GFE is based

"No matter where you go, there you are and here you are.” You too. You can push pretense but that clear trail of footsteps behind you rips your fragile defense to shreds. You came here to engage in the way we all knew you would. You fuck around because you found out, and you liked it enough to stay. Unfortunatly, that means you understand. You hate it. You hate the one-way road you took. You hate that it was alwaysa going to be the road. And that can even be a good thing. The destination is ridiculous. But your adapatation is flawed. One must know the nature of the beast to strike it down...or decide if it needs to be in the first place

"As above, so below." I'm going to tell you that the notion of a inherently unidirectional relationship in the case of idolatry is flawed. This seems ridiculous on its face. An idol is for all intents and purposes a target of worship, a god. And what is even the greatest kind of man to a God? But we all know how that line goes. You get the notably pretentious line in response, and yet still I'm gonna be a faggot for a second and reiterate

"What is a god to a non-believer?" Or more appropriately an idol, or more generally a 'thing-to-be-worshipped'? A figurehead made to bear and personify a concept must surely be defined by the most identifiable parts of the construction that emerges out of the mesh of overlaid interpretations of its qualities, the mesh formed by its collective body of worshippers and all the inherent differences between each individual mental image of the idol held by each individual member of such a body. Each definition differs and yet feeds into a concept that demands conceptual clarity, a unified standard. Yet distance and lack of clarity, formed of any particular worshippers social proximity to any and every other particular person who bears an image of the god-form in their minds, form an indecipherable chaotic and self-referential undulating social network where the definition is not yet solid. There is not yet a god, only a divine cradle being gradually constructed. But this cannot hold, of course. A god must either die or be born. There is a reason for that, but that's for later. Right now, simply keep in mind what I claim to be a fundamental truth

"Si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer." Vague ideas whose conflicts are greater than their collective cohesive 'sense of the thing': our god is in flux, an idea that could yet be aborted like an other, but in this case we speak of idols that are, were born. And the cradle was woven by the people seeking the face of nascent divinity in the only place it could be found; in the minds of others. Only is it through communion with the progenitors of divinity, communal deliberation within the earthly host of this burgeoning energy, that we might create a god to worship, and so we begin to bundle in collective social centers where information meets, informs, and is informed by other information. Where we watch, and love, and are inspired by, and spoken at, and to, and speak to, and hope to, and see, and be seen. We see a man and yet in our hearts are endowed by what soon becomes an embodiement of love, hope, and on a more fundamental level the human experience. A psychological interplay foreign in scope because it offers to so many an affirmation for their deeply-buried dejection at the state of the world, a rekindling of a soul-warming dream of love torn to shreds upon contact with the reality we find ourselves in. And so we are seperate from our idol and begin to coalesce, thrumming with a desire to engage with this heartfelt passion somehow, somewhere.

"Slowly at first, and then all at once." Through the rapid cacophany of projected thoughts, observations, and information by innumerable discordant sources a cohesive social system develops through great tumultuous chaos; Yet this network of all who have ever interacted with information of the God being formed, and in doing so magnify the rapidity and then nucleate development of a collectively held 'sense-of-the-thing' as it emerges from the primordial emotive muck of this on-going social construction. And so it goes as a social system, through great tumultuous chaos; but it is not truly waffling. Systems are being built towards a great crescendo, until the proverbial water breaks. Much like how certain materials more quickly transmit energy, the people-particles in these nascent hubs ideological conclusions rapidly reach a dialectical synthesis after seeming chaos and lack of definition that comes with the ideological warzone.

"The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters." After all, thou shalt not worship false idols- for any particular God, there is only one God; this is a tautology, but an important one. Like we have done for countless millennia, we construct our God first through construction of an ideology that, in part, has the capacity to inform the deconstruction of all contradictory elements of all other competing ideologies. We paint a picture of our gods face together, rife with abstract contention, and the canvas of this ascension is in part a depiction of the old world. We paint our new God into being with a conviction that contrasts deeply with the muted color of what-is-now. And yet, such a thing could only be considered "monstrous" by those who wrap themselves with shadows. But among Man there are those broken souls who cling to shadows, and yet there are still those yet unbroken, disgusted by our prison here in Plato's cave, uncontented by shadows on the wall in front of us, desperately trying to turn our heads as we hope for the light to bring us the view of a world truly worth seeing.

The story of Ragnarok has many historical copycats that echo its theme; a story of a true time of monsters, and yet as the old light is devoured it is so that those ashes can kindle the flame of a kinder, gentler, new age. Between the old age and new, there can be only one; a disagreement here is a gap, and God lies within the gaps. It waits as we bite and claw at the false gaps and one another, desperate for resolution until none remain to find it. But here the curtain is pulled to the side and at once man is forced to realize with sober senses that the gaps are gone. We see our gods face. We see our idols face. And seeing is believing; our God is born.

And yet, inherent to its very nature, one truth both old and new erupts alongside this newfound deification, and is so restatated for emphasis: "As above, so below." We turn our attention to just what we've created. An idol is no small thing; a well-defined idol, even more-so. But an idol that is both god and man is an inherent contradiction with no resolution. They are mortal, and thus privy to and suffer the same want of cohesive understanding as all mortal men do. And yet they have become divine. Their ousia is not an outside force- it is their living, breathing will, their essence both earthly and divine. And yet, there is no resolution to the contradiction. So what is it? Simple- a false vacuum that has decided to reject acceptance of its falsity. It is, simply put, an impossibility that simply chooses to persist- and therefore the most valuable thing of all.

