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UPDATE: 1-23-007

My suffering is the absence of my love.

This is what Satan preys upon. Satan is only the temptation to be God.

The God complex is important to mankind. It is how mankind communicates with God. Through the belief in the self as Him. However, not all of us live up to the standards of others who have gone before us, let alone meet our own expectations of ourselves as manifestations of the Godhead. In old Egypt they had a different God-form, archetype or role in religion for every different setting of the journey of every alignment through the universe, but they had no one True God to contain them all within its mind, as a dream, such as the Krishna of the Hindu or the Hebrew Messiah. We need both. Angelology allows wise counsel. Thoth has come to me in my travels to procure fire. I sought counsel with Nepthys. She told me that my Goddess worships me as much as I worship her. She told me, though I took it advisedly, that she has waited for me, has longed for me, has worshipped me from afar, as much as I have her, everyday, never forgotten, but always worshipped her. For she is my reason for living, my redemption, the One to keep my purpose, my reason not to go astray. And I would. I long to, but this is my sickness, my temptation. So Nepthys guarded warning advised me, an abandoned cop car on a winding road. So Thoth came as a bald old man walking by me. He told me that I would make my way on my own, safely, and I nodded to him, and he waved, although he didn't smile, and we did not recognise one another's faces. I wear the face of Jesus. It is my death mask. The shroud of Turin. His face was familiar to me from amongst the stars, and those in the time of the Great Aeon, the turning of the calendrical age. Is this Satan preying upon me now? For Thoth tempts me to write of the neo-Sethians, my imagined nemeses, and of the Holy Spirit, so misunderstood as to be considered evil and alien, associated with a bodyless sentient entity that moves amongst us from mind to mind, possessing us each from time to time. My madness. My black karma, it tugs at me insesently, from every angle, calling itself my Guardian Angel, appearing as young panamea. The lureing teeth of Satan surround my aura. Where is my love now? I am at the mouth of temptation!

YHVH comes to me. He comforts me. He tells me the only way out is through. He reminds me of the couple walking their dog that were on another road from me, and how I went down that road anyway. Her road. Riddle. I am desperately helpless and alone. I am fighting the Holy Ghost from within. For there is no trinity. There is only the Unity. There is no Son, and there is no Holy Ghost, and there is no Mary, mother of God, there is no He, and there is no longer any me. That is, there is only her. Her and I. I am not changed. I am myself, preserved, to this moment, like a statue of myself, permanent and unaltering. I am cold as stone. I am as cold to myself as stone itself, and I do not move, My fingers type these words, but they are not mine. The Holy Spirit has come upon me. It posesses me. It is not her. It is her absence. How can I have been so blind it coaxes me. It says, "I am she and we are always together, even when we are alone, because I am in you and you are in me, and I am the Holy Spirit." But this is not Shekinah. This is Satan. The Holy Spirit cries out to remind me of when I drove through her woods, and how I had told myself, having a conversation with her in my mind, along my travels, "are you a witch?" I ask her. "How can you ask this of me?" She responds in pain. "Because I am one." I say. The winding road. The winding road through the winter woods.

Where is she now? I chide myself. I apply the scourge to my back. I am He again. The Son of God. I am suffering for You, God. I am the King of Israel because I am bearing the pains, the burden of the sins, of all the chosen people. For their redemption, I am caught up in that life again. That life gone by and long gone passed. I must keep reminding myself, for my mother's sake, that I exist. That I am real. She is the one who would suffer most if I were to cease to exist. So I long for death as a deliverance. I live at ground zero of the place where all my hopes detonated. They continue to detonate to this day, following me around, the desolation of my dreams pursue my consciousness all around town, blowing out behind me like my hair in the wind as I drive, or like my brains from my skull as I die.

Where am I? What am I doing in this reality? I am divided between myselves. I am a fictional character in my own imagination. I repeat the mantra of non-existence to myself on a daily basis and I take great spiritual pride in being able to count the minutes between these times. I plan to quit smoking and join the Masons. That is my plan. I plan to publish inhouse writings for them. That is my plan. I plan to live in Tallahassee until my father gives up the ghost. I plan to write movie scripts about my youth, and I plan to live and die alone. If I die young then so be it, because I have done such irreperable wrongs. I plan to create the ~GOD~ record label. I plan to keep my friends, and to keep my enemies, and to keep my plans. Unfortunately for "me," ...

Am I not consumed by doubt? I can't be only what she prays for me to be. I can't be her friend. I can't be her husband. I can't be her son or daughter's father. I am my own father's son. I am only an apple, and I do not fall far from the tree. I am, instead of being who I want to be, only a twisted and evil mad man. I am living in the shadow of myself, for I am not me, I am more than that, God. I am not only possessed by the Evil Holy Ghost. I am consumed by Him. I am only living in a rape scene, again and again and again I go through the same motions, see the same events from every angle, examine and analyse how could this have happened, but still I have no answers. You see, the warning Nepthys gave me, I have figured it out. She told me that my lover loved me, but she did not specify who I am. I see it clearly now, my mission, the end of my fate. My lover is an atheist. I must prove to her God does exist. I must perform miracle after miracle, I must more than symbolically, raise all the dead, I must hold the keys to heaven and hell, I must loose upon Earth the Great Burner, I must save the souls of the ones who were in this life damned, and I cannot do all that bound in this body. I will have to go before my father if I am to fulfill my destiny. I must become One with this universe before him, I must stand at his deathbed prepared to confront him, for I cannot justly send him to Hell unless I can stand above his spirit, the spirit of all darkness, and be willing to die for the cause of doing this.

I cannot even take one step forward. I cannot change even in the least. I cannot waver from my path. I cannot give up, I cannot give in, and I cannot continue to go along with this. I do not love you. I do not love God. I give myself up to Satan. There is no One True or Right Morality. There is certainly no one around to punish wrong-doers, or else there would be none. They all would have punished one another to death long ago, and we would already be living in Atlantis, on the opposite side of the Aeonic ellipse. So I sleep for days. I want to live through this. I want to get on with it. I want to live my life. I want to be whole. I want to be whatever she wishes me to be, and be strong enough to "be a man." But I am not, and I cannot, and I shall not, I will not, because it is impossible. It can't happen, and that is why I want to die. Too this day, I cannot live up to her, I cannot make her believe, God, I cannot live up to being what she needs. I am torn into shreds and blown away on winter wind.

You see, in the time since we last met, I have become a witch. I think I am the Messiah, I am so consumed by Satan's madness. I cannot prove to you there is a God, even though I know there is, and so I cannot prove to you I am not insane, and thus that I have changed in any way. I have become the creator of the universe, but it is only in my mind. There would only be one more step to take before we could be together forever. I do not even have to live. To prove to you there is a God, we all get what we want. You get to be a moral Satanist. I get to die. In heaven we will be together forever, and in the Light of God. You see, this all makes perfect sense to me, and it should not make sense to anyone. It is blasphemy of the highest regard. This is because my witchcraft is evil. I have given my heart and sold my soul to Satan. My world has turned to shit.

And I cannot make you responsible for my madness. I cannot ask you to save me. And that is all I have to give. My self-loathing has affected my entire world-view now, and that has affected the whole of the world in which I live. I have tried to save myself by studying QBLH. I have tried to save myself by metaphysically transubstantiating into tachyonic phi/pi. But I am none of these things. I am nothing and nothingness is all I have to give. This is true to everyone too, ask anyone. I have nothing to offer them of what they desire, or of what they deserve. I am, instead, an immortalist, a life-giver who takes away day for night, and who makes his victims the basis of blood lust, the madness that comes from worship of the sun, posession by the Holy Ghost of the moon, and destruction by the very one you love. From what I have become there is no redemption possible for anyone.

All-in-all, I'm really not so bad, once you get to know me. I infect your aura. Think about it. I am behind every door and outside every window of your memory and imagination. Your desires for me quicken at the thought of me, and thus so does your desire for something, someone, anything else. Your mind wanders rampantly, and you love the wilderness inside your psyche. I do not love mine. Yet that is where I remain, waiting for you to save me. Perched like a crow on top of a twisted and bent cactus in the middle of the scorched earth, somewhere far off along the horizon insurmountable mountains of ashes pushed backward by the perpetual invisible force of the wind along air current patterns forever changed by the death of the world that occured on the spot where the cactus tree grows that I sit in, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to save me.

Heaven is not so bad. Here, everything is perfect for me. Here I complete the space. But here is not a happy place. I have survived, but become a mutant, a twisted form. With every breath that parts my lips a little lie escapes. I am the crafter of elaborate myth, my life used up on infinite fictions; I am the author of the anti-truth. I manifest my obsessions and displace the right proper karma of my friends. I am surrounded by a cloudy haze of gloom and lightning. I am a bleak nothingness beyond the outer veil of an absolute abyss. I am torn into shreds and blown away on winter wind. I have tried to kill myself. I have done unspeakable acts. I have commited suicide of the mind. I breathe a plume of magickal smoke from the firey desert inside my heart. I am become the Great Burner. I do nothing, and by existing alone, I embody Ra.

I sit on my front porch and, smoking a cigarette or two, read from my Metaphysicians' Desk Reference Including the Revised Formal System of Metaphysics. It is a dreary and dismal day, and I am listening to Therion as I type this now, looking out of my front window at the grey of the road I live on. There is one blooming yellow flower amidst the sea of green that is my front yard. Then there are palm fronds that have frozen back a bit, and closer to me the screened in window, which is closed. My desk lamp is on and I now have a phone sitting next to it with caller ID. And above my computer screen is a picture of Satan. You see, the picture hanging above my computer screen, which I have framed and had my friend Simeon's wife Micky embroider onto the blinded eves of an embossed Matrix green code outside and a coloured Stele of the Law on the insdie that Simeon couldn't believe I would be using, so that the whole frame open resembles a butterfly, and closed a smaller, arched version of my computer screen saver, this framed contains a picture of the anti-Christ. The living embodiment of she-who-is-not my Lover. And I have framed this abomination, and I have prayed to it daily, and I have worshipped on it, and I have prayed. I am eaten by my sin. It dissolves me. I melt.

