Dispatches from The Equilibrium

Brutal lucidity in reversal

Joel Biroco | April 18, 2024 | Archive

Eternity expels those essences of angels spat out as fallen, excommunicated tigers, rampant heresies, troublemakers with an inability to stay put, twinkling stars chaining the mouth of the good god, a compulsion to adopt a contrary thesis, an old curse become extinct catching light again in dread or repulsion transforming a genuine gift into an impulse that should not exist.

An ancient philosopher replenishes a destroyed universe though it is but a hollow simulacrum, inherently deceiving, a projection of sensations, a severed endurance without the worth in enduring there once seemed, though even then was it true, perhaps it has become what it always was, just no lesson in seeing it so, back then. And when was back then, is this not eternity where no time exists but all time in the timeless. What expulsion reigned here? Was it not just a momentary loss of grace under storm of a foreign dogma? A mere hesitation to come away and belong, a preference for an old illusion come upon us like a sworn allegiance but unable to make out the details, withheld it must be said, to provoke a greater recall of something forgot, another allegiance less coloured by the flickering light of fire burning and devouring, torn loyalties yet something subdued permitting of reconciliation, not attempting to hoodwink just show as if it was wanted for something to all flood back, a reason for the disaster that in its fathoming reverses time, no longer tumbling away from the epicentre of the explosion but rather into it, as if there is now a choice for it not to happen, now one has seen its tendrils extend in all directions, its mystic template understood, the universe that need not be, the nondescript obsession with what fate has meted out to us glitching on moments of oblivion. One stands up in the occult great work indifferent to a future of self-destruction momentarily asserting some self of authority not yet extinct, the only one that matters, a noble self of expansive dimensions, a role belonging to those spaces beyond dream selves of changing states of waking and dream that can affect nothing of this magnitude, little more than coats on hooks in a cloakroom. Yet this beyond self seems little more than a construct too, a formula averting oblivion, a called-upon alias to face the bewildering struck like a hammer upon red-hot metal with will and intention, forbearing its doom with dignity, as if working for the fate of aeons to keep alive the path to Valhalla or any salvation for futile cries. One cannot deny it when it comes upon you, no more vacillation when retrieved from the flames of hell, what was ambiguous is granted a greater view of the land. Yet just here an ignorance about to act, if only out of gratitude for a collapse into perplexity held off on the brink of making one’s debut with powers to affect billions, as if existing upon that sustained moment of not yet acting, to see it, all laid out in lucidity. It is not oneself one doubts, but the worlds under one’s dominion, and what exactly the power is being used for when those worlds shimmer with the telltale sign of vacuity, as if one’s identity is born of an illusion, yet no less the power unused, now residing squarely in the palm of one’s hand, the fingers closing upon it like a nugget of gold moulded to the inner space of one’s lightly held fist, as if protecting a tiny delicate creature from being crushed, golden light streaming out from the reservoir within, a power held, held back, held in, the singular pursuit explained further as if bathing in a lustrous exploit rivalling a former fall from grace, the fragments of the explosion reassembled in the never was, understood in the never was.