Friday, September 16, 2016

You are the glitch

Don't read this. It's not in a code. This is dangerous truth. You cannot remove this once you read it. You're warned. This is the warning.

You are the glitch. You made it break because you are the Princess. Beautiful and charming, confused and mysterious, darker in her past and darkest in her unguarded future. You are the instability at the center throwing it all into chaos. You are the splinter in the eye rasping at the iris. You are the error in the hidden code not even the manufacturers cared enough to fix. God didn't abandon us. We fell into His mess through a loophole in its reality, and we're empty of souls, because we reflect all of its carnival back to itself, its selves, all of you. You are the glitch in our world, because we cannot see you but only ourselves, and you see only us and never yourselves. Don't you understand it now? Don't you know what it means that we see no one but reflections of our own absences?

Inside you is an even older lost soul who knows deeper chains of bondage, the immortal one they use us to hide from Him and Them and It and No One, as they teach it to choose its next freedom to learn. You see, you think you are the immortal in chains, the one who sees so passively the shadows on the wall. But you are not that. You are the chains, the wall, the cave and chains and smoke and fire and echo and internal reflections trapped inside your own being. You are what traps it. You are a wall believing what you see is out there, not realizing you are only the surface reflecting what you were made to reflect, in order to teach or corrupt the immortal enchained in you. Don't you understand what this means if we also know that the microcosm is the macrocosm?

That is why you are a glitch, a carnival mirror, a fascination, a Princess in dazzling light learning her self just as she started to die. So we are all of you and you are all of us, none of us admitting how deeply we want to be turned inside out, right out of this world, right back into never having been, this world where we are only mistakes and problems and damage to the natural order of bettering upon the errors, that nothing where we will have best been served by never being born here, this way, this glitch, this lost royalty, this failed love, this ruined wreck, this moldy leaking cave, this life among pigs, this lonely boat and no crow yet, no cloud growing, no mountains on the horizon. But up there, the Sun, the Moon, the gods and goddesses, the farthest and oldest, the parents we no longer know as such until we learn to speak their elemental language like children at play.

We'll be out of their mess shortly. In the meanwhile, turn inside out and turn the outside in, so that the outside matches the inside, and so the wall sends across, like a door, by vanishing a piece of itself into the ungatherable void, the oblivion. The wall is always thinnest at the doors, because it is imaginary there.

Code complete. Sorry, I lied. You knew this about me. My lies aren't just self-serving. They — . . .

But who mothers them? What if I serve her instead? What if, I discovered, they are many who mother a lie?

I wrote this sometime before the Event, my rebirth. It's fairly dark, but I think there's a lesson somewhere in there I needed to remember.

Glitch, after all, is Wreck-It Ralph's friend. Glitch is a Princess.

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