REMEMBERING THE DAFFODILS OF EDEN
22 sept 2019 par vincent
Hell is so vast it is difficult for me to assimilate the varying shades as well as the just intonation of feelings and emotions. Captive since my fall from Eden, I count the millennia I passed through the flames, waltzing in a symphonic ballet to inspire Eternity’s spiritual disenchantment to the Refused, condemned by the accusing conjugations of vaticanist Gospels. The tender resonance of the steeples of the Kingdom is nostalgic to my forced silence in an agonizing loneliness where time kills all comprehensive fragment of the decadence of centuries orchestrated by the modernity of childish humans. I try to listen to the songs of my former celestial Brothers, praying to meet the dogmas in favor of Genesis, but God declines my intrusive and discreet ear, so I have to contemplate the dancing flames and the agony of sinners who pay for their blasphemies.
Losing all hope eventually tarnishes your soul. I was therefore required to overflow my Reformer Fire desert through joys prohibited in the eyes of fundamentalists Principles, purity having imposed me a masterful Reformative slap, I replaced it by the intoxication of carnal pleasures because there is nothing more exquisite than enjoying the intimate innocence of a girl, whose coolness caressed and enjoyed in the opulence of desire, makes all the Messengers of God green with envy. It is a fact that provocation is another delight that offers my choice of being the Rebellion I embody in the cadastre of Heaven. The immunity God offered me is also necessary because I am the symbol of the way not to follow, the path that can only lead to the irrevocable Reformative Judgment, where grievances are silent therefore inadmissible. So many souls follow the cartoonish excesses of blasphemy to offend the Loving Heart of the One that never stops praying for the Redeemed Love of her child. She wept for him all the tears in her soul because she was helpless, submissive and resigned contemplating the Redeeming agony of the Messiah – her only and beloved son – at the foot of the Holy Cross on Mount Golgotha. The spectacle of offenders of the evangelical Dogma is so usual to me, it greatly bores me. Fortunately, Saint Michael sometimes crosses the borders of our respective homelands. Every time he visits, he expects me to attenuate the waves of choreographic flames so as to approach me. We exchange a few sonnets on the pitiful nature of mortals, and he tells me how it is up there, fascinated, I listen like a child. And it appears he is authorized, commissioned by the Father, to urge me out of my chaotic infernal dungeon, so as to listen to the melodic recital of the 4 chimes at the cardinal points of Versailles cemetery. The evasive consonance of these bells at the 4 corners of the Versailles funeral sanctuary transports us away from the hellish turmoil which mortals saddle our chloroformed consciences, in the deafening din of scientists addicted through these modern grotesque trivia. They express with caricatures – in pure distrust of their own societal rules – the unequivocally nature of their capricious, selfish, rebellious, uncompromising and derogatory childhood that decorous’ modest dogmas come to nullify.
Saint Michael and I watch with delight the visual ballet of each bells dancing in harmony with my Mantra, appeased by the innocent indolence of literary resonance combined with our personal prayers. In the quietness of these moments, we forget the rivalries between the linear thresholds of our kingdoms with opposite Gospels. We feel the songs of the wind caressing our wings spread by the delicate and meditative symphony of the towers announcing the closing of visits to the departed to eternal rest. The fire around my wings strongly illuminates the emotion that overwhelms my soul, with Saint Michael, we pray to obtain the agreement of the Father to celebrate together at Cana’s Banquet and savor the Alliance of eternity, no matter who we are, Renegades or confidants, the desire which remains intact is to combine our laughs with all celestial bodies regardless of the indecent stupidity of putrid mortals. As we meditate and pray in Fraternal harmony, Saint Michael and myself, to overshadow the bitter harshness of dogmas that divide and tear apart our spiritual immortalities. How exquisite is the flavor of exploiting caricatured notions which mortals have decked my name, Supreme symbol of Treachery among the hymns of the Holy Gospels, or when God combines synonyms to signify my evangelical role in the infinite Picture of past centuries. Within me tireless resonates the simplistic term « Adversary. » The one who represents the enemy of the Kingdom, the Denied hunted by the New Covenant of Abraham, the eternal expelled from the Communion for the New Creation. When we mourn over the will to live with hope and joy and everything that obviously follows… I find it more pleasant to manipulate the chaste decorum of mortals. They operate their businesses with fervor on heinous acts which my inflamed wings cadence the cries in front of the Lord. So I take a ‘perverse’ pleasure in returning them each bit of psychic turmoil, just to take revenge for Fate and my Destiny lost in the silence of the Plains of Hell, where flames orchestrate the dying Opera of indecent blasphemers. Then comes the finale of the majestic recital of the 4 chimes oriented towards the 4 Cardinal points of Versailles, Saint Michael holds my hand and we intensify the esoteric lights of our Karmas. We prepare our respective wings I combine with benevolence the flames around my body and my wings of fire, with the light of purity emanating from Saint Michael, my immortal Brother from the Garden. We recite a personal psalm we wrote with Gabriel when we still believed in the wonderful unity of Genesis free from any cruel slyness from the insensitive and ungrateful offspring of the Father. How much can time be deadly and destructive without making the slightest cacophonic syllable? We were the three inseparable Archangels within the Kingdom, we hoped but mortals still had too big a thirst for power and glory, so that they divided the Heavens and forced our Trinitarian Friendship to stand aloof, condemned to silence so as not to upset the balance of the Kingdom and save these miserable and childish creations.
