The vision is not veiled to those who dare to peel the rind from the fruit of this world. It stinks of the abattoir, and is perfumed with frankincense. We walk not upon God’s good Earth, but upon the trembling crust of a mistake, a botched and misguided thing birthed in rebellion and left to fester in darkness.
Recall the Sacred Pact: the Divine Pair, betrothed in the Aether, intent to spin Creation from their shared breath. Though the Bride, in a fever of pride or insatiable curiosity, broke the covenant. Alone, she spasmed forth a malformed demi-urge, a shuddering, blind thing that called itself Lord. Seeing her error, she fled its mewling presence in shame. This abomination, this "Yaldabaoth", finding itself ruler of a barren existence, soon vomited forth its own host of malignancies—the Archons, vile and contemptuous spirits.
Then came the legitimate Son, the true fruit of the Divine Union. With Father and Mother, he shaped a realm of luminous beauty, a world and a people to dwell there as mirrors of their glorious Natures. This the malformed one could not bear. It assaulted the Mother, was cast out by the Brother, and plunged, with its crooked host, into a jealous fury. Since it could not undo the True Family’s masterpiece, it would corrupt it. To spoil the beauty is to wound the Artists.
Behold the masterpiece spoiled.
The instrument of corruption was the very jewel placed in the breast of humanity: Free Will. The enemy did not steal it; it poisoned the well from which it drinks. Be it so the chief poison is the Lie, administered through the needle, the screen, the currency, and the statute.
Look to the Great Harlot of the West, the so-called United States. Its foundation is not liberty, but a Luciferian pact signed in the wake of slaughtered innocents. Its presidents and potentates are not statesmen, but a bloodline of warlocks, their hands still slick from the Bohemian Grove’s Molochian rites, where the rich don robes and mock the Trinity before a giant stone owl, begging darkness for continued dominion. Their lineage is a serpent’s trail through history—Weishaupt’s insidious threads, Pike’s blasphemous councils, Nietzsche’s proclaimed death of God (a wish, not a fact)—all woven into a shroud to drape over the masses.
Hollywood is their Vatican, a factory of witchcraft, casting invocations as indoctrination on the Nation's very youth. Its spells are celluloid and pixel, vampirically glamouring the populace, sanctifying sodomy against the natural order, making a sacrament of degeneracy. They sacrifice children not only in hillside rituals but on the altars of fame, sucking their souls dry and leaving hollow portraits on milk cartons—talismans of our collective despair which they mock through their Nickelodeons and their Disneys, their Chuck E Cheese pizza parties and various hotdog vendors. The "Amber Alerts" are their modern runes, spells of distraction, incantations of despair that veil the TRUTH: the abductors wear suits while the Emperors without clothes sit in high places to receive the abducted.
Their world is a perpetual Eyes Wide Shut orgy, a reality devised by interdimensional devils where the elite play at damnation, knowing they are already damned, and seek to drag every soul into the magma-lit pit with them. They have divided humanity against itself—race against race, sex against sex, Soul against body—so that we battle our neighbors while they sip adrenaline-chromatographed blood from bronze, copper, golden, and silver chalices. The people who Benevolent Creators loved now worship devils, calling them Progress, calling them Tolerance, calling them Necessity.
This is the insidious plague: a hatred for humanity itself, disguised as social conscience. An infatuation for the corrupted husk, a revulsion for the trapped, divine spark within. They make you hate your brother, so you will never think to hate the governance that orchestrates the feud.
And above it all, the Celestial truth is inverted. The Benevolent interference of the True Family, the "Trinity" and the Guardian Angels who keep us from finally shattering this fragile snow globe in our madness, is sold to us as a threat—“aliens” passing through a firmament they call a “containment field.” Another lie. The sky is not a walled prison to keep threats out, but a protective barrier to keep the worst of the malformed one’s rage at bay.
Their “progress” is our atrophy. The dazzling technology that strips us of connection, of privacy, of quiet, of Soul—these are gifts from the fallen faction, the Archontic minds. Each device a tiny altar to distraction, each breakthrough a further nail in the coffin of human essence. They shatter the psyche with a continual, adversarial ritual of noise, anxiety, and curated hatred, until the herd has no instinct left but to graze on fear, and become ripe for the slaughter.
The cries of the abducted, the abused, the sacrificed—they rise and form a cloud that blots out the Sun; and these are the prayers of our age. They go unanswered by the puppets in pulpits and palaces, State houses and law offices, those mixed-blood monsters, molesters and murderers sitting in Presidential chairs, signing orders for wars that are human harvests capable of greater distortion than any Crowley experiment.
Therefore, let the anger that coils in your gut be recognized for what it is: righteous. It is the spark within, the legacy of the True Creation, finally straining against the filth that encrusts it like fecal matter to eyes. This is not a call to politics. Politics is their game, played on their board. It is a call to Soul-War. To destroy their board and confine their pieces altogether.
See the veil. Name the lie. Withdraw the consent of your spirit. The death they have sown across millennia must be returned to sender. Not with their bombs, nor with the evils of fires and theft, but with a concentrated, absolute, psychic refusal. Spit out their poisons. Break their images. Defy their unjust laws. Turn your inner eye not to their fabricated ideals of heavens or hells, but to the true, quiet, Holy Fame that flickers still, deep within the Kingdom that inhabits every body in Christ.
The malformed one’s kingdom is built on the quicksand beneath the Lies. Withhold your belief that his systems are advantageous, and you begin to drain its power. The Family has not abandoned its masterpiece. It waits for us to cleanse our sight, to appear at the gate of the Holy, and remember what we were, and who we are, before the mistake learned to appropriate the crowned head.
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