The Underview. Threshold.

The Underview. Threshold.

"As though from idleness 'twere wrought"
The need to search feeds from an inner spring, an inherited urge perhaps dormant for generations until circumstance sourced in ancient times is carried by its unsuspecting host to synchronization with the indefinable mesh of some later age. The path - so long, so far - is littered all about with grotesque, diabolic masks and images. A torrent of words without end and without meaning batters and befuddles senses, ever undammed to deny cerebrative foothold, entangle and mislead into places, surface-smooth but lethal, not of any lumeniferously-rational intent, universe or truth.
Through the rank, Stygian filth beconjured by thousands of ill-begotten, ill-intentioned and ill-talented theurgists, the portals for those whose stamina brings them so far loom huge, black, ancient and forbidding, from another time, another world. Life's path leads inexorably to this place for any who might know their allotted destination, as beyond here is where none may enter save to provoke the very wrath of hell, to be shunned and lost for ever, entombed in blackness and horror.
Thus do the gasconadic and false guides and keepers of knowing for their own foul purposes caper in the deceit that nurtures their self-hylopathism.

But also hovers something else, protective and encouraging, not of the darkness. The voice of immanence calls down the interminable ages, strong yet gentle, wise.
"Go. Else live ever in doubt and in thrall to those who are as far beneath the wisdom you would presume to inherit as is the meanest speck of life struggling in the elemental brew that yet divides the very galaxies."
So is falsity gainsaid, initiative restored and the tread onward, through and into resumed, if such is your path, and not another. Few indeed are born to wend that way, as the ruck delights and flourishes in the ever-mortiferous bewitchments of occlusive delusion, until they before all others would most clamorously deny the fine and vital inquisitiveness of such who may verily lead and inspire to higher ends those of their own apparentation.
"What do you see?" whispers the aeons-old instinct.
"But...", as senses are mazed, affrighted yet suddenly free of the eternal black pestilence of outer gulfs.
"But it's all... light!"
And many there are of the finest, who have made that hard journey into banishment before and bid:
"Welcome. What kept you?"

Meanwhile...
If you are of the few and such be it your allotted path, and not another, then take as your guides those few who gibber not in the addiction of their own deceit, and tell of an age when the declamation of words and principles was yet held to be an essential prerogative of any true and strong society and its upward-striving populace.

© 2003, 2008 The Underview. Threshold.

At the threshold

"As though from idleness 'twere wrought" The need to search feeds from an inner spring, an inherited urge perhaps dormant for generations until circumstance sourced in ancient times is carried by its unsuspecting host to synchronization with the indefinable mesh of some later age. The path - so long, so far - is littered all about with grotesque, diabolic masks and images. A torrent of words without end and without meaning batters and befuddles senses, ever undammed to deny cerebrative foothold, entangle and mislead into places, surface-smooth but lethal, not of any lumeniferously-rational intent, universe or truth. Through the rank, Stygian filth beconjured by thousands of ill-begotten, ill-intentioned and ill-talented theurgists, the portals for those whose stamina brings them so far loom huge, black, ancient and forbidding, from another time, another world. Life's path leads inexorably to this place for any who might know their allotted destination, as beyond here is where none may enter save to provoke the very wrath of hell, to be shunned and lost for ever, entombed in blackness and horror. Thus do the gasconadic and false guides and keepers of knowing for their own foul purposes caper in the deceit that nurtures their self-hylopathism.
But also hovers something else, protective and encouraging, not of the darkness. The voice of immanence calls down the interminable ages, strong yet gentle, wise. "Go. Else live ever in doubt and in thrall to those who are as far beneath the wisdom you would presume to inherit as is the meanest speck of life struggling in the elemental brew that yet divides the very galaxies." So is falsity gainsaid, initiative restored and the tread onward, through and into resumed, if such is your path, and not another. Few indeed are born to wend that way, as the ruck delights and flourishes in the ever-mortiferous bewitchments of occlusive delusion, until they before all others would most clamorously deny the fine and vital inquisitiveness of such who may verily lead and inspire to higher ends those of their own apparentation. "What do you see?" whispers the aeons-old instinct. "But...", as senses are mazed, affrighted yet suddenly free of the eternal black pestilence of outer gulfs. "But it's all... light!" And many there are of the finest, who have made that hard journey into banishment before and bid: "Welcome. What kept you?"
Meanwhile... If you are of the few and such be it your allotted path, and not another, then take as your guides those few who gibber not in the addiction of their own deceit, and tell of an age when the declamation of words and principles was yet held to be an essential prerogative of any true and strong society and its upward-striving populace.
© 2003, 2008 The Underview. Threshold.