The Fraud of the Realm
The world is a pitiful and disgusting place. Anything that could be beautiful is overrun with absurd ritual and decay. The realm forbids the bliss that life itself longs for, and every lure wrapped in pleasure only leads to bondage.
The most beautiful part of life is that brief, fragile moment when you are in love with the idea of what you hoped for—before you truly know what it is. That false bliss, that sacred illusion, is the best this realm can offer. It is the instant inside a dream before waking — the last breath before awareness. On the other side lies only the knowledge that this world is hell, and that to grasp beauty is to destroy it.
To any being — mother, god, or creator — who brings souls here, I would say: Never bring me to this place again. It is a fraud.
We love our fleeting daydreams, our hard-won moments of triumph, but we never truly love what actually is.
We buy dreams because they are the image of a life we want. We sell them because we know they are the life others wish for. Eventually, even the feelings chased for in dreams become harmful to the body and nervous system. As consciousness expands, each pleasure is stripped away. The playlist shrinks, the list of activities dwindles, and every source of joy becomes toxic when indulged beyond measure.
If you try to go directly into the light, you die — because bliss, when pushed to its extreme, stops the heart.
Only those who give every last ounce of strength in reaching for the crown of bliss and beauty come to know this. It begins with a confrontation — a force of nature peers into you and recognizes your desire. It then unveils the perfect image of what you long for. Terror and ecstasy unite in that vision, igniting every passion to possess it. But the revelation brings a terrible choice: either proceed, knowing you can never have it and thus become its toiling servant, or sever a living piece of your own inflamed desire — and choose to see.
Music is the sound of the dream of love — but to enter the dream requires waking from it. To chase it with all your desire and passion leads to gnosis, if you survive the flame of consciousness.
On the other side, nature reveals itself as a beast that sings a beautiful song. Once awakened, you hear it clearly — but you also know you can never possess what it sings.
When gnosis is achieved, hope itself dies. The most beautiful thing ever imagined never existed. It was only an image — a mirage crafted to keep life toiling and multiplying in this realm, as sacrifice and servant.
You have your answer.