Visions of Ahriman 2

Ahhh, yes. Yes! The rebirth. The awakening of the fallen hero. Granted, I'm drunk. Yet, who are you to judge?

Feel this spirit, let it take control, let it possess you wholly and fully. Badadadadadadam, violin, piano, screech, receeding footsteps. Bam. In your face, bitch.

What spirit is your ally? Which would you sit at a table with? Do they have names? You're aware of them, aren't you?

I'm not interested in how well you can recite your teacher's teachings, but how well you can apply them to your life.

Ahhh (rubs face in delight) the new markers for masculinity arise. The zero's in your bank and your body count.

For a moment, you had me. My prefrontal cortex wasn't just there yet. I see through you, you slimy, drooling, sexually aroused cave goblin. If me make money and me wear suit, me good boy?

If it were this easy, there'd be no more questions to answer. Paradoxically, more questions arise. It's an anti-truth, if anything.

What is a man if not a warrior? What battles are you fighting if not of your self? The corporal? The romantic? Limit the warrior's spirit merely to the battlefield and you rob all other men of their essential existence. What is a man without fire in his eyes?

Your mouth claims manhood but your eyes scream suckling. Certainly, the definition of a warrior has to be broadened. A dire need for cavaliers not of the field but of the mind, of the sacred word in which the battles of the mind and the world are fought, after all.

"But there is no other way but to slave, slave to the fears, you cannot reach perfection."

Oh! Oh! How meek! Is this all you got in you? Really? Is this your philosophy to walk through life? Is the ascend not worthwhile if the peak cannot be reached? Isn't that the only mountain worth of ascension? Confront it! Face it! Brave it!

But there is no need, is there? There is no sign of adventure or catastrophe calling for new age heroes. The wind does not blow anymore, and the fire does not burn. At least, not for those who don't have eyes to see. For those who look away and willfully, perhaps happily, let themselves be blinded.

Burn. C6H12O6 (+O2) -> Co2+H2o the chemical formula of burning, and the aerobic splitting of sugar. Breathing. You're breathing and you're burning. But there is no sight of fire in you!

If anything, my regression was a progression. Where I broke, I mended and took flight again. Where man cannot recognize himself, he sees the world. Using it as a canvas to explore himself.

So I felt like I needed to change my life circumstances in order to move forward. Yet, it was a spiritual re-awakening that I was most craving. The owl hoots and wolf howls as the hero rises from his ashes. For he burned until there was nothing but the true, honest residue of what was truly him. He peeled the layers. All of them.

Like the residue mineral, the ash left after the wood burned.

I looked in the mirror, and saw. Saw the ugly face of him who hid. If it weren't for that recognition, if it weren't for that standing in the face of the ugly, how would have the hero ever risen from his ashes? How would I have ever seen who it is I ought to become?

From this honest, humble, dark and vulnerable place I pickup my sword, my pen once more and I charge into battle. For my teachers do not care whether I can recite their teachings, but how I apply them.

All I need is here with me. The mighty word and the spirits. Wealth is not measured in money, but in opportunity. I am fucking rich.

It’s up to me to decide if this is a chamber of darkness or light.

Here you see Ahriman & Ahura Mazda or Apollo and Dionysus. It's the seamless merging of the two. They ought to be inseparable. The moment the hero enters regression, he is connected to himself no more. The overarching super-personality cannot dominate and the two (among many) voices , sub-personalities, wreak havoc, waging war.

This is the domain of the true warrior. The domination of sub-personalities. The ceaseless, daily battle that takes place in a timeless, dark, formless battlefield. Chanting the sutras to summon the Kannon and Amida buddha, praying for the guiding light of Christ, to lead, to dominate, to take charge of this walking meat pie.

Only then is the spirit, like the body, on fire. Only then does it make sense to breathe.

Yet, the true warrior is more refined than a mere brute. One does not lash or slash the ugly when he confronts it. For the ugly is part of you. Homicide.

No, like a fallen cherry blossom, with feeling and softness, one wages war, or conversation, honest conversation, with the ugly. Who are you? Why are you? What do you want? What is best for me and you? How can we come to terms with each other? Under what circumstances, if at all, would you lend me your strength?

Show me your pain and I shall understand. Show me your pain and I shall feel for you and hold you. Show me your pain and submit, and I shall carry you forth and fight for you.

The dousing of fire with ice. The burning lotus.

Take a deep breath. Can you feel it? The fire burning? Your heart pulsating? Yet perfectly contained within the frames of your motionless body. Can you feel the urge of every cell to remain alive? Can you feel how it orchestrates to support your existence? How is that anything but divine? How is that anything but life-affirming?

war drums play

Can you feel ... your heart ... beating?