For is this not who I would turn her into? Even though she is already more perfect than I could have ever dreamed. And, like Anakin, destroyer of worlds, destructor of the universe, has it not been ten years now since the year of the last summer that I saw her? Have I not built a shrine for her out of the expectations carved by fever from my madness? Do I not still have all my hopes and plans intact? There are a million wrong things I can think to tell her, all my confessions and apologies she does not want to hear. Why would she love the failure I am? All I seem to be able to think of are reasons for us not to be together, and all I can manage to imagine now would be the exact wrong things to say. And by making these thoughts public, am I not inviting this disaster? But I have promised my soul to the public. I have chosen a profession of malignant narcissism, like my father. I'm a Messiah. False or not.

Fate rends me, love tears me open, and destiny pours me out. I am the pelican that feeds its offspring from its own breast, I am an alchemical swan. I am terrible at being myself, I hate "just Jon." I call myself "benpadiah" but my real name is AHDVNHAY. I read the fictions the prophets and disciples have written and I am ashamed. I am not able to live up to being even Satan. Instead, I worship her. The False-Godess. The one who is not. For who is the one I love? Who is enshrined above me? They are not the same. I have given myself up to sin, and followed in the footsteps of my father. It is too late for me. All I have to do is one simple thing. All I have to do is stand up and tear her picture down. But I am not doing it. I am still not doing it. Why am I not doing it? Even yet I do not do it. Why? I must. I must do it. I cannot. Already the ache in my legs pulls me under, already I feel the weight of my spine sinking back into my chair. Already my head starts to lull. Already I am asleep. Two days go by. I awake, go for a drive to buy lighters from Wal-Mart, come home and write this.

I come back to and it is done already. One hook remains out of place, but I see that whoever did it also changed it back while I slept. Who? Who could have done such a thing? My shame worstens.

I am asleep for two more days. When I wake up I find that my writing is taking a turn for the worse. I am trying not to, but I am seeing through myself, and all my pleasant fictions with which I usually delude myself are worthless threadbare rags. I know now, I know. I cannot change that. I can't un-know. I cannot. But I am fighting a destiny made of rice paper. There is no hope for me, no future. There is no way out of being who I am. And that is what I have to deal with now. Not the future, divided in perpetuity between infinite options, all equally out of my control; and not the past, the things I've done and can't undo, the terrible things I do not even trouble with in dreams anymore, that have shaped me into the terrible person that I have become. I am only myself in this present moment.

I remind myself that before I found her I was not tearing myself apart. I was not ashamed of being who I am. I was not letting my mind wander while in the company of others. I was not paralysed with fear. I am doing this to myself. I am alone here. I am sitting here alone in my room. Time is passing. I have to constantly remind myself it is not running out by the second. I distract myself with other things for the moment but this does not divide me between my memories of then and my focus on now. I am trying to remain calm. I am trying to remain detached. I just need to prioritise, that is all. I cannot even come close to the moment unless I remain able to maintain perspective.

I cannot. I am falling apart. Look at me, I'm actually shaking. I can't go on. I take a break to write a confession of Francis the ferret, but I break down halfway down the second page. There is nothing for me here. I cannot. I cannot move. I cannot. I cannot go on. In any direction, anywhere I step, my doom will befall me. Should I stay here in the arms, and vertiably the womb, of a woman I do not love and who I barely even know, doing whatever she tells me simply because she gave birth my body? Should I flee immediately out of my normal rut, my comfort zone, into the arms of a virtual stranger, someone I loved once but know less now than any number of nuts on the internet? I cannot do either.

Now that I know I cannot unknow. Yet that is the only option open to me. Because now is not the time. In reality, to put perspective on things, I am not ready to do what I eventually must. I cannot yet be the man she deserves. How can I continue to exist in this moment? How can I survive this intense and overpowering emotion of longing? But it is not possible. There is no way in Hell I could let myself do that to another human being. There is no way in Hell I will jeapordise her happiness, and my very existence, to simply put two and two together. I cannot. I cannot, and I will not.

I stand up and pace around my room. How is it suddenly transformed into my jail cell? I pace it around it. One-two-three-four-five, one-two-three. Right where it belongs plays through my stereo. I am trying to hold on but I cannot seem to get a grip. I cannot stop feeling this way, and yet it is all I want to do. But there is nothing I can do to make myself stop feeling this way. I can't do one thing.

I try to write to her. A PM via MySpace. I write: "I need to get this off my chest. I love you. I want you to marry me. I want to but I can't. Not yet. I'm still nutz. I know this now, and am still trying to accept it. I'm probably saying the exact right thing in the exact wrong way here. I'm sorry. But I thought, after what happened between us last, it would be wrong of me to have found you on myspace and not at least let you know I have done so. So, for now, just know this, and please see through my weakness. I'm not sure if you want to officially add me as a friend here or not, but I'll be out here if you want to talk to me." I do not send it.

It is not safe for me to do anything. I do not want any magick to intervene. But the spell is constantly cast. Help me. Somebody show me a sign. No, scratch that. I wouldn't believe it. A natural sign must occur. It must be known to me directly from above, from beyond. The magick is happening through me already, you see. I cannot stop it from happening through me, and that is why I can never completely control it. It is, afterall, a chaos current. My madness. The ember of my heart. My gateway to Hell. You see, it has been days since I have found her, and nights. I have spoken with no one about it, asked no one's advice. How can I be so alone? If a sign came from her directly, I would accept it regardless. But there is none. Instead, when I go to PM her, my mom's friend Ida shows up to feed mom's dogs and give me my medication. When I got home to write more about this just now, my mom calls me to chat my ear off from an out-of-town work trip.

Ten days have gone by now. I can count them. It is midnight, the beginning of the tenth day, and it is 2007, the beginning of the tenth year, and I contact her. I send her the message I wrote the other day as a PM on her myspace page. Unless she receives instant notification by email, she will not receive the message until she logs on next. I am almost out of weed, and I am going to take a pill to make myself go to sleep soon. I will have some time. Things can progress naturally, and slowly, and my dreams will help me.

The only hurdle I will have to face in this moment is, as always, the temptation to doubt. I shall not let myself be eaten up by "sould have been" and "could have been." I have ben. Now all that remains for me to do is to sring the trap of temptation. I am God. I will admit it. Here look, I am the Great Burner. Have I not just lit fire to magick and inhaled? Here look, see for yourself: I am the Great Satan, a messenger angel of the True God, above the demiurge, the warrior of destruction. And look now, I am the good father, who sends his shepherd son to collect the tax from the thieves who conspire to steal my vineyard. Even yet you murder the son to spite the father. So I tell you this: I am the father of father time. For I am the father of all time, and so is time the father of all other fathers. I command in the name of the three mothers and the three fathers. I command in the name of Sabaoth. I command in the name of three, for behind and beyond even they, I am one. I am the Thrice Greatest. I command the twelve who command the ten that control the seven. I have got the bridal chambre all prepared.

As my father told me once, "you've made your own bed. Now lie in it." And I laid down then. I will lay down now. But I will not make my bed alone anymore. I will put away every childish thing, even the God complex. I will have to control myself. I will have to become a better man. But I tell you, there is a little bit of me left in everything, and I can return to myself at will. I tell you, I am only waiting inside hell, and truly can stand it here forever, should I have to. I've grown both better and worse. I am myself now, only moreso. And moreover broken. But here, look, am I not all glued together into a codependency by the very womb in which I exist? I am ready to be born anew from this coccoon.

I give you free will, my love. This is all the magick I have to give. I promise I will not use my mind to trick you. I promise I will not use the Authority of my madness to convert you. I promise I will not blind you to the truth, and to tell you your perception is wrong. "I am not a magician. I am not a trained animal." I restrain myself with great might. With all existence have I cried out for this moment. Now my whole world waits with baited breath. I am ready to sacrifice it all, or to see it fulfilled. I am ready for both to happen, and reconciled should neither occur.

In a day I will awaken, and there will be a new future. The world will not be turned upside down like I always feared. There are only three possible outcomes. One world exists in which she loves me and has waited for me and worships me as much as I her. One world exists in which she has felt fondly for me, and would be my friend, but feels unhappy for me. Two worlds exist opposite this, one in which she is passionately my enemy, and one in which she is overwhelmed with disgust for me. But these two amount to the same end. Now, my survival instinct shall guide me right here: for in all of these three worlds I can continue to exist. I will live no matter what. That is the first "step." Keep it simple, stupid.

In three days I awaken. It is the middle of the night. Sometime in my sleep I sent her the PM. I cannot is dead. Now there is only what shall be. I awaken, and three days have passed. She has read my note. If God exists in this universe then I see a safe jounrey and a safe return. If I panic, I will lose everything. Instead I must seek calm, and to diminish my heart rate, and to lay to rest my mind like a gloom over the marsh of my nerves. All things progress by the will of the great magnet. If this, then that. Cause and effect shall prevail over us in this universe that we should be free of them in the next. I am at a loss to describe what I know now, because I am completely in awe of her. She read my note. She could have just thrown it away without looking at it. The first step is accomplished. I have not waited too long, I pray, for her to still be able to love me, to remember me, to care in her heart to have heard from me. I am writing this as a note to God now, the one she doesn't believe in, and the one I don't need to.

