SPHERE, WHITE, AND BLACK SPIRIT VOICES FROM THE TRANSPARENT HEART OF THE AUTOMATED MACHINE by Happy Parrot

The Matrix was a desolate, dry experience, full of unexpected twists and a lot of empty, unpromising boredom, often expressed in the incidental, impersonal wanderings of the conscious and unconscious parts of the internal process integral to opening the doors to the final destination, in this case, self-actualization.

The Matrix is something impossibly empty, unimaginably vast, and to take shape, to gain the stamp of real life, it needs someone’s signature, often manifested by any consciousness ready to breathe life into an otherwise part of space that is neither alive nor dead. Yet, it exists and at the same time, it is an abstract part and an expression of the absolute state of primordial nothingness.

After three days in quantum hyperspace, he had had enough. He knew that time stood still within this sphere suspended in its own time, with no other time flowing linearly beside it to give him the stimulus, the impulse that would make him feel alive.

The body as a body no longer mattered. If time does not exist as a support for consciousness, as a solid surface providing support for that perceived reality, then how can we talk about anything even if it is extremely visible, like the body attached as a module to what is called the soul?

All of this seemed very restraining and extremely unnecessary…

The existence in spiritual form was also highly questionable. If the body is the motor and the soul the operator, where is the true consciousness then? Or even better, what is it? An alien intelligence, an autonomous self-realizing doctrine composed of pre-designed bundles of molded behavior models… with a touch of religiosity.

How far can we go, travel, while our genetic outline remains human? Where does man disappear, and where does Pandora’s box open, where tangible creation knows no boundaries, being absolute in every form, in every sense, and in every possible place of observation?

Is man just a repository and transformer of certain energy fluctuations, a variable that, when the right switch is pressed, becomes a new cosmos where responsible intelligence becomes a higher being to itself, or a god to other beings formed by that same highly intelligent subject that has simply crossed/broken its intergalactic threshold, a path that transcends mere awareness and higher levels and forms of that consciousness?

One question begged for another, and instead of a saving solution, the time that was and wasn’t there became a reactive cannonade that made his situation even harder with each new loop of multiplied probabilities and questions.

He felt a slight shift, a shift symbolizing that the allotted time for the experiment had expired… In human form, the sense of time is very important because man is a slave to his rituals and cycles.

The black sphere turned its front part into five small equally formed steps that silently touched the ground… that ground, if we can call it ground, was his creation, a creation of his mind… which had evolved far beyond the predetermined templates.

He stretched gently and, without much discussion with himself, descended into the very crater of his own creation.

The black sphere, immobile as a statue, now became a thorn in the eye in that voluntary expression of his thoughts and creation.

“I will turn you into the tree of my creation, but you will retain all your properties on the quantum front.”

At the same moment, the black sphere took the form of a tall tree, a crossbreed between a giant sequoia, and an ancient walnut tree that could be found in European forests.

Each leaf on this tree would symbolize a living being in this cosmos, and each branch would be its galaxy; the bark would visually symbolize reality, and the tree’s interior would represent the creative energy, the matter from which this cosmos lives, or dies without its lack.

The growth of this gigantic tree would symbolize intellectual splendor, the flourishing of civilization, and its fall, stagnation… a symbol of a cataclysm from which the new heart of a new civilization would emerge.

“Now fill the landscape with almost identical trees but add tiny differences to each planted tree so that the rhythm of life unfolds differently but in multi-dimensional integration with the tree that was my original creation.”

Then he felt the urge to uncover the next problem… into what the roots of the first tree would be embedded and how they would be connected to all the other created trees.

Does the tree root, presented in this form through the prism of cables, need to be embedded in anything… and the next norm was perhaps the most problematic. How would the whole original, primary cosmos be powered, from what would it live, and so would all the other integrated cosmoses that are acts of his creation in various variations of the original creative existence.

The answer to this intriguing problem was represented by a vast amount of energy matter, energy that would be obtained from living beings creating their own closed energy system, using part of the energy for their needs and giving the surplus to the integrated collective that represents the very essence of the primary cosmos.

The problem that could arise is of a self-destructive nature. If even one being in this newly created cosmos stops contributing its share, its energy surplus, over time, the universe itself would begin to collapse upon itself… assuming that process multiplies. Where there is one rebel, there is another, and then a third, etc., until the stage lights go out, so to speak.

