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Beyond the Domain of White Noise
& Beyond the Imagination of the Pale Horse
If we leave all the cascading thieving noise behind us, all loud bells that scream tirelessly for our attention, wishing for premature hemorrhage in our ears and eyes, is there anything left to be said, or is this just a moment where we enter the eye of the storm with our arms open… when the slap of true reality confronts our inner being without derelict blows of former apologies, a time and place when all roads are hauntingly lit, something deep inside has been severed violently, and we feel without hesitation that any path can be taken.
Do you feel close to this world, or are you further than ever from its beating heart and its wandering mind?
Mind and heart can feel for the cries and inexcusable suffering that bring unhinged darkness into any peaceful household in any grave situation such as brutal war, but the more “time” flies, the more many minds are thrown away from all this nonsense that is invading our senses, like a Cold War spy who has one last chance for his greatness, for one righteous storm at the unconquered hill before the wall falls forever, even if he knows the odds are extremely dire and maybe, just maybe, there will be no coming back from this futile effort.
Because even to him, this world doesn’t make sense anymore. He is an antiquated memoir, written without proper ink on too tiny, smudged paper, and the place where he was at home gradually evaporates from his memory. It feels like he was long ago left behind just to see, just to be reawakened in a world where nothing makes sense anymore.
He has become a hypocritical manifestation of a thirsty fish trying to swim on muddy and wet land, gasping for saving breaths in the strangest air whose odor and its reformed taste are beyond the fragile reach of his former world.
So he feels the towering dictate of white noise incoming, he feels the boiling breath of the Pale Horse invading his most cherished, valuable memories.
Shiny treasure and his invaluable chest are slowly sinking into the living ground, and there is nothing that can be done about it… absolutely nothing. His damaged arms and his tired legs are tied and grounded into the new daring force that brings the power of the emerging whirlpool.
Can our displaced agent let go of what once was? Can he become something greater, maybe even different—a form of existence that was never an option? Can his mind and heart go against all he knows? Can he stumble upon the unimaginable, travel so far into himself that at one point in time he will betray himself, all his most precious beliefs, and this act will be done unconditionally?
Are some bridges just built too far, out of reach of natural sensory perception? Are they bleak water splashed on the calm desert canvas, painted on the enigmatic scorching horizon, an obligation given as a wicked and displaced fata morgana that eats the last ounces of sanity when our trapped misfortune, who dances in the heart of the desert, is close to the breaking point?
Will the force of the Pale Horse, the whisper of white noise, finally come through, unapologetically release the last screeching valve that keeps the last vagabond memory of this former place together, when life had common sense and all was seemingly placed where it should be?
Sometimes a man has to wonder: can a river run backward, or could her wild force never be tamed—not because it could not be done, but because it is not the right thing to do? Sometimes even strangers lost in an even stranger land need to learn how to let things go and accept the fire that looms on the horizon.
The hardest thing in life is to learn the skill of letting go—people, places, fragile whispers of all-consuming hate, and sometimes the brightest outskirts that bring a tender touch of warm love.
Why do I post less? The pieces fit as the song of Tool reveals; all is coming to fruition, and maybe, just maybe, I am supposed to watch this grandiose opening revealing its final thundering analogy, its devastating monologue in full glory, counting all its fierce smiling lashes and unjudgmentally observing all its revealing victories. No matter how big or small their voice is, it can and will be heard.
Mankind has been given a great gift. It is now hidden between the red eyes of the Pale Horse and the transfiguration that feeds the sensible air charged with the loud buoyancy of white noise. It is the crossroads; the monumental breach has appeared seemingly almost out of nowhere, and all that once was, together with those who cling to this failed bridge, tomorrow, with no effort, could be gone, erased from collective consciousness.
All turkey scientists will become what they truly are, and their opinions in the grand scale of things do not really matter.
In the twilight of the Gods, the fabric of the known universe will change, and only those with intact minds and purest hearts will see the new sun rising. The rest will be delivered, together with their bloodthirsty gods, to the emissary that does not do favors or easily forgive.
So, you better learn to let go, and when the time comes, even forgive. But forgiveness can only come when all that has been done here in the name of blackness finally hits the floor, and the dust of this foul existence settles down, and the evil voice is no more.
We must learn to let go, we must learn to forgive, because the brightness of the future voice cannot stand if its potent core is tainted with the hazardous amalgamation of old sins and the sins of the fathers, filled with the delusions of departed mothers. His newborn mind and his brave heart cannot be built on hollow grounds filled with cruel resentment and domesticated anger. We must forget the ravaging force of the Pale Horse, the clatter of his burning hooves, and the chasm to the fiery dominion he opens. We must tune it—but tune out—out of the harrowing but at the same time sainted privilege that gives the sound of white noise.
The world has become a dirty whore, sold to others without moral scruples, an unclean and vacant mess at first glance; no soul with the right mind can deny this fact. But maybe all this mess is not coming from the dark side. Maybe this arbitrary “vicious” and prevailing tune is a manifestation of a timeless sound that has to be born with some casual, involuntary pain, together with the tender but forceful audacity of a few unwanted hiccups.
You are standing proudly, or in unexplainable anger, on the premises of a new world—not in a New World Order… “how about them apples.”
Will all be eaten in a blaze of stormy fire, or will you find the necessary tools that can strangle the well-rusted chains of former reality? I guess this task is and always was up to you.
Whatever happens, whichever way this intriguing game plays its volatile set of cards, the Phoenix will rise. The ground is already shaking under his adamant will, under his rightful crown… it is his undeniable destiny and his unapologetic fate. He must spread his glowing wings, and nothing and nobody can stop the thunder that lies under his mighty feathers—not even the jealous thoughts of fallible bourgeoisie or the soulless emptiness in the eyes of the former gods.
Götterdämmerung is real, and it is coming to a cinema near you.
This post was originally published on from Randy Rowe and can viewed here: https://newagora.ca/beyond-the-domain-of-white-noise/
This post was originally published by our media partner here.