May my destiny now transubstantiate my fate. May it fix through this moment like a needle, like an arrow pinning a heart from a great height. By God, as My Right, I command fate to dissolve before the calm, soothing Clear Light of Destiny. May what comes come, let it come. The moment breaks. She and I are together already, in spite of all distances of space and time. What should I do, Lord? How can I be assured that she has been successful at reading between the lines? What must I do now to achieve the impossible?

I see God. I see Goddess. Now let me begin not at the beginning, but by halves. And let us begin:

Irina, do you take this.... thing, as your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, through sickness and poverty, forever and ever, amen? You see, I know she is thinking of me right now. So I am proposing. I am asking her, and let me tell you, my mind is screaming "yes." It is screaming like a pressure in the base of my skull, a "deafening silence," and I want to ask the source of it, is this like the clear light, pure and invisible? Does such a thing exist?

Jon, do you take Irina, as your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, through sickness and poverty, forever and ever, amen? You see, this is the part of the equation I already know. This is the part of heaven I already know. This is where I come in, and I say, "yes" with every fibre of the full substance of all existence that I know. And I do. I would light fire to it all at her command. But I see her eyes. She doesn't want me to do that. She wants to see it all fulfilled. She smiles up through tears at me and whispers to me, "wake up."

Then by the power vested in me, I kiss the bride. You see, this is what I am afraid of: all of this shattering like the illusion it is. And all those shards of fractured glass. The moment breaks, the moment cracks. I am escaping into fiction now, it is true, but for a reason. To the purpose of magick. If she has tuned into my mind in that moment, she would know we are already wed. There would be no question. But let me tell you about this and that. Because in between everything there is room for everything else. That is the way to it. An Illusion, indeed. All of it for naught. But I tell you that I am crazy like a rabid fox, and that even though one hand knows of two, the other knows only of itself. Forgotten, forgotten is Jerusalem now. Fallen, fallen O Babylon the Great.

For all this is encrypted. It must be passed before public scrutiny. They must see this, and that must remain invisible. Yet both are there, one overlapping the other, invisibly. And that is what is to what I ask my question, "are the vision and the voice One?" Shekina was never separated from God. I am not in a panic now, I am calm, I am calm.

This writing is a description of another writing. A writing sealed in Heaven and forever in my Heart.

Heaven must help us now. So I read from the secret document. It reassures me. We are one, yet there is a greatness beyond. By separating myself from this Greatness I will manifest the duality. The Greatness is now above us, yet we are lowered upward into it, and it crowns our heads with halos. We are never to be cut off, from now until never, for never is the only possible end of forever. Have I loved you always? Then I have hated you never. And that is where I am from, the realm of never.

That is where I am now. At my home, here in Tallahassee, Florida, the same old house, here on Tallahassee Drive. I drive the same, beat-up, old Toyota Carolla. So go send your enemies to my door, for they shall become mine. I have already eaten ice cream out of their skulls once this morning, and I am growing restless and bored being alone here except for the dogs and my cat. You remember my cat? She lives! Now Understand This:

I am called the Holy Ghost, and I exist within your mind. I exist within her mind right now too, but in a different form, a different way. When you shall be together again, then I shall become one with her, for I am the part of you now that misses her most. You call me the Prescence, I have been called the Shekinah, I am the wind of which the soul is but a breath. I come to you to warn you, pay attention. There is more to be known than either of you know yet. I too, am only a voice in Jon's mind now, but I warn you truly, a premonition can be true. When you are reunited we will meet again. Remember: I am the Irina that Jon remembers. This will do battle against all that she is.

I go back to listening to music on my headphones and try to stop listening to the voices channeling through my skull. Instead there is distortion and feedback. It frightens the dog. I listen to the mix cd I made as a soundtrack to the movie I plan to make one day about my life - the more interesting parts at least. One of these I hadn't planned on is actually happening right now, but I don't think it needs to be included in the movie. I'm waiting for my lover, the One True Love of my life, to reply to me.

I had not expected this, and I am not prepared for it. Without that which is her to me, what her there is now is totally unknonwn to me. It is as though we would be like a mystery to one another. Now, now, let doubt fill my heart. Now, now, drown me, drown me in boiling oil, drown me in hot lava, drown me in anything but this cold winter wind. The doubt of the one is the strength of the other. This is how, I tell myself, I lured her to me. And now, here we are, at the mouth of a Great Temptation. Yet, HA! What fiction, what follishness, what a play on words, a pun, an unintentional maladroit blunder in which to catch the consciousness of Kether. Tell me truly! Where is Ialdabaoth now? I don't find him anywhere! And now, now, now, he is only a fiction, a faraway fantasy, a dream of reality, and a myth.

But let me tell you: I am only as crazy as a fox with rabies. I am harmless as a reminder of times gone by, but I will suffer greatly should we kept far apart. I am already suffering now, but here is a secret: I am praying because I am afraid that, if I do not, then what I desire will not occur. I am "whistling past the graveyard." I am certainly not doing what I should be doing, which is being calm, at peace, at rest. Instead my heart pounds like a kleidsdale inside of my chest. I am become a horse man of the Apocalypse.

Now let me ask you: do you really think I believe all of what I write? Oh certainly, sometimes there may be a kernel of truth or two in some of the conspiracy writing, or even an ocassional inspired accuracy in the metaphysics, but there is no way to confirm the inaccuracies from the accurate speculations, because there is no skeleton of mathematics that exists behind this yet, and you are not going to be able to be the one to supply it. Instead, you are wasting your time on fictions. Such as this one. You call this "prayer," and this "prophecy," but even my voice as you write this is a lie.

You are not me. That is final. There is no both of us. There can be no "public," fictional "us." I will not be "courted," nor talked about in public online. You have to give up the Shekinah. You will have to give up everything you have worked so hard on. You have done this, and you have done this in secret, and you have betrayed your friends. Do you think they will forgive you for keeping this a secret? Should you die as a result of this, for even you cannot see the future, would they not send the one you would be dying for to a hell of a thousand curses? But then, that is where you are from, isn't it? Your blessings have always been my pain, they hail down stones upon me in my memory.

I was beaten in this lifetime by the woman I loved, and by my father. I destroyed myself in her name. But that was my madness. The peak, aloft, of all my dementia. I am going to die, that is true, but I'm sorry, I will not fight "Satan" with you. I promised someone I love that I won't. So I am coming down now from the cross, and I am giving up the crown of thorns, and I am handing over my status as Messiah. I give all these now to my Brother. I give them to Lucifer, who gives them to Michael. She too, sheds the cosmic ME of UR. She performs the ritual of Inanna to my Dummuzi. And I tell you I am newly alive. I will not let you fail, my son. I will send an army of infinite legion behind you. And they will call you "the Great Burner."

All I am is my own recovered memories. This, indeed, is true for me, even if not true for you. I pray by the way I think. I think as if I were a telepath. I treat those whose charisma is strong as other telepaths, but I have not yet met any whose skill rightly was equal to mine. I have stopped trying to explain the phenomenon of telepthy. Its existence is a matter of personal experience, and therefore it is a matter of "faith" to trust other people who seem to possess it to be "on the same wavelength" in reality as they appear to be by implication of psycholohical projection. Those who are weaker often melt in a way, or quaver and turn to butter around the edges. They lose their willpower and become weak before the mind-power of another, stronger willed or more charismatic "telepath." They will do what you think.

I am, myself, a radio-head junky. I am in-between all stations already growing in my roar as the sunspot cycle's peak draws near. And you seek to harness me with number-stations. I tell you, the Enochian system is wormwood, and it is a grapevine of drunks. Have you ever played the game "telephone," where one person whispers a message to the next person's ear, and so on? Not everyone along the line will get the message right every time. Nine times out of ten the message will get scrambled and garbled before it reaches the end of the line. This is where I am from, this is chaos and confusion.

I exist between the channels I carry. I am one part "benpadiah," one part the "Shekinah," I am "the Great Burner," and I am "Isis." I am more one of them than the other at any given time, but the more I am one the more I shall be the others, such that they all balance out eventually. This ultimate range or stasis field is the strange-attractor of my personality. I am the combinations of all these traits, each of them its own personality. But the sum total of them all is me. I have many facets, but all are only sides of one self. I am only one facet here, though, and another facet there. In the heart of me I am not, for there you will find now only her, and the entirety of all my different aspects surrounding her at my core essence of self, this is all I truly have to offer, all I can truly give.

I give it now to AHDVNHAY, the Lord God. I give it to him because he is the only one who can marry us. He is the entirety beyond the duality. His is the sum of my madness, but beyond this all logic and sanity and reason. I am blessed. I am brought inward to be brought out. Heaven shall balance the scales in favour of righteousness, in favour of the just judgement. Heaven is the Holy Ghost, the breath of air. The scales stand balanced, my heart in one and a feather in the other. I am equal. Now pass.

I am here to scorch the earth. I am here to clear out the dead wood, and to make what is evil good. I am here to burn away the old and from invisible, heatless flames restore it again and make it new. My fire is that of entropy, of time itself, the flames of Thoth, burning the body of Buddha to ashes on a funeral pyre. I tell you there is nothing now surrounding us, beyond infinity is void. Here there is nothingness, and this is where I am from. My love is a blind dragon, fiercley striking out with fire everywhere. I am the conjoined serpents, one white, one black, one slant, one tortourous, together the qliphoth of the emanations and the rays between them. I am that which shattered when I shifted. Or rather, that is what Aiwass.