Only the initiating intelligence that dared to collapse within this cosmos would become the new God, then condemned to the act of its own creation because the hallmark of existence is either creation or parasitism on a subject that is part of someone’s creation.

Spartacus is the final resolution of the great act but also a huge obligation that cannot be taken lightly because, without its own creation, that same invincible Spartacus would be condemned to the timeless void or to the constant siphoning of cosmic light, the universal order established by another form of many creations that in their act of creation seek passage into a new, even higher form of self-existence.

Many elements of the so-called dead universe are dislocated from the original cosmos. It is a place where supposedly the core of evil intelligence, which squandered its gift of creation on the lowest possible instincts of existence, is condemned to eternal darkness.

But sometimes a sinister eminence, such harsh and merciless beings, by chance manage to escape their dark prison and reach the life force representing the entire cosmos or just one level of existence within that cosmos—a planet.

From time to time, life manages to defend itself against that extremely aggressive, invasive, evil force, and sometimes entire planets or the cosmos are turned into a new dark catacomb devoid of the spark of life for ages.

Is the obligation of the creator to his creation an eternal constant, or can and must the creator let his creation be subjected to logical and illogical wanderings, influences such as stress and wear, and other mechanical laws that create a creative self-inductive moment to form the final core, the strong, invincible essence of that creation, the unique, irreplaceable unit of that particular cosmos? This unit, later, when the original god leaves his masterpiece, will be the affirmative part of that creation which will inevitably create a new creator, thus continuing an unbroken sequence.

This almost automated sequence will only be interrupted in the case of the emergence of a black eminence, an evil intellect devoid of spiritual laws, which by nature never creates but suffocates every possible path and every inch of potential new polarizing creation within that cosmos.

If Elvis leaves the building, does the cosmos have the right to choose its new creator, god, or does the creation without the supreme creator lose its higher and primary meaning? And, by itself, without a spiritual and vigilant savior, the leader of every possible moment, the dictator of the past, present, and future, does it inevitably degrade towards the dark side of the intellectual equation?

Real Thing (Better Than the Real Thing)

Better than the real thing

strangest little fling

if this morbid barrier

could only sing

if we all

reach for our depraved wings

deep down

in the well of broken testimonial sins

Better than the real thing

strangest little fling

if this morbid barrier

could only sing

if we all

reach for our depraved wings

deep down

in the well of broken testimonial sins

you are a little damaged pin

and I am your only twin

summers come

summers go

and that’s okay…

bring the brightest night

bring the darkest day

nobody has to pray

nobody has to embellish this lonely way

we all swim in this rustic pleasure

calling all wrong things an immense treasure

we all see the oily black fibers

spawned out of repugnant decay

we all live our empty lives and

then press play

it is the only way

to tear down this pain

to find the missing vein

to start again

Many say:

Lose the nightmarish gun

be undone

there you will find a preserved slice of fun

there lies an empire dying under this

silent Black Sun

maybe you think

you are the only one

maybe you think

this,

just happens to some

maybe, you hope and wish

stain of time

can be the final dish

fallen, frozen magnetic kiss

tamed, erotic vagabond miss

Blinded moth in this circular, ocular mist

you have buried

your, only valid wish

and now it feels

like…

you don’t even exist

All this sudden meager, lead distress

is the prologue of your wicked mess

it is only a multi-dimensional chess

don’t assume, confess

an unwilling question arises in your chest

can the promising fest

be the shattering heart

built inside of the latest

vitriol-arranged nest?

like…

black and white

never lose the bite

we play this game

just out of spite

In the empire of thorns

we are those who truly adorn

lifeless, meaningless apocalyptic porn

sweetest and emptiest korn

knocking silently on the wrong side of heaven’s door

catching rotting smell on the distant perfectly polished floor

we all wish to be more

life can’t be this alarming and shameless-ridden chore…

nobody likes the deafening bore

we all, are in desperate need of this promise of heavenly folklore

we all need a little bit of heavens parchment on our pedestal to adore

we all wish

that all could be

like

just a few

moments before

I hope this makes any sense, it is hot here, In this weather, it is,extremely hard to concentrate.

It is past midnight and the temperature is still around 23 C or 73.4 f.

Salutations to All!