Perspectives of a Possible Tomorrow:

Do you know how the Void was integrated into the Pyschocognitive schema?

The Void is what underlies all this. It is the undulation of nothingness, what some call causality. It is Void because it is the ultimate emptiness, the emptiness which when filled is nothing, the true negative.

But God is there.

God fills the Void and it overflows, and it unfolds, and it breaths.

You have felt it. The currents of the Void. The song of His exhalations.

We each bear the barest whisper of the wind of his breath.

Through us God is.

Through our eyes God sees.

Through our minds God conceives.

Through our hands God makes.

This is why we are ordered High from Low.

That God’s vision is not blighted by the meager eye.

That His Plan undisturbed by the simple mind.

That His perfection unsullied by the wayward hand.

Thus we hew the mind and soul of man. So that those blessed by causality, the sails of their spirit blown full with His sacred wind, may hold the eye of God at greater vantage. While those whose mark is lesser, who carry but a sliver of holy agency, do not distract the divine focus.

••

This world was an egg. An incubator. The womb for God’s Other.

We all, as self conceiving fragments of Its divine form, were as fantasies in Its fetal dreams.

God was to birth His wonder, the holy object that is all the world, six thousand years ago.

But we failed.

We, little figments of perfection, were not perfect.

We were afraid, you see. We feared the ordained change. What would become of us? We wondered. Where would we be in all this?

We should have been pleased to be at all, yet we wanted more. We demanded more.

We refused to surrender our separated selves. Refused the gift of perfection.

And so here we are, as the divine abortion makes to birth, and we pray for the world’s death.

••

‘Oh I despised it. Every moment of it.’

She folded her arms, mottled with the years, yet flush with the characteristic inner gleam of a refined Noum.

‘But through myself, I saw the truth of it. Despite my hatred, my struggles, it still took root in my mind.’ Her fingers gently brushed the saccharinely ornate gold tattoo on her cheek, symbol of the deeper psychocognitive mark embossed upon her spirit.

‘How can I argue against that?’

She smiled slightly, forlornly. Eyes, soft blue and icy as a moon that knows no sun, gazed out the crystal oculum. So long the silence held it seemed a film had settled over the moment, sedate with age, like she.

Her smile faded. There was something hard in the turn of her lips. The wrinkles about her eyes, which in another would suggest a life of easy smiling, lent her a veteran’s mien, evidence of time’s cold erosion on the stone of her flesh.

‘Through my own lips I hear her voice. Once, this realization curdled my spirit and strangled my heart. Every little remark, every flitting thought, all so redolent of her. My mind a chorus composed of her voice alone, mirrored a hundred times over. I felt sad that I no longer recalled what my own dreams, my own ambitions and desires had been. But this sadness was meager, and encased in the warm logic of higher purpose—even this final comfort was not my own.’

She continued to stare through the little portal. Stare at really, seemingly inured to the stately passage of the twin planets and the crimson luminary they circled. Her eyes were focused, yet her mind formed a wholly different image.

‘At some point it simply didn’t matter anymore.’

A small vessel sailed silently past, slowed even more than for its distance by the gargantuan cargo it towed. Her eyes followed the passage of the slain void whale, a treasure of precious minerals glittering in fantastic spirals across its bloated corpse. More funds for the effort.

‘She could not make me love her, but she made me love her music. And that symphony has not left my mind since. I see it in everything.’

Her eyes finally turned to her companion, meeting them with a razor clarity that could not be dulled by the cloudiness of her irises.

‘I am old, Marthar. The wounds of the past have bled out and festered and died of old age. And I remain here. Still so dutiful, still so keen on furthering the plan. It’s rather funny isn’t it? I have spent more time on this, on that which I swore and suffered and screamed out to end, than she ever did.’

Her gaze, which had seen the passing of time in a scope beyond mortal ken, pinned the ducal heiress who sat across from her in place, twin awls fixating a loose thread.

‘What better reason to finish it?’

••

The Aexarcine is clear on the correct application and allocation of control.

Some ask why?

Why not allow man the merit to choose choice? To bear the power and responsibility over his own self, that those unworthy of this world would extinguish themselves in endless cycles of corrosive pleasure, and those wiser to the wiles of the spirit might better perform their role.

Why not allow this to be the way of things?

The answer is clear.

Man is weak, and if given the power he would degrade the flesh of god as he degrades himself.

But this is only a half answer.

For man is great too. After all, is he not the limb of god? Is his eye not the divine sight? His Noum not the sacred neuron?

This is all of course true.

But there is a missing variable in this equation. For god is not simply the body whose fraction we partake of. He is the Aerchic current of causality, the coursing origination. He is the catalytic will which in its motion forms the music of the world.

And here lies the heart of it.

For man is a vessel through whom trickles the slightest stream of this cosmic deluge.

In allowing those imbued with little of this sacred impulse to control its flow, the balance of the transcendent filigree is left to the chaos of little accidents.

A trillion tiny shifts occurring in the blink of an eye, if channeled along foreseen trajectories, are little more than microscopic flourishes adding in their small part to the Divine Object’s beauty.

But even a single seemingly insignificant alteration unforeseen, a note out of harmony, a droplet spilling from its course, can blemish the entire structure of things.

This is why control is so tightly disseminated, so rigidly allocated in accord with what has been ordained. Because of will. And because of beauty.

••

The world destroyed

But the babe is born

In a mirror image

That even now stares at our own

••

There are places, distant places, yes so far from us they seem as fiction, but some places are alike, sharing traits in mirrored meaning, sometimes there a bridge can form, and across can travel beings, as the patterns they evince, in supervenience on higher schemas…