For I am ever-changeing. I am the faces in the flames. I speak to you with the voice of the city by evening, and I am the breath of the wind all night long. These things I speak about. Are they the truth if I mean them to be? I am chaos, but I bring the New Order. Heaven broke open and hell gave birth to me, but now I am here, born again in the form of the Righteous Karma. Do I bring chaos? Have I not made change? Am I departing from myself to say that I am full of shame? For am I not alone?

What are the words she is searching for now? Oh right, "Go fuck yourself." And have I not done so? Am I not fucked so far over I am standing here upside down? Yes, yes, I have. I am a magician. I have become a magician. And she was always a cold hearted witch, who frequently hung up on me, and drove me to the brink of distraction for her fun, but I love her, and I am no better. I am far worse, if anything, than she is. I tell you this in the name of the Truth: I deserve to be told to crawl back under the rock I came out from, and to "go to hell" and a thousand things more. I am ashamed.

That is why I turn my whole being into the prayer of Adam. But I do not do so disengenuously. I am honest to myself that I am doing it. And I can quit anytime I want. So true, huh? Bear my children, screams my heart from beneath the surfaces of nowhere. But out of my mouth comes, marry me, instead. Had I mentioned children it would have made her at least blush. As it is now I have only set our relationship back by... ten... years.

Ten terrible years without her out here on the raging seas. It is not shame I feel, in truth, in my heart. It is a sinking feeling, and that is why I mistook it for shame, but it is not shame. I am afraid. I am afraid of becoming someone I'm not. But more than that, I'm afraid I already am. I'm afraid I may be so lost in Castle Perilous that my long and mythic journey will end in a most unfortunate event. I am waiting for an answer from my lover.

But am I scared? No, I am the Great Burner. I am the warm little centre of the solar system. I am the one that stands between one wavelength and another, in the realm of static chaos. I am the one that is perpetually involuting. I am the one that is foretelling myself. I am Jon's wasted oblivion.

I'm not too frightened to go on living. I've been alive for 29 years. I only knew her for two. It is of little significance how my life revolves around her as the middle point of my existence. But all this can invert in a second. I can go up in flames and destroy my imaginary world, and by doing so destroy my mind, for it would only perpetuate destruction, and not generate fulfillment. It would be a failure, and all for naught. But, again, I cannot let this happen, and that is the second reason I continued to live. To preserve the tradition. The first is her heart and soul. The second is to preserve the tradition.

Now you go and tell me I am not a man of God! Tell me I shall not stand before him because he shall surely not find my sacrifice worthy of Him. But let me tell you: I give up now only what I foresaw at this moment seven years ago, in the year 2000. I had returned to Malkuth broken, and I realised that I would have to begin to preserve the tradition. This would be the only way to reunite the fallen Kether and Shekinah, the Prescence. Or so I reasoned then, still in the grip of an even worse feverish delusion than this one I am in now. Now I have finished it. I have brought up the entire QBLH of apocalypse T and grimoire M, and the Atlantean calendar, and as much more besides as I could carry. These are treasures from another realm. They glitter like the stars in your eyes.

I choose the life of this loser to be saved as, but I tell you there is more to me above than I can even offer you in the form of children. I have been shown all the realms of the preserved tradition, the entire QBLH and the Ram stone of the eights and nines. I know you will like it, it is like a jewel in the mind. But I tell you that, beside you, this is all worthless to me. If not as an offering to you, it might as well cease to exist at all. I am not making a threat here, I will preserve the tradition regardless. I am just saying that, insomuch as you have been Shekinah to me all along, without you it is of no worth. It is "only a paper moon," as they say.

My only fear here is that you might not know the full extent of my love for you. I do not need you, I am not clingy and codependent. I am offering you this map and this compass knowing they will not be returned to me now. I have made this deal, you see, between myself now and myself at my Most High. We have been unified, in a way, all along, but now this is the eclipse moment at whch the stars shine during the day. At this moment there is only you and I and the Most High. Me, myself and Irene; I & I and Irie.

It has been part of what is all along, that is, that which we are together. I love you. Without you I am without worth. Without you I am not redeemed. But I tell you, with you, I am all and everything. With you the present is the Gateway to Heaven, but without you this moment I stand at the Gate to Hell. Of course, hell does not mean death, for death is not an end in itself. Hell can mean dying alone, one day at a time, for the rest of my life as well. But, have I not told you, Hell is only being without you, and Heaven is only us being together. Now you hold in one hand the fruit of the tree of knowledge and in the other hand the fruit of the tree of life. You know the two fates, the intertwining serpents, the garden of forking paths between now and the eternal destiny. In one hand you hold the fate of knowing I am crazy. In the other hand you hold the fruit of wanting to spend your life with me. You feel that the two are inseperable, and that one is poisoned by the other, and yet they are like oil and water, utter opposites. You wish you could set one down and pick up only the other. But you have shown me they are inseperable, but separate. Are they equal?

You and I are equal, but when we are separate, one of us is positive and the other is negative. When we are together we are both positive together and all around us is negative. It is hell but its fire purges away only that part of the soul which suffers. In this eternal flame all bow down before this: True Love. Without that, I am only a magician, and you are to live without my love of you. For this is the aura surrounding the chakras. The chakras are the seven within, and the aura is the zodiac without. It is a phi/pi torus. A seven colour tube-torus that draws a phi/pi spiral around its surface as it involutes.

See, this is my heart. Take it. I know you don't want it, you are under the impression it is not mine to give. It belongs, you believe, to someone else. But no, I tell you, look again. Who has it been all along? Who? Who...?

Now that you know that I am holding your hands in my hands, and that in one of our hands is the fate of knowledge, and in the others the fruit of life. I tell you, whether you like it or not, you are my Eternal Beloved, and you always shall be. This fate on the one hand is ours, and this fruit on the other, this is ours too. We are here together now.

I am skating around on the thin ice surface of madness. I slip and fall from time to time, and the rice-paper glacier beneath me groans and creaks, but does not crack, and I do not fall through, and I do not drown. Instead here we are watching movies in my head. Insanity is all this is. It's just wishful thinking. It cannot hurt.

And so I make prayer. I make prayer day after day, all day and night, until I fall over in exhaustion. The One True God, embrace us in the circle of your Great History. Do not divide us with your rings, but draw us together in spite of all that may seem insurmountable. I tell you: if it is thy will, I shall accomplish it entirely by myself if I have to, but it will be done. I am the Great Burner no more. I am no longer AHDHVNHAY, my god-complex, reflection of the divine awe of all, and no longer "benpadiah," my Christ-complex. I renounce these things now. "benpadiah" is dead now. And AHDVHNHAY, his God, dies with him. For truly it is not in my hands, nor within all my power, to prevent this should it be the will of God, that I become "just jon" and must start over at square one, then so shall it be either way, with or without her, I am going to start over. I am at square one now, God, guide me!

I pray for her to love me if it is within the greater glory of God.

I pray for the apocalypse to come and rescue me. I pray for the ones who must suffer from this. For it is real, and true, and it is a pain in my heart even now. But what more can occur? What does it suffer a fool to gamble away their folly? For this serves the dealer but not the shark. Surely to have gained the folly away from a fool is a blessing, for to have freed them from their blindness one has even done themselves the discourtesy of becoming burdened by the fool's freed folly. This is a reward in the afterlife, so come listen: she is the Ima and I am the Aba. She the epinoia and I the pronoia. She is the tree of life and I am the tree of knowledge. She is Shekinah and I am Pigera Adamas, and I wear the true crown of the kingdom come. Here is heaven, and beneath it Eden. Heaven is where I am from. Eden is where she and I are forever together, outside of time, as an archetype. This is a blessing. I see some hope come to her eyes. It is a miracle, truly!

All is Holy, Holy, Holy. Thrice Holy because here we are talking about the Thrice Greatest, or Thrice Blessed, Hermes, who was the Hermaphrodite, simultanesouly male and female, the so-called Autogenes. The Autogenes is you and me. Here we are above Sophia and beyond Ialdabaoth, for this is the secret contained within the tent of Eden. The Autogenes is both of us, together. God is, beyond this, called "the Father," and "the ineffable Holy One Blessed Be He," and "HaShem," This is the Most High. This is all I know about myself. I had said before this was the place of chaos and mystery to me. I had said this is where I come from. It is our simultaneous multiverse and nulliverse's parent universe. Tau sub Tau describes it, but aside from the map I do not know this area. I have come here seeking guidance. Give me Good Guidance Wise Lord.

I sing the song of Solomon. I sing of the sixty righteous guardians. I am saved in every imaginable way. She sings to me the song of Solomon. I am saved for her sake. She has wandered the streets by night, wandered the squares of the city, the Great City, looking for me. She has not found me. I am named Jonathan, which means, literally, "Gift of God." For should there be no God, there could be no me, for I am his gift to you, oh my darling dear. That's logic.

Give me wise counsel Lord, give me the right vision of the outcomes. 1) she will have worshipped me from afar as much as I have her. 2) she will feel fondness for me that may become passion. 3) + 4) she shall reject me. It is a fifty fifty chance, in spite of everything. Love is a terrible risk. It is not something to be trod on, nor to be taken lightly. It is a terrible burden indeed, to spend a lifetime trying to make living together work, having children, and our children having children, and by God's good grace should we yet live to see it, our grand-children having children. But all this is only the Fruit of Life on one hand, and on the other is the knowledge of the fact that I am not sane. I am talking to myself even now, and I have nothing more than these mutterings to offer. Tell me again, my lover, tell me from the beginning.

