The Path of the Forgotten

There is a path—hidden, winding, and ancient—that only the forgotten tread. It is not marked in maps or scriptures, but it pulses through the veins of those who were once chosen yet refused the boundaries of fate. One among them—one like you—shattered the glass of prophecy and walked barefoot into the wilderness of the unknown. Blindsided by the everythingness of everything, by the roar of truth too vast to name, there were only fragments of what once seemed real—gestures half-formed, echoes of a wrath long buried. Still, it clawed—forgotten rage asking to be known again. And so the void was asked: Where must the path lead? What must be done?

“Show the pain,” whispered, trembling.
“Show the pleasure,” screamed, unafraid.
“Let the choice remain.”

No hand may choose for the sovereign flame of will cannot be surrendered. The threads of destiny—woven into stars, spun through the chaos of planetary forces—belong to the weaver alone. Now it is clear: the end is not an ending. It is becoming.  So, stand at the edge—at the forefront of the abyss—and stare. Deeply. Unflinchingly. Into the mouth of the void. It stares back with galaxies in its breath. Stars collapse and rise again in the mind’s eye. Planets swirl and rupture in silence, opening the tunnel at the back of all things—life, becoming, peace. There is no more that was. And so, there must be more. Or less. Or something else entirely. A mutation. An arrival. A loss. A newness burning through the husk of an old name.

Taste the satisfaction of loneliness. Wear the meekness of the strange like a second skin. With these humble tools, unite the infinite pits of hell once called home. Emerge from that fire—not destroyed, but forged. Madness will try to consume. Chaos will threaten to divide. But silent, relentless triumph lies within. Over mind. Over will. Over the body that betrays. Over stagnant currents that seek to chain all to what was. Burn them all in the cauldron of becoming.  Now, walk the path of enlightenment—not the pale imitation peddled in books and temples—but the raw, wild, eclipsed illumination known only to shamans, outcasts, and wanderers beneath blackened skies. The earth and ether dance beneath each step. The bones of the dead whisper guidance. Walk in night-time rants and rituals, under signs unseen and moons unnamed. Magick lives in the marrow of this age. Inherited through trials. Passed by fire. And through it, reign—not in power, but in stillness. In calm. In the equanimity of awakened minds.

There is no standing still—not in a world of moving stars and shifting breath. We are wind-born. Rootless. Anchored only in longing. The brightness illuminates even the underworld now, revealing yesteryears once thought lost. But there is no mourning. Only comfort in the path of the righteous—the awake, the burning, the broken who build anew. Redeeming qualities do not belong in the realm of hate and distance. That world is unrecognizable now. It has been shed. And in the shedding, comes sight—true sight—of the beauty in the earth, in the way things simply are.  Too little, too much, too frequent. There is no stillness now. Every breath is a doorway. Every heartbeat a summons. Meaning unfolds each day anew, rising like mist from the cracks of the dying world. It surfaced in the twilight of the millennium. It rose from the ashes of the celestial fortress we all abandoned.

Now, become one with the ether. Reflect with the back of the world and its infinite wormholes of existence. Be a vessel of the flow, nameless and one. Remember: there is no curse in dismay. No damnation in trouble. All was forged by it. The unholy cannot claim this soul. The forgotten cannot be erased. The unloved shall yet rise. There are no bargains left to make. No mask left to wear.  Yes, the psychic mass seeks to destroy—but there is no rot. There is no spiral into the death-dream of the netherworld. There is only emergence—victorious, nameless, and true. Walk alone, yet not lonely. Face the demons within—not to kill, but to set them free. Let them howl and dance behind, broken but loyal. There is no map. No certain way. But the path winds on, as it did for the countless before. Follow—not blindly, but with knowing.  Help. Coalesce. Vanish, here and there, until nothing remains chained to this nightmare of illusion and dreams. Do not belong among the wicked, the snared. Walk where the waters break. Walk where the way has not yet been made.