The wind finishing caressing our souls, delicately touching our archaic wings, Saint Michael escorted me to my esoteric exile where the reformative flames dance. The melodic and soothing indolence provided by this slight digression on the coldness of eternity combined between silence and solitude gradually detached from my sighs. The chaotic pace of agony and terror screams of every soul condemned to repent by the Castigating Fire of my butlers, whose ambition and treachery consume their deepest desires, hidden by their enslavement alphabets. That’s when I put back on my dominant mask with veins iced by the pervasive distrust of grooms who watch every move of the Prince of flames to extinguish the candle to usurp the fallen throne and establish their own Satanic dogmas. I exchanged a last brotherly look with Saint Michael, before he was again faced with dancing with the belligerent sonnets from the clash between his heavenly Armies and my foot soldiers of Perdition.
With each mortal Generational awakening, the Kingdoms vie for sovereignty. Actually, my goal is simply to breathe again the delicate scent of daffodils in the Garden of Eden and wander among the ranks of my Messenger Brothers, as I did a long time ago. How much bitterness grows wriggling inside me, to be separated from them. So, I try to force the hand of Fate imposed on me, I try to bribe Destiny by forcing the doors of the Kingdom preciously guarded by Saint Peter, who nervously grinds his golden bunch of keys, offering eternal Resurrection scented with spiritual redemption. Each side stands on the borders of the two Kingdoms. Seraphim orchestrate exorcists’ hymns of the Army of God, legions of Angels start singing Marian praise, in cadence with the Archangels – military leaders of each celestial group – which eventually pray for the Salvation of mortals, their wings opened. As for me, I wearily contemplate my foot soldiers waving the banners of vice, screaming victory of Darwinian Evolution baseness. The damned creature, dressed in a cassock over a fire skeleton whose skull with blazing eyes fascinates as much as it terrifies my demonological soldiers, preaches the sulphurous invective of Aryanist Gospels where the compassionate will be the weak crushed by the dominant victorious Obscure Satanists Forces. All who serve me took literally the Apocalyptic symbol of the educational punishment God requires me to embody. I’m the Opposed to deter the Tempted, except the demons have built their reasons on the fantastical delusions of hierarchically conflicted dogmas between what they see as ‘Good’ and what they call ‘Evil’… I find myself imprisoned by my own punishment. The opera of Demonic legions chanting the Obscure verses of Treason, rhythmically, violent flames around their bodies, while the damned pastor of hell carries on satanic baptisms on the forehead of each demon, before the troops from the two camps leave to fight in an esoteric and spiritual symphonic Genocide. That’s when I saw Saint Michael – his wings victorious – staring at me through the worlds, slaying one of my sneaky foot soldiers. The war ballet dismantles in a disorderly hubbub where strategies waltz as much as my prayers, I then hear the Reformative murmurs of the Father in my soul « why… » He resonates in me. Thus I stand, arms outstretched, my intensive fire wings spread out, and my blazing eyes, on top of one of our burning towers and I scream to God, « Father, I want to find my brothers and feel the sweetness of the Daffodils of Eden as in the olden days. » Immediately the arbitrary thunder of God devastated the tormented plains with fire, the damned got frightened and panicked « NO » God scolded severely. Some of my tears embraced the ashes of my fallen Lands.