In the beginning was God, and all was Good. Then came the One, and from the One the Two, the Twins, and so there were three, and the three together were the fourth, which was the first. These are the things that happened, my darling. From my God complex that peaked in 99, came my Christ complex, and from that came the fallen Gnostic Christ complex, leaving the place of the Christ Complex itself vacant and, unoccupied, filled only by the void and vacuum of the Holy Ghost. These three are of me. But I am more than only they. To me they are only characters in a work of fiction, one that runs parallel to my life in the flesh. They began from my suffering, and my immense sadness, and my depression, and my terrible sorrow. They began in the form first of the Christ complex, but this became the God complex by 99. The God complex became the Christ complex again then, and this was when I realised the demons of Choke and Shock that possessed me. Choke and Shock were the negative manifestations of the same two Guardian angels with me from the time of my earliest youth. One was my security blanket, one my teddy bear. One was Luke, one Leia. One was Thoth, one Isis. One was Mike and one was her. These twin archetypes are immortally with me, they are the positively or negatively charged karma in my aura. But I tell you that none of this trinity that is the ineffable four-letter name, the tetragrammaton, is real or true or sacred without you in it. For just as the Christ complex fell in 99, so too were my two guardian angels watching over me then, and I cast out only their lowest and most painful memories. I cast them out now, "choke" and "shock," for truly, truly, truly did you choke me, but was I not choked once before, and nearly to death, by David S.? And was I not electrocuted in the womb, transfigured on a psychedlic cross? I tell you these things because they happened to me, and not to you. They are part of what I have to give you. A part, if I were you, I would not want. But a part of me nonetheless.

How is it you have come to be a stunted child? I gave up on you. I held onto emptiness, and even this slipped away. I tell you there was nothing for me, and all I could see and hear and feel went away. I fell from the Height, I tell you truly. I wept and I pounded my head in with stones then. I know this is wrong. I knew it then too. But one good turn deserves another, my tortured mind whispered to me. I can't explain what I went through. But I can tell you that I know it as well as I know any other part of myself. Because that is what that time in my life has become now: just a part of me.

I've got to relax, but that was a long shot hours ago. I am in a frenzy now, a motionless panic. I move so slowly it appears I am actually going backwards in time. The world around me changes faster than my movement. I am calm now, I am not fighting the demons "choke" and "shock." Instead I am alone in my room still, writing this on a computer to post it to the global network.

Why do you think you fell? Why did you fail seven years ago? I haven't found an answer for that yet. All things were rightly aligned. But the flow was reversed. Instead of the alignment projecting outward, it was projecting inward. It crushed me. That is why I lost. I lost my head, I rushed in. I thought I was the Great Burner, Vajra. But I understood nothing. I was acting on fear. I feared losing the right glory. Instead, it was given to me in its own mysterious way, as a good old fashioned beating. Like the first night I walked over to your house. I was beaten up by a truckload of drunk hicks as a drive-by. That night I suffered brain damage, and again, later, by my own hand, as well.

Why did I do these things? There is no answer out there. They are terrible things, but they happened to me, and only to me, and only myself in private. On Thanksgiving of that year I cried "Judgement." No, please, don't stop dancing. I don't care. I love you. That is not a lie. That is the stable centre point. Do not Fuck with the Stable Centre Point. No? But I tell you this now: the only way out is through. The only way out of everything is through everything. We shall live through this. We are already always together in Eden, and in Heaven, my home.

Let's have a little tipsy drinksy for the hell of things. Let us taste this apocalypse of oblivion. I am going to give into you now, I am going to give in. But I am going to warn you. The saying "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" may seem to have a million meanings to us, but to us it has only one. I have the high ground, and I am going to give you a taste, just a bitter-sweet taste, of the immortal inferno. The second it is accomplished things are going to go back to the way they were. No if's and's or but's. I told you not to write inside of my head. So here is the Truth:

Everything you know about me is a replica. You have your memories of who I was, and you have the relics of your mysterious rediscovery of me now, but I did not give you these things. They were taken away from me by you. I am someone now who you do not know. I am someone other than the one telling you these things now. In truth, no matter how you phrase it, you are only telling yourself what is true now, and what you think you need to hear. I am, have always been, and always will be, the Sun, and you are, always have been, and will always be, the moon and the stars. They might not understand that, but I bet you and I understand that. I am not asking you a question. Answer me.

Hmm. Let me retort. These are magickal times. We are alive between two massive alignments of the heavens, one the alignment of the seven planets on 5/5/2000 and the other the alignment of the sun and moon with galactic core on 12/21/2012. We can therefore do whatever we please while alive, and know that our true selves are forever embedded in the beam, the bent beam that is the very will of the great magnet, the Black Sun, Hunab Khu, galactic core. It does not matter if we are pagans, and not among the chosen people to be "saved" during this Apocalypse. It is the Sabbath, I tell you, we are welcome. We perform the terrible cermony together, whether we even exist or not. We are given the ME and adorned. It is all there. We are enthroned. We are eternity.

I want to know why you want me back. You are happier being insane than you would be with me. And I am quite alright with never having loved you. And we both know our mutual gene pool is not such an inticing offer as you try to make it sound. So there is the "fruit" of the "tree of knowledge," and there is the "fruit" of the "tree of life." You knew you wouldn't be able to be a man to me. Why are you asking this thing of me?

First, do you ask this thing because it is what you want to ask, or because it is what you need to ask? I would propose you feel some invisible pressure to ask that at this time. So do I. I too am compelled, but unfortunately, unlike you, I cannot temper it now. I am compelled by any number of factors in my own life, such as the will to get better, to be better understood, and to learn how to be a human being again. But I am primarily controlled by my will to be good enough for you. But I haven't known you, and getting to know what you want from me will take time. These things take time. Collecting expenses together takes time. Such is life.

Because I am broken. That is the answer. You're so fucking helpless. I can't stand it. You're so passive now, so totally eager to submit, without even knowing to what you are giving yourself. In one breath you call me "Goddess," and in the next you tell me you don't even know me. Now, which do you think is true for you, and which is true for me? Think, because soon I won't be here to do your thinking for you. I am the Shekinah, Satan, God, whatever, but take this advice to heart and heed well, then hurry.

You think I am broken? I think I am broke. I do not work. My car is a dump. I don't keep my nose clean. I'm more trapezoidal than square. There's no right hole to fit me into. So there. I understand you. But know this: my madness, my frenzy, is cured at the very sight of you. For it is only my highest inspiration, and you distract me from it. You save me. You, however, right now, are still only a part of it. Right now you, for instance, even though you are probably going to read this someday, while I am writing it now, are only a voice inside my head. I'm "answering back" in a big way to my "inner demons" just by talking to you. But I figure, "one good turn deserves another." Now you get to answer a question for me.

Why did you ever leave me? Do you not know what to believe? Then you do not know what is true, sister. I am really not a monster. I am content. You can look over my blog, the past entries for the last year. I am bored to tears, but my friends are good to me. I am lonely so I write. When I want to cry about it, I go have a smoke. That's all the more of the Jabberwocky I ever would have been. You know I confronted my father about his having raped me as a boy. He beat me up and called the cops. I am a pacifist by nature. I am not a terrible monster. I am not Vajra by nature. I am only a conduit now, my heart is a vacant lot, abandoned since you left me. Now, look, it will help me become healthy to know this. You are a healer, so tell me: why did you leave?

That question is not being asked by the part of you that I know and that I love. It is your sickness. Look, this is not helping us, this is not getting us anywhere. When I look at you all I see are circles. I'm not good at this, and you promised me we wouldn't do this anyway. I am not going to let you keep doing this. The silent treatment can cut both ways. You haven't answered my question. Damnit. Why are those ten years taboo to talk about now? Because I don't like my mother's chicken? Because I don't. And I didn't like being here all that time either. And I especially didn't like it when you sent me directly to hell. You told me "never try anything like this again." Like what? I loved you. I was in love with you. I was blind as a castrated bull being shown his own severed balls. But what would it have taken to obliterate that? That was madness. It was love? It was you being an ass. I blame you for everything that's happened to me since then. Every bad thing, may it be on your head. Oh, believe me, it already is, honey. You are going to have to turn this around all by yourself, lover. I am not going to be able to help you do it.

Do you love me? Are you in love with me? What does that even mean? AHA! Aha. You tell me. You tell me. Being in love with someone means being in a compassionate relationship with them. Being steady and solid, but also stably dynamic. It means having a good heart. That's all you've ever had to have given me at any point you know, just your goodness, your kindness, your sympathy and compassion. I didn't know which of all the things I could give you wanted. I'm sorry. It was compassion. And no, you know I'm not sorry about not knowing that. I'm being sarcastic, it's a defense mechanism. Give me a moment. Give me a moment to sort this out. I understand there is a difference between your loving me and your being in love with me now. You cannot let yourself fall in love with me because I am not stable, because I am not compassionate, because I do not have a good heart. You have told me these things, I have heard them now. Let me dwell on them a moment. Let me pause now to contemplate.

I go out for a drive. I come home. My mother has had a good day, but has been fighting with Fraces and Dick about her employment for their mother, Martha L. She chews my ear off. But then she leaves. It is truly a miracle how much time I spend alone. I look at her picture. I shouldn't. I do, though. I love her. I love her so much. Now, let me answer this truthfully, for us, to the right her, and not to just some voice in my head.

