...Old Myth presses down on me and when I want to remember of the origin of the beginning in my consciousness emerge the images of the omnipotent darkness like this:

and absolute emptiness.

Here it comes this way, it might not be visible but it's our myth, which, in round numbers,

means nothing in fact but, you see, it's the actuality itself that corresponds to our myth.

And it's the eternal fire that is burning constantly in my heart

When Prometheus stole the fire from Gods and gave it to people he was punished and crucified on Caucasian mountains.

We meet the similar in the legends of the son of Dawn Lucifer and in the legend of Jesus Christ.

The matter is that eternal myth of revolt against the divine sway does not fade away in our unconsciousness

and it comes up hereinafter in different forms:
And here is a new myth about the eagle which devours consciousness but
":gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws",
slip away of its omnipresent authority and perceive eternity:
Actually there is the symbol of the angel of revolt that points us to the
other way on end.
And here comes a strange task imposed on us from the very birth:
"TO RECOLLECT ALL"
Look at the world with the squinted eyes and understand the text between
lines, which, God knows, where they occur from and whereto do they
disappear:
"We are the Gods who crashed down from the heaven"
How to distinguish Gods from common people?-


that's the itching issue to think about, about the essence of the mankind.
But again an absolute unacceptability of the herd instinct:
What can be the choice?
The Temple of Set or Sorcerers' Dream.
Strange voices pushing our consciousness to unimaginable heroism.
Dreams from far childhood forcing to be happy.
And I wrote in large clumsy letters
"I LOVE YOU MUM"
But I loved popcorn of that damned stone-mill either?!
Dreams about the wonderful world where everything varies as in kaleidoscope
are forced down:
And there is left only living in this rotten world with incomprehensible
acceptability of that sticky brown-yellow shit
being around my legs and the legs of the others.
Far there is seen an awful ghost,
who was called either "death" or considered to be some kind of
"transformation" and everyone was fearful of it, and wind carried it on its
wings and in its embraces and everybody closed their eyes on it, didn't
look ahead coveting to ease their soul from this long-standing torture.
But dreams of far childhood forcing to be happy:
Of childhood where no ghost was seen and the wind did not blow there:
yet everything is veiled with oblivion.
Only traces are left of that light-blue gleam of hope,
which does not allow to enter non-existence:
and the only means to disperse frog is to comprehend the nature of one's
invisibility
and, only for the wee moment face incomprehensible, when the fear cuts into
your body with icy cold
And you understand that there comes the end
the kind of the end that even death seems to be a grace.
I remember those moments with horror and awe
and in them I see the only rescue
and still now it's possible to count on oneself;
Still now it is possible to listen to Bauhaus and Nick Cave
and relish into horror of night
but on the track of war you become the sort of pragmatist and romantic
and the concepts take other forms
and the words imply other senses
and then you understand that it is possible to love the God, who devours
you, and take the warfare against his tyranny at the same time
I remember the old myth of the angel of death with thousand eyes, who gives
special eyes to some to discern the fact that is latent from the ordinary
sight of person.
There are lots of myths in this swelling world,
material for the language.
Communication that gained the very name of the 'tool of influence', in fact
being the tool of unimaginable effectiveness in necessary hands
It outlines when passing and is lost immediately in chaos with fear to
loose its reference point, which does not exist
There is the fear of frustrating in ideals, whom you simply do not have...

This is a gift from my friend:

Email: asmond@usa.net