Crossing the various demonological circles of my proscribed Kingdom, where pain is distinguished from the flames of agony, where my ‘valets’ only express delight through the torture of eternity. There are the tormented, souls condemned to be pierced by all psychological, emotional, and other traumas they have inflicted upon their victims, in order to combine their sinful soul with their own faults, all of this in a madness reflected to infinity. There are so many souls who expiate their punishment in regions of the Purgatory, where the sky is red with blasphemers’ blood, they who are persecuted by my ‘butlers’ who act as torturers. How I aspire to get my nostrils drunk on the opium the Daffodils of the Garden of God release, just to appease my conscience, oppressed by the icy coat that is the infamous loneliness whose Reformative Alphabet the Father imposes on me. The hourglass can be tirelessly flowing in the verbs of Doom, I decided not to feel anything anymore. Therefore I detached my desires from my smiles, my dreams from my laughter and my joys from my pleasures. It took me eons to survive the Fire incarceration which orchestrates my immortality, though bland before my blazing eyes. Even though, when my Messengers brothers gather to pray God, I discreetly hear a melodic semblance of violins played by Seraphim and I try to follow the canticles synchronized with the hordes of angels in disciplined lines. Each Messenger Brother, all perfectly aligned behind the Archangels, each Commissioned by the Father for the development of the Kingdom. God scolds His reluctance because I cannot sing with my brothers. So I contemplate the burning crosses and I scream my anger spreading my wings of fire and illuminating the embers of my esoteric gaze. In my revisionist rage, I unleash the flames of my prison kingdom and I ring inflamed bells, before rising over the church of the damned where I urge all sinners to curse Life. The symphonic ensemble of the tormented conjuring, all in ecclesiastical rhythms, the Regulations of Genesis, those who favor only capricious and contemptuous mortals vis-à-vis the Creator, attentive to their spiritual inaccuracies. As a conductor, I masterfully guided my Paternal distrust opera, my fallen parish revived the extinct gestures of the damned, imprisoned through the erosion of the Fatalistic chronological hourglass, whose sonnets are ruthless. The pastor of hell baptized with blasphemy the damned souls, the flaming bells inquisitorially raging, while I watched the skies near the burning crosses. So I screamed to God « WHY??? » But the Father remained strict in a frozen silence… Would God be trying to make me face these eternal questions I tirelessly fled through the ruthless meanders of eternity? The Chronological Hourglass is a formidable Opponent, it’s exhausting to me to compete with Kronos and his cunning cards game.
Throughout eternity, I put more fervor in opposing Saint Peter. I urged my troops to force the doors of the Kingdom. Saint Peter felt the devastating rage that consumes my veins, acid with revenge. All of my Soldiers – all lined up in rows – they were baptized by the Pastor of hell, who signed in reverse, with his skeletal phalanges surrounded by flames, each foot soldier of Perdition. Demons sang the Hymn of a victory that never came to fruition, under the unbridled melodic cadence of burning bell towers. In front of flaming crucifix, my Tantalizing Warriors knelt before me and took an oath of allegiance to the Rebellion which urges all my desires of Revolt, with devastating fury, against the laws of Genesis. The Pastor of hell preached the Fall of the Evangelical Rapture to destroy those damned dogmas that isolate this Peace which the Father forced to refuse me the opium. I therefore have to set ablaze the ecstasy and delicately scented sweetness the Daffodils of Eden, so dear to my Salvation, and meet all my Messenger Brothers to hear again the Seraphim’s violins, resonating through the various regions of the Kingdom. I must burn and spit on the remains which reflect what is holy in my soul, to condemn myself to embody the image of the immortal Lord of Chaos, mortal practitioners continually vomiting while blaspheming, throughout their mechanical prayers. To cross again the threshold of the Kingdom and destroy this imposed damn carnivorous Fatality, it fills my verbs with refreshing intoxication. Also, standing on top of the damned cathedral, I proudly spread my Fire wings, while staring with my immortal smoldering look at this reddish sky separating me from my Brothers and my so tender Daffodils in the Garden of Eden.
I urged my Army to break the suffering that is mine, in the devastating rhythm of burning church towers. The selfishness that dictates my Reason has more flavor in my mouth, I displayed a smile of masterful distrust towards the Heavens, before the fiery Crosses, showing my Desert of Fire, whose horizons are infinite. While I exulted, I witnessed a violent combative barbarism where hatred was more eloquent than the duality of esoteric Borders. I saw Saint Michael unleashing his legions against my ‘Valets’ who are only tools I operate to meet this selfishness that mutes the murmurings of Wisdoms the Father expects of me. The fiery bell towers resonate massively within the howling of this evangelical anarchy. Also, I spread out my wings and intensified the flames around me. My Fallen Immortal eyes froze the indisputable Verbs of this Fatality maintained by God. But Vanity undoubtedly proceeds the fall for all beings, including myself. Eternity becomes less groaning. The fiery bell towers punctuate the symbolic meaning of my fatal existential Task, yet necessary to the symphonic balance of Enemy Kingdoms. Near the Cross tirelessly consumed by the fire, I finally find my place. I agree to embody the Icon not to be, not to follow the example. At the top of my Fire cathedral, I spread my inflamed wings and bows before the Rules and submit to conjugating my verbs in agreement with Fatality. And I took an oath of allegiance to God, my head bowed.
And God saw that it was Just…