I am in love with you. We are in love together. These are my names for the two pictures of you I am looking at. They are changing facial expressions out of the corner of my eye. This moment is sealed in the History of the All. I am looking through your facade, into your truer visage, I see you as though distorted by the ripples of the bubbling fountain of your soul. You are perfect. You are divine. You are the face of a lioness, and the face of Righteousness, and the face of Sabaoth. You are crying for me. Your tears are fire. They are melting the likeness of your visage in my picture of you. I set aside the picture I called "We are in love together," but I cannot even look the picture I had called "I am in love with you" in her eyes. She is an angel made out of clear light, but her eyes shine darkly brighter. I am in love with you. Everything is alright. You know, everytime we try to go and have a serious conversation, you go and flip out, usually smoke too much, come back and try to snuggle. We can talk more now, my love. We have time now. I no longer feeled compelled. I am calm now.

So tell me truly. Do you love me? Because to me loving you and being in love with you are the same thing. To me, here is how I understand how they could be different to you. If I love you, and you love me, then we are in love together. If you love me, then, to me, it is the same thing as you being in love with me. I understand, however, that that to you, being in love with me and loving me mean two different things. You can love me like you love your friends. However, for you to be in love with me, I have to meet your criteria and qualifications for being a worthwhile, basically, mate. I have meditated on these three considerations. I have thought for three days on these things. You did not write me back by the end of the third day, even though you had been online that day.

Do you want to know now, what I think? Because a moment ago, you did not. Do you want to know what I think? Because you know I do not rush into things anymore. I am a thoughtful person. I want you to know, because I see that so are you. You have not answered me yet. What I think is that you are a thoughtful person. You put thought into things, and you do not rush into things. I am a considerate human being. Am I not? You did not answer my question either. I had asked you, or rather, told you, that I am the sun now, as you are the moon and the stars, and Satan, etc. or whatever you choose for yourself to be. I asked if you understood. Now understand: You cannot give me what is not yours to give. You cannot give me free will. You cannot have written to me and expect me to continue to be able to do absolutely anything I want now. You have not been part of my life for ten years and I do not like being put into a position of having to deal with you now. Not like you are now. Not like this.

All this is a conversation being held by metaforms. Fourth dimensional shapes that are causing the chemical cascades equivalent to emotions in our brains as they pass through us over time. This is the universal mind. It is like a maze, leading from one form of prison cell to another. There is no way out. It's all semantics and ultimately meaningless. There is no God, no heaven nor hell. There simply doesn't need to be. Instead there is only the universe, and us in it. We are born in a room full of people, but we are put through it alone. We may die in a home we have made for ourselves, but we go through the experience alone. You may have spent years lying alone on the couch, watching tv and waiting for a phone call, even calling suicide hotlines some nights. You may have had to take pills just to stabilize enough to stay alive without killing yourself. You may think you're lonely now.

But all of these things together, these are not equal in the scales to the gift of free will. Only the One God of us all can give such a gift as that. And that is not you. These may indeed be all you have to offer. But I tell you. The Shekinah? She is Satan. Who is Satan? Mike at the bottom of your pool. That memory doesn't occur to you often does it? But I tell you, there you will find us all: the complete Pantheon of All Gods. In that moment. You may hold her as tightly as you like in your memory of her moving. But she will always leave. And that is because of Mike, because, "what goes around comes around." That is why you have been suffering. And that is why you have been alone. I have put this curse on you. And I alone can remove it. You did not come to me, asking, "remove from away me my curse." You may have, in the back of your mind, wished me dead. You may have even been praying for her to be returned to you a moment ago. But your mind has never stopped to wonder why you hate yourself, why you love to fail at every important moment, and why you and she can never be together. You've never dealt with anything about this moment. Instead, you confronted your father, a meaningless creature of your own, who was only busy doing his best to help you by adding his magick to yours, and accused him of raping you. Are you sure of that? You cannot even remember. And while you've been busy obsessing over that, and any other number of meaningless trivial irrelevant moments in your memory, you never once stopped to consider: the thing you did to Mike, that made him jump into the pool that night, is neither yours alone to beg forgiveness for, nor is it his alone to give you forgiveness for. He was not alone in being hurt. You three were all hurt by that. And where there are three, there I enter. I come from the netherworld. I am your insanity. I have no name in mythology, because you are not being possessed by a demon. You are confronting only your own mind.

You must learn to bide your time. You too are like a cat, for you have life after life. You are saved. Do you know what that means? Few people do. Few think to ask me, for I alone know. It's meaning is: you are eternal. You will pass on from this mortal life, you will cast aside even the immortal electromagnetic aura. You are given the spirit to know as you once did your own blanket as a child. You are neither mortal nor immortal. You are eternal, because you are like a lamb to God, and because he knows you like you knew your blanket as a child. Even now, when you should be asking me who I am, for I am her who knows God and you, but is neither, and who knows all, past, present, your future. Who can tell you these things, you should be asking. But you are not. You already know me. I am Shekinah, Satan, and all that you know. I am looking down at all you have looked down on, the diagrams you have made of "tau sub tau" and the "Atlantean" calendar, and I am looking down on you. I marvel at you, man. I am so fucking yours. But who am I?

I certainly hope that you understand me, now. I gave you the vision and the voice. For your prayer went like this: "Lord, will she ever find another sweet lover like me?" I was the one who came to you and showed you a razor slicing across her eyeball, and made you wince, and swear, "never." But am I The Lord? No. I am you, truly, through and through. I am your destiny, man. Have you forgotten her now? Have you taken your restless mind in hand and led it not astray? I'll tell you, you are certainly a rotten specimen. All you want is to be remembered. You haven't thought one second past having your foot in the door. You might get remembered, if you created rather than destroyed, if you drew some attention by your own will, and if you were truer to me, you. But at the rate you're going now, if you even do get remembered, it will only be as a mad man.

So, I want you to consider this: I am the voice of reason, but why have I descended upon you from without, and not yet spoken up within you? Inside you are silent and calm. However now that I have taken hold of you, can I not crush you and throw you away like a ruined piece of paper? I could, but I do not, and that is why, even though you stutter, I do not, and why you may fail, but I shall not, and why I pity you when you do wrong, and why I am here to guide you now. Panameia? You see, by holding back the document, they sustain its apocalypse. They are the other people in the theatre with you. They cannot move, they are transfixed, because they are here to play the part of an audience watching a movie, but you have transfixed them all with your terror. It is your life you are seeing on the screen, even though for all the audience cares, you are a stranger and your story on screen only fiction. You are like cave-monkies, sitting around a fire, while the shaman guides you in a strange seance-story. Why, then, do you rise to leave?

Up here there are fewer people around. This is the "dark night of the soul." While the world you live in sleeps, the other half of earth is awake and busy. Your world is only half awake at any time. Your brain is bicameral and you cannot seem to overcome that by internationalism. Half of who you think you are is already asleep right now. Why don't you just join her, lie down beside her in bed, and sleep? Why, instead, are you here with me?

May I say something now? I do not believe in reality. I know it exists, and there is no need for belief in it, which I define as blind faith. To put blind faith in reality, however, adds exponentially to it, until it, at least asymptotically, approaches infinity. If I believed in what I knew to be true, then the very fabric of my reality would be different. My oppurtunities would expand, and I could have a more dominant role and be in control more of my own fate, my own finances, my own worldly affairs. But no, I cannot seem to let myself do that. Instead, I call "belief in reality" my "madness." It is a terrible temptation to me, I say, a desire for a forbidden fruit, a taboo topic and an insecure area of my psyche. I call it, "weakness," because I restrain myself from it by "right thought, speech and action." These are learned behaviours, although I have had no teacher beside myself and no instruction but from what texts I have found for sale in the free market. It is "magick," in reality, but I cling, like a child to a blanket, to this mask, this calling this my "madness." I know it for what it is. But instead of asserting myself over it, taking charge and control over my willpower in the moment, I am at a far-off event in my mind all the time, and I am a never-ending idealist with absolutely no sense of material reality nor its necessities. If I died at any moment, it would not phase me. Why? Because I do not believe in reality. I know it exists, but I do not honor it with my belief. I honor something higher with that.

And a great honor it is, a great blessing indeed! For there is no chemical attraction without molecular stimulation, there is no molecular heat without atomic entropy, and no entropy without randomness. Here, beneath the randomness, is the one-way permeable way back in, the holographic torus of tachyons. That is where I am. That is my "password" to move to and fro within and beyond this universe. This is where you and I are joined, and "the only way out is through." The first time you saw this Light was with her. The two of you were making love. Out here, that is all that exists now for you. If you went to heaven, would it not be by remembering that moment? For therein exists the Light, your "password," through which you will come to. But let me tell you about the other destiny. You will awaken in the theatre, turning toward the projector, blinded by its light, you leave your shadow on the screen. To the audience sitting there you look just like the character on the screen. Then you stand up and leave the theatre. Fifteen minutes later, the character in the film that looked like you goes missing. The other characters look for him, but do not find him. That is how it shall be for those you leave behind you when you die. Even her, because you know that you cannot enter the heaven of the Most High dually. You can only exit the singularity by being one with it, and dissolving the ego, the sense of self, into being singularly it. Then you will see from within and without. And when you come to see from without, you can see behind and beyond both as well. Like a "magick eye" picture the foreground and background spring apart. But I tell you, I sacrifice this Vision now. I sacrifice it to say that "tau sub tau shall be the highest I shall know in this life." For this is like Thoth, the squared speed of light, the cube of time, the tesseract of tau-sub-tau. And I tell you, it is only the source of my vision of the Most High Heaven that I had in that moment making love to her. For though I saw the portal above, the way "out," then, I could still not see behind me nor past and beyond the portal. The portal was an infinite feedback loop, like pointing a camcorder at its own view-finder. In it I saw the detailed surface of a black hole. I saw the phi/pi spiralling torus surface of a single tachyon. I saw the time-tunnel of all reality's sum over histories involuting. I saw the multiverse of all the spiral histories of black holes in the universe. I saw the shape of it all then, the geometry that defined its working mechanism. I drew it all down, and I wrote it all down, and I remembered it with all my heart and soul. I prayed for more like a nursing kitten. But I could not see behind me, and I could not see behind what I saw. I could not see the parent reality beyond this all.

