The Well of Souls

Given the state of the world and of souls in continuous flux, Tempestuous Trips through the Void elicit stunned glances amidst whirling thoughts transported timelessly across Space, seeking solace beneath the comfort of Culture Memes, and the stolidity of Place. Be this as it may, we play laughingly exuberant, souls soaring intendant upon sin, wearing Pendants of Light and Darkness Intertwined, declining the Divine in favor of the crass, devouring orgiastic repasts, engaging in physical satiation until the onset of the Last Days.

Powerful currents of subconscious streams carry dreams of lives lived long ago, mellow ego-trips of rainbow-hued skies, soft whispers of Love Everlasting and passionate, heartfelt lies. Chuckling solaces dives beneath shallow shoals of intent, dotted and sand-like pearls of Wisdom shine beneath the coal-black wine of a mirrored Heaven, seven circles coalesce, spiraling blessed, singing Hosannah and Hallelujah until their last and most precious breath.

Shamans intone breathless chants, cerebral meanderings envision hallucinogenic plants laughing in derision, brilliant colors traversing dimensional barriers, carriers of infinite knowledge, treasured foliage, measured in leisure and the pleasure of conscious intent. All pretenses aside, we ride the Rollercoaster of Life astride a bucking, and murderous steed, believing what we want to believe, needing what we believe we need, while our Souls – freed of the need of belief – hover intently, dispassionately observing our lives, the strife, delight and the nights, too long by far, carried out beneath the light of distant stars.

Enshrined in Ego, meager probabilities draw dust, rust and disdain, like electrostatically-charged rain upon the skin, absorbed by the electromagnetic potential within. Vibrational resonance reveals spiritual presence, Avatars of Godly Might descend unto the Physical Planes, claiming dominion over all Worldly Gain, their vast and terrible ships obscure the sky, the thunderous silence of their infinite trips the proof of humanity’s dreams gone awry. Visions abound, astounding the suspicious, viciously viscous and gelatinous abominations form tight, raucous formations, remonstrations from superior goo sound anew, as – upon their souls – demerits and eternal damnation accrue.

Who are you, to sound the Call of Tradition in vain, to doubt these words, this tale, despite the things you might have heard? The Well of Souls seethes with sin, the teeming hoards, an eternal din, rising out of the Pits of Hell, a soaring chorus, a somnambulent swell of infinite potentiality in eternal space, a never-ending story of a non-existent place.


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