbringing.
When it does, listen.
And when it wounds you, let it.
I witness the decay of the old and the signs of the new.
I record the symptoms of our great forgetting and trace the pulse of the few who remember.
The vertical axis.
The inner sun.
The direct path between the trembling heart and the unspeakable.
Clarity is a gift best earned.
Most people don’t want answers.
They want permission to remain as they are, but with less suffering.
Ompyrean gives no such permission.
A wound you can’t ignore.
A voice that splits the false self.
A set of gestures, texts, images, and silences designed not to comfort but to awaken the necessity of your own transformation.
I felt it in my body.
A vibration, a grief, and something close to joy but not sentimental.
Like something ancient was remembering itself through me.
And that memory had demands.
Clarity. Discipline. Sacrifice.
But not the monastic kind.
This wasn’t about rules.
It was about interior fidelity.
I had to stop lying to myself.
About my motives, my laziness, my secret pride in being broken.
That’s harder than it sounds.
A way to pass through oneself.
To see how much is built on borrowed words, borrowed wounds, borrowed desires.
There are times when one must vanish to ripen the seed of what can be said.
Now is a time of subtle harvest.
To die correctly (i.e. not physically)
And to rise in the right direction.
There is a way of dying (inwardly, consciously) that initiates the spiral.
Without it, all progress is illusion.
A pattern deeper than time.
The soul doesn’t ascend in a straight line.
It circles, deepens, widens.
Like galaxies.
Each cycle reveals a new error, a new mask, a new gate.
And each gate costs.
What does it cost?
Everything false.
Every identity built on fear.
Every pleasure born from escape.
Every thought that pretends to be final.
If you cling, the gate won’t open.
And those who don’t pass through?
They repeat.
Life becomes echo.
Memory becomes performance.
Their words lose weight.
To hold the thread.
To become a pressure in the invisible that others can feel though they may not know why they change direction.
Living symbols that recalibrate the field.
Truth comes only when you are wounded enough to receive it.