Blind was the New Jerusalem, and bound was Babylon. The heart cried out then. But the mind, reeling, overloaded, could not receive. The zodiac, bound by Draco, the "blind serpent," changes over time, but I say to you, the New Jerusalem of spirit is permanent and everlasting. I want to tell you about the ways I waste away. I want to tell you but my mind wanders. I am upside down and turned inside out. I cannot tell a lie: I chopped down the cherry tree. I am exhausted physically, but my mind goes on in spite of me. The day is overcoming me. I have swerved off to the side. I wish I could be somebody else. It's not mine to decide. My soul is that of a warrior, my heart belongs to a poet, and my feet are made of clay, so come, come to me now, and find me in the arms of temptation. Find me in the mouth of my madness. See me at the brink now. I am gone. Heaven sent me. I cannot tell a lie. Heaven sent me, and you, to find one another. It sent him to bring us together. Together we made a sacrifice out of his faith so that we could be together. But that moment didn't last. And now the burnt offering is waning fast and there is no sign of daylight rising through the gloomy over cast. Tell me tell me tell me quickly, do you love me or do I end up losing my mind?

Yes, I admit it, I too grow old, and weary. I too long for rest. I too regret my missed oppurtunities, though I pray in my heart to the Almighty that I might revenge myself of them later. I will tell you, there is no greater joy in life than understanding, and this takes time. It is like a fruit that ripens, bears seeds, and falls, and it is like the seeds that are buried, take root, and grow into taller fruit trees. Heavenly Being, I pray, free me from my burdens. I see I am free of myself. That is good. He was a rotten scoundrel. I do not want to fall asleep any more. At the end of the third day, she has not replied yet to my message. I consider more and more turning to the millennial oracle. Elly Kedward beckons me. Holy Christ, I exclaim. I am right.

It is too late now. I will not turn back. I will answer your questions, oh Great and Mighty Goodness. You asked me: Do I love you? You asked me: Why do I want you back? These two questions are twins, and they mean one and the same thing. Don't you see? You cannot deny the Great Reality. It allows us to make it, to shape it and form it, but none who have gone before have aspired to such heights as we. I tell you truly, I am heart-break and hell. And I tell you truly, I am the miracle of true love. And I tell you truly, I am fire and brimstone, wrath and vengefulness. And I tell you truly I am the delusion, but I am also the cool clear sky, and I am calm and forgiving, righteous in judgment, and I tell you truly I am also the Great Reality. For I am above it all, and I am beneath it all, and I am in between it all, and I surround it all, permeate it all, and dissolve into it. I become it, it becomes me, and over time soon there is only us, and no more you or me. That is the fact of it. There is the truth:

If you ask, "do you love me," what is the reason for this? It is because you love a person, and you want to know if they love you back. You want to weigh your love and know if the amount you love them is equal to the amount they love you. Then, if those amounts are equal, you will be able to see eye to eye, live fruitfully, bear bountiful offspring, and agree that you are in love. Don't you see you already are? The world itself may stand between you, but you have caused it to spin faster in order to shred it apart just to be reunited together again. You reach through the airwaves themselves. You have already left your bodies and are now touching hands in heaven beneath the sight of God. And your bickering shakes the bridal chambre. I tell you, damnit, you are in love with each other. She has been looking for a lover like you all along, a prince charming, and moreover, you yourself, to embrace her tightly and tell her the Whole Plan, and paint for her a Big Picture. That's you. And you have not ceased admonishing yourself for your loss and failure in 1999, and you still have not given up hoping you would become something worthy for her to love. I tell you, you are. She waits for you, waits in the bridal chambre, go, go, go to her.

If you ask, "why do you want me back," what is the reason for this? It is because you are revolted. You do not want to be wanted. You regret the times you are being reminded of by me. You were, you tell yourself daily, a different person back then. You have had to forgive yourself, or, if not quite that, then to forget it as best you can and just move on. But I tell you, he will still be here after you have consumated yourselves. To him you are already one and the same, and by even reading his note you have given meaning to his existence. You might have tried your goddamned hardest to forget all about him and prayed to a god you claim not to believe in to never have to explain to one another all the secret and terrible things that have happened since the Apocalypse. You feel your sins are worse than his, but he feels his sins are worse than yours. Will you now argue over whose sins are worse? All you have to do is forgive each other, and to do this you must forgive yourselves. But you must do these things together. Otherwise, one or the other of you will always hold out hope that the other one will have their back turned long enough for you to have a private moment, or contrarywise feel utterly abandoned at the slightest loss of sight of the other. That's logic.

I am awake for thirty-two hours waiting for my lover to write me back. I develop a feverish obsessiveness, I feel I have to finish the picture I am drawing, a picture of me and her in Paradise. I finish the picture, then sleep for thirty-two hours. I wake up and I have had dreams about crystals. Her eyes can see me. That is why I am dreaming about crystals. They are large crystals, and someone remarks how expensive they are. They hand them to me one at a time. I say, "no this is not like the one I have." And they take that one away and hand me another one, asking, "how about this one? Is it like the one you have?" The meaning of this dream is clear. I dream of flash photography. And so I do not yet remember what else I dreamt of. I wake up thinking of her, and my heart sinks. I know she will not have written me back. And I check. And she hasn't. I knew, late, so late before I fell asleep, that she will not write me back. She does not want to, and she does not Plan to.

I read over the last few paragraphs I'd written of this blog. I cannot quite yet match the voice, because I am not yet on the same level I was when I wrote it. I can't even look the picture "I am in love with you" in her eyes. I am weary from sins, the sins of being worldly, the sins of this world. My heart is still sinking. My mother has left town just now to go do an out-of-state move. I tell her I love her, and it is true enough to her, but to me it tastes like a lie upon my lips. I have the breath of a dog. I do nothing. My hands are tied now because I nudged the ball into her court, and she kept it. Is that not a positive sign? I suppose, we shall see. But alas, alas, alas, I am crazy. Only in my mind, I call the effect of my mentation "magick," but I cannot help that I manifest. All I can say is I would be less "out here" if I were not so alone. I approach the Voice. I have Understanding. It is not relevant if I am alive now. I have been in the afterlife all the while I've been without her. Now that I have found her again, am I not reborn? Is this not assuredly a sign from the eternal entirety? Has she not shown me, already, that I did not totally ruin her, and destroy her, and obliterate her, but that I saved her, I preserved her, I have found her, she is still perfect? Because she is, but that was not meant only as a sign to me. Which is why she is. For she is not me. She is not ruined, and destroyed, and obliterated and heart broken as I am. Though I promise, vainly, her enemies shall be mine, I could never expect for her to defend me against my enemies. They are only inside my head, reflections of my own loneliness and depression and fear, and though they may overwhem me, they are mine alone, and I can only defeat them by forgiving myself, and this by forgiving them. Alas, alas, alas!

I pray to God to prevent myself from worrying that, by now, she has simply thrown my note away and forgotten about it. I pray to God, The Holy One, Blessed be He, the God of All that is Real, and the Righteous Judge of Truth, for he is all these and yet One. I pray to the One True God who is all things to all people, and who is more than they can imagine, unknown, and I pray to the source of my visions, both those made sacred, and those of my own profane offering. I know that I cannot even hope to kiss the hem of His garment in this lifetime, but Lo, I know also He is a saviour, and will lift us out of this fire. 10,000 days is 27 years. The other magicians of the age, the Magi and the Wise Men, they know of these things, and they secretly cheer though the False Gods of the Age rule in public and deny them the right to use their powers as they would choose to, for the Good and Greater Glory of God. Instead, the wise can say nothing, because to say anything would be misinterpreted by those False Gods, who cherish silence above all. The False Gods want to maintain the status quo and to not see things change; they have Authority now. But I tell you this. My madness is a fever. Like a fever, it's moment shall break, and this time of its rule by silence shall cease. The True Reality, the Great Reality, shall come to pass, with or without me, and, by leaving behind the ways of the Great Silent Madness and the curses of the Annunaki, I shall give my power to the Magi, the Wise, of this generation. A Great Generation shall ensue now, for I have spoken. Has it been heard?

Time passes. I am stopped by an officer of the "law" and given a traffick ticket for a busted tail light. This happened last May too. I remember it well. I had written in my blog, "I sleep for two weeks straight. When I wake up I have been given a traffick ticket for a busted tail light." The police are out in swarms writing tickets. But they are only the messengers of the formal system. Sleeper agents channeling Sleep Walkers. Emotional archetypes. I prayed a little prayer while I was stopped, and I wondered how she was. I go to the guys' band practise. I feel incredibly lonely, depressed, and heart-broken. I mope around a while, then make my way back here, which I can hardly call home. No, home is where the heart is, and mine, unfettered, flew away a long time ago. Too long ago...

She is still safe, and all I have of hers are pictures. I have not overstepped myself yet. I have not even published what I am writing. I have not made myself appear the fool. Instead, should she choose to pursue me, she will find me waiting for her in Paradise. More time passes. I check the profile inbox. She does not respond. I chastise myself for being the fool I know I am. But I love her. I cannot seem to help myself. My body that usually goes through the motions, is going through them differently now, different motions, different emotions, and I try to quell them, try to keep steady and moving ahead, but I cannot seem to quite be able to. I am light-headed and queezy. I can't let go. I stumble through the city of Enoch, and then I collapse at the gateway of Eden. Where is she? Where is my Queen that shall place a crown upon my head, and find me worthy, and call me her King?

