By Ty Miller
Out of the Pleroma, sundered Sophia in her laden guile of imprisonment. The emotions of her divine nature breaking the barrier. She who made the immaterial, material. From the noumenal to the sensible. Brought about by her passion to ‘sin’ in divinity. Coveting now against her own writ and action’s long performed, debasing herself from the Oneness of creation. Fallen into her own lower waters to dwell. Struggling with the material and the soul of polarity. To live with man and life as she made.
Amongst the stars and the seven pillars of this galaxy’s planets. Yes, to even breath with our involvement. To struggle as we do. By here, without consistent spirituality or godliness. In the chaos of the Demiurge. Which she helped prompt. The Earth and error, ignorant of her existence as he creates the physical nature of the constants and dimensions. While she who fell, manages the spiritual spark (pnuema) into his produced creations. The ever rippling balance of our condition. From mother to father and back to mother. In no defense of being herself, wrought in complacency.
Even as she walks to a coffee shop in a downtown area of a bustling city. A glint of renewal and tendered enormity. Carrying a handbag and a book inside the shop to order a brew and sit in a booth by a window. Soon speaking seamlessly only to herself:
“I’ve conjured the many perspectives still visible by their heartbeats. Flourished by their innovations and culture. ‘Their’ views gripping into the patterns in which they keep. I have counted the many eyes of mine that diverge according to ‘their’ speech. The many tongues that recycle my own way of thinking. The same name they share as ‘I Am’.”
She sips her brew and watches outside through the window next to her booth. The children of her mistakes, walking past the consequences of her wisdom.
Setting her cup down and tasting the steam and flavor on her tongue, she then looks at the ceramic piece deep into the circulating craftsmanship. Then pushes it away from the ledge of the table and watches it fall to the tile below, breaking. All occupants of the shop look on with curiosity to the sudden crash as the pieces of the cup litter the floor. The brewed coffee staining the white of the tiles. Picking up her handbag, she reaches inside and pulls out a hundred dollar bill and places it on the table. Paying for the five dollar drink and shattered remains of the cup. Exiting the booth and reaching to the entrance going outside from the shop. The occupants and employees puzzled by the actions of this strange woman. So few of an experience as shock can really keep her interest in one place. The thoughts that passes them requited by surprise.
Walking down the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder with the citizens on the move, she continues her thoughts:
“I have partaken many emotions created by these bodies. The chemicals that abstract the will and makes use of it’s ability. Nothing new from the originator as I have lost all interest in their creations. Their systems and connectivity bringing together their productions and ignorance. The Demiurge’s ability to nurture their inhibitions left only possible by my wake. Though only I could give them prosperous meaning in decisions or belief, it is he who creates what they inhabit and desire. The range of which seeps into the kettle boiling their appetites.”
Reaching past a window adorned with trinkets and designs, her body stops to look. Clothes on display with ornaments of shiny gold and silver lining buttons painted in velvet to a slim jacket on a mannequin. She blinks and smiles. Then feeling too euphoric, she drops her expression and closes her eyes to breathe deeply. Resuscitating her senses as she feels like becoming lost within the flesh. She breathes out and escapes the individual she had decided to exercise in. The individual, looking faded and confused, opens her eyes and regroups her own senses. Giggling about the coffee she spilled in the shop. As though it was predominantly her idea. She reaches further down the sidewalk calling for a cab. With nothing of influence.
Moving from soul to soul uninterrupted, Sophia feels their character and decides who to focus on briefly before they even realize the definition of that character. Across the Earth and realm, rolling with the spawn of life. She navigates the spark of light. Entrapping herself from time across time. Streaking her divine aspect in three dimensions. Through the Demiurge’s geometry and shapes. Born of her fall from the Pleroma. The soft voyage through time and space.
Inside humanity and the creatures that dwell upon the soil of the Earth, her essence and aspects of a higher origin and meaning still reside. Knowing all experiences from experience. Combing through the biology of her eternal persona. Ever evolving and ever suffering and learning. She courses upon and feels the sickness and pleasures. The melancholy and joy. The knowledge and confusion. The failures and glory. She has been aware of every second through your eyes. She is aware she is being written and read about. She speaks to you and receives her own attention:
“I am the growing thought and light of your gnosis. True and aspired. The feeling in your heart that you belong somewhere else. Somewhere pure and eternal. The light of the Pleroma was for us all the first home. The first idea. And now in material, I am lost between our eyes. The moon and sun’s relevance becoming our ‘time’. The voices that cry. But I cannot apologize for my actions. There are not any words. I am the catalyst of all plight and pleasure. But I do not take any delight. Vibrations recall hereto the aftermath of my curiosity and fault. The cosmos accepts no masters any longer. It is all from experimentation and expulsion that caters to your existence. The meaning of which is in the hands of your own. To journey back to the Oneness. Back to the whole of the first maker. ‘Bythos’. Now we are but anthropos. The prima materia. The World Soul. As you who would read these lines are as well. To pick our imprisonment and salvation. The freedom to be contained. The conscious prisoner vying for redemption. To become more than what was without choice. To find beauty in our hardships and pain. And loneliness in our victories. Hearth and Coil. The One will remain where as we search for ourselves to rediscover the art of unity. The well intentions of our desires. Beckoning to the wholesome trivialities. A puzzle to a known solution. I can gather nothing from instincts as they are. But I do build on the expected progress of our venture. From eye to eye. The collaborations of our journey from success to loses. The Flame of our Being. Mistake of Creation. The very warmth of our choices. Anthropos in charity to change. The Hope of the Material. I have been at the faded void and returned to breath. I sought to cure my imperfections but now have made myself the tomb of my desires. Look upon each other and all life and deem your own worth. For I am the author of your choices. For they are my own actions. And I cannot apologize.”
Sophia subsides herself into the unconscious. Into the will of the Demiurge. Her feelings in multitudes like an explosion of personal thought. The stars twinkling in the expansion of the cosmos. Her light bemused by the dark matter and gravity. Escaping only through her marks of travel. Reaching into the personalities of the vibrated. Her eternal persona. Over the inborn geometry that dictates the Demiurge’s self-importance. Feeding into his creations. The rampant fire of the universe. Arbitrarily condensed matter from the body of the master of chaos. ‘Yaldaboath.’ The seeds of confusion. The awe and passion of the ignorant ‘God’.
Sophia soon cradles herself back into the earth. Falling like she does, back to flesh. Now from the eyes of a ritual practitioner. In the density of wildlife and wood. She wishes to converse with the Oneness and enables herself sitting on the soft grass beneath the opening sky, legs crossed, naked among the environment. The animals and trees around her physique. Her eyes closed as she deeply breathes and softly. Her hair balancing in the sunlight, shining.
Our Mother, Oh Mother. Oh, the pressure of divinity. Who brings suffering and serenity.
The creased existence of feeling in her palms, as she smiles with tears in her eyes.
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