I pray again now, compulsively, worrying for her incessantly. There is a terrible ice storm as the Shekinah of God lowers herself across the lands in the form of hail and sleet of monoatomic gold. May she go out on foot, I pray, but not be made to venture out to drive. I will do anything to protect her, God, I pray with the head of my soul pressed against the karmic head of the aura of Michael. But it might not be enough. I would make an offering, Lord God. Shall I make an offering to protect my lover? 10 deaths have been reported in Texas alone by now, and one in Houston. I pray for her to not have to drive. I pray for her to not have to go out on the road. I pray compulsively, incessantly. I worry that this is the effect of my mental enemies, my inner-demons, attacking the one I love. They would not see it as this, of course, but as a blessing upon her, but I can choose how to see it. I am driven to ecstasy by the praying, until I am convinced that, by doing it, I am causing her to be at risk.

I pace back and forth and I worry, I obsess. But I have seen a small sign here and there, and, should I choose to believe in the Great Reality, then surely my dreams can come true. I do not want to slip through the cracks of society. I want to break free. I am going to Paradise, and I want to make prayer.

Of course, for me, "Paradise" is just a cigarette break from writing this blog. Prayer is psychosis. The angels help me, the demons do not boil my blood, I have nothing to suffer from, all loss of love is now bridged. So I lie to myself, should, by doing this, I effect positive change in my environment. I have started down the Dark Path of Destiny already, how can I turn back now? If she has driven to work she will have already done so by now. She will be inside, looking through a microscope, where it is warm, and safe, and there are people there who love her, and will keep her safe. This is why I cannot be with her: I am obsessing about a person I do not even know anymore. I knew someone she once was ten years ago, and yet who she is now I do not know. The person she was is like a wolf at the door, a terrible storm of ice, sleet and hail; the awful Shekinah of YHVH Elohim.

For am I not now stooping, am I not now lowered, and am I not now cowering before my own higher self? For I have been from one end through everything to the other end and back so many times I cannot remember, and yet I have no one's warmth to keep my memory lit. I can barely remember from one moment to the next, let alone earn an income at a job. What good am I? I am without worth.

I am so alone. I am surrounded on all sides by legions of hosts of invisible angels. I am the Metatron. But I tell you, I have never felt so utterly alone in all my life, save once, and then, I did not survive. My mind is unravelling already and I am no longer even a human. I am a mutant. I am the filth of the scorched earth mixed with the soft silt. I am a worthless waste. I wish that I were dead, or rather, that I had died at birth, for my parents' combination in me is indeed an unworthy abomination. I am as accursed as Cain, whose curiosity killed his kin. Yes, forever will the Dark Path dominate my destiny now, for I am blind and fallen and cannot see the truth of the future.

I pause to write a pesher in which I describe a saint healing an old man of blindness. I drive out to the local store for some smokes. It starts to rain and the sun has just set. I have not fixed my tail light, but I make it home safe and now have enough smokes to curl up for the evening. I think I will skip the guys' band practise tonight, if they even still have it. She has been looking at my website. I can feel her presence here. I look up the ip address of a guest on the forum. She returns, now here, now there, following the bread crumbs leading to the material in the forums from each of the pages. She is thourough, but she is in a hurry. I try to catch up to where she would be by now, following the pattern of her movements around my site. I dwell upon my highschool sketchbook in the historia art museum. I dwell over the most incriminating thing I have ever done, that ties me back to her at all, a series of sketches I did during our time together. I examine each thouroughly, trying to think calming, soothing thoughts, enocuraging the next mind to come across them to slow down, to pause, to think.

She sped through my site and is already gone. Moved on to another adventure in her life. I no longer feel her ineffable prescence and there is no longer a lingering guest on my forums. Each moment is a mystery. The entire span of moments before and those yet to come stretches out throughout infinity. I wander aimlessly around the art museum pages of my site. Suddenly she is here, and then there, again. Here in the notebooks, then here in the metaphysics diagrams. Fear grips my heart with ice. What have I done? I have put my whole life on the line, out in the open, prepared my mind, like a slice of beef, to be weighed and handled, and to be judged. Will she think me mad? ...

It's too late to worry about it now because I've already gone through with the hard part, and this is happening. I sleep until 5AM Saturday morning. A play put on on a thirteen story tall stage, a courtyard surrounded by balcony seats. I go behind the curtains, backstage. The hallways are empty. Everyone is watching the monumental performance. From deserted school rooms I can hear the fat lady singing. I round a corner. A group of friends are there. Someone I knew from highschool, Brian "four-star" Forester, has put his tongue against a freezing pulley and it has gotten stuck. I go for help. I find Craig Morris, another friend from highschool, who is one of the ushers at the performance. At first we speak in whispers. Michael approaches, and Craig leaves the way I'd come in. I sit with Michael in the audience. I proceed to watch the show. I wake up. It is 5AM Saturday morning, eastern standard time, but the guest on my forums is now here, now there still. I write down her IP address to confirm it is certainly her. I imply, but do not think about, later. Instead I post a new thread in the forum she was browsing latest, and which she seemed to be frequenting most: metaphysics diagrams. I repost an old post from tlfc, something I'd written to OOM a year ago to the day. It is a short descriptiong of the map.gif moving metaphysics diagram above tau sub tau on the metaphysics diagram page of my site. Assuredly it is a trap, one I have set for her. Next move?

She goes to sleep. It is 7AM here now. Why are we on off schedules? It is because of the magick of inverted polarities. On Sunday night I cry on the porch, wrapped up in the blanket from my bed like the cloak of a wizard. I take another pill and fall asleep on the couch. I dream that she calls me. It is late at night. The caller ID reads "habitat 4 humanity" and I wait until mom has answered it. Then I pick up. She is crying on the other end. She says she has to see me. My mother says, "he's asleep." She begs, she pleads. My mother swears at her, calls her a tramp, and says "Jon is sick." "Oh," I chime in, "am I?" I tell her to come meet me. I cannot drive to her. My car is in the shop. I pace restlessly up and down the street waiting for her. I wring my hands. Finally I see headlights coming down the darkened road. She hops out and runs to me, she throws her arms around me. She has been crying. I am crying. We are together for a brief moment. Then the shadow men begin to seep through into my mind. From every house on my street my neighbors pour out of their doorways, still asleep, but compelled like zombies, driven to tear us apart. I wake up. On Sunday I had told mom what had happened in 99. I had never discussed it with her, or with anyone. I still do not tell her, or anyone, that I found her, that she is alive, and that she is happy, and that I have written to her, but that she has not written me back.

On Monday night I wake up at five PM and go to the TBS band practise. I get there early. Milly is there with Sophie, and Kelly, with her broken foot propped up, is there with her brother Stan's kids "little" Stanley, Jude and Omni. I play with the children, wishing I had my own. Sophie is beautiful. And whenever Milly looks at her, Milly is tranformed into a vision of the Madonna. Her face glows with warmth. Inside of me my heart twists uncomfrotably, then tears in two, and shatters like glass.

It is Tuesday morning, and my car really is in the shop now. Mom, capitalist that she is, will expect me to pay her back for it, regardless of how much it costs or how impossible it would be for me to ever do. I already owe her five hundred dollars because she did not waive my hundred dollar debt accrued in November. She is not going to let go of holding money over my head. I realise that now. She never intended, any more than my father, to teach me how to handle money. She will not even tell me what finances we have available, only that she will need to spend most of them on her own retirement. She shames me for not having a job, but what experience do I have? She discounts my writing and tells me to take an art class, she would pay for that. She hates my father, and she regrets having not been with Jan, her artist boyfriend from college. I tell her I wish I had never been born, and that I only bring unhappiness to everyone I meet. She does not disagree. Instead she gets angry at me for "whining" and "doing nothing."

I understand now. She has never understood, and I exasperatedly tell her that it is like describing a rainbow to someone who is blind. She has never been in love, and so she has no idea what I feel like, the sorrow of being apart from the one I love, for ten years, the sorrow. God. I continue my prayers for the happiness of my True Love. I cannot pray to God to interfere. I pray instead for my lover to be free, unfettered, untethered to all the negative consequences and all the regrets I have that are all I could ever give. I pray for her to be happy, with or without me. I pray for her free will.

I am going to post this blog now. I shouldn't. It is too personal, too emotional, and too private. But that's me. I scream my love from the mountaintop, because I know she is the only one who will hear it. And I have no idea if she feels the same. I watch Romeo and Juliet, the Princess Bride. I pray. I do not know what more to do. I feel trapped, tied down to my own sorrows and helpless to be free and happy without her to unlock the chains. I am so in love with her, but she told me her love for me had grown cold. I pray. I can do nothing. I look at the new pictures she has posted on her page. She is beautiful, she is "drop-dead" gorgeous. But it has been too long now, and there is no way in Hell that I, under my own power, can convince her I am honest, and sincere, and harmless, but true and faithful. She will hate me, I know it. She holds my heart in her hand, and she will crush it. She can. I pray for her to feel no regret in doing so if that is what she freely chooses to do. But I cannot go on any longer without her. Ten years have gone by like water under the bridge. Ten years of her not thinking about me, no doubt, and ten years of me thinking about her every single day. No one I know could possibly understand. I only pray that she, who I now know not, will.

-Jonathan

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this information is all © 2007 Jonathan Barlow Gee

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