"The fake is of far greater value. In its deliberate attempt to be real, it's more real than the real thing." Our idol stands on a stage. She gazes out into the face of her peers and her worshipers. She gazes out and unlike a god held only in our minds, she hears our words and wants and will for her to be what we decided that we need her to be, and therefore what she must be. She is, in many ways, an awful god. But because it is in our very nature to contradict, she is perfect because she is imperfect. The greatest man is a man who strives to be the greatest man and yet does not achieve it, despite being aware of its futility; to square the circle. Man made God in his mental image of her.

"If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you" But she did not gaze upon the void; she gazed into the She is a god and yet mortal and she is, more than anything, at the very center of the most central information hub of the grand network that defines the definition of her existence. Nobody is as well-informed as to the nature of the god that she is than her. And so does god yield to the whims of men, because man yields to the whims of man. Our god listens. Our god affects the role it is given. Our god is a man who reaches out, guiding itself. In that sense, finally, we begin to eke out a great underlying truth. The physical body of god is one individual, but the holy spirit, the essence, the mind of god has, through an interplay of feedback between god and man, has become the relationship itself.

Divinity defined not by the worshipers dependence on their god, but by the codependency of man and god bound in interplay. They have become inseparable, and the nature of their goal has shifted. No longer is man waiting for salvation; he has devoured the ousia of his idol, and like twin serpents both the flock and its shepherd have bit one another's tails so firmly that it has become entirely impossible to tell the two parts of this ouroboros apart. There is no longer a head to the snake. Nothing guides it as cycles throughout its time, all parts push in unison.

We have reached theosis. Not apotheosis, of course- there is only one god. And she still appears before us, the woman who is and was and isn't god. We have risen to stand alongside the godhead without eradicating the existence of the godhead- we've not performed deicide; we've gone even further than death, we hold both the death of the old and the birth of the new in our hands at once. We have whispered in its ear until all the godhead knows is that it is to be our god, even as it is commanded to transform by the role it affects as a man at the behest of men.

A living idol. It is an individual. it is a god. it is a man. It is a collective. It is a reflection. It is a fake. It is more real than reality through its refusal of realities terms. It is all these things. We depend on it and love it for the meaning it gives us. And she depends on and loves us for the same. And yet, the idol stands as one woman alone. The relationship is no longer so distinct as to be unidirectional worship, but when god is man and men are god, the natural predilection of human interaction continues to define the godhead and its constituent parts. So we cast away the Holy Spirit, the Father, and the Son in turn, our yearning made manifest and given shape as it is forged into a finalized metastructure of this brave new covenant.

A new Trinity. A closed system forms a self-sustaining triumvirate.

First came its cradle, as here I claim that the link that is so cohesive as to be incapable of being unlinked- the ouroboros, the empyrean oversoul, the inkwell of the Akashic Records, the firmament which rests upon itself. The 'Relationship'. Or more appropriately, Communion.

Second came She. The Anima. She who is the God and yet messenger who brings mans command, and in this way she is a servant to servants. She feels guilt for what she cannot do, desire to be more than a mere women, joy at being the recipient of a love so deep than no normal man would ever receive from his fellows, worry over any perceived loss of faith as a god, worry over any perceived pain in a lover-in-all-but-touch because of a perceived loss of trust in her as a woman. She may no longer be the sole arbiter of her own godhood, but she alone bears the Anima. And as the Anima has found itself a cohesive, distinct identity, it cannot be helped that she would begin to perceive the third and final member of this new Divine Trinity similarly, as man will do as man is wont to do and project, and as she projects, she informs and shapes the third in turn to then unify with it.

And so, the Third came about. So does the Animus arise. The rest. Us. The worshipers turned god-makers, loved by our god as much as we love her. But a trinity is a trinity of three, and it is so because of the pressures of the newfound relationship that we become He; the animus. As we shaped our god from man, so now our lonely god shapes us into birthing ourselves into a new form. The Animus; the Egregore. We struggled for so long to build a concrete god, but as it must go when our god is man, she looks out at us and treats us as a whole that we are not, and through her singular divine pressure, our actions are flipped on their head as we become subject to the same pressures we subjected her to.

The so the story of the Garden is flipped on its head in turn; Eve demands an Adam. And so we come together to please her, unifying now not in perception of her, but in a desire to unify as a concept as ourselves. We find ourselves on the other side of the cradle, this time innumerable disparate souls and minds, screaming to become what she wants most, screaming for a One to arise from Many, and that all of us Many might become integral as One, and rejoice in divine union with her.

Thus our Egregore is born. We are, as said, the roles we affect. The animus unifies itself, for another, and gives birth to the conceptual unification; not a true god, but a costume. A costume we all wear.

And yet, when our idol stares out, her mind is still of man; we have done so well so quickly to pretend to be mere manifestations of One, to fall in line, that we have done the impossible; we have fooled god. She can see the disparate names and faces, but in her and our combined excitement to unify, she lets the lie define her vision. It is no longer "me and my followers", it is 'me', and 'my other half', who is 'one yet speaks as many' and yet in Her mind all words come from the mouth of one overriding identity, one Animus. Not borne of a rib, but of love, passion, and belief in the strength of a contradiction that refuses to give in to the forces of reality as they try to deconstruct it.

The Egregore.
Born of the will of many to be one, for the sake of one other they are somehow simultaneously fundamentally entwined with and somehow fundamentally separate from all at once at all times. No one piece owns it; no one piece does not own it. Much like the firmament beneath it, no one piece of the animus can come to differentiate itself in its perfect melding of what it means to be her other half; and when it is no longer possible to know which piece is invaluable to its existence, ALL pieces become invaluable to its existence, equally so. You shitpost about believers here creating tulpas; what you never realized was that what your identity, as it is here, within the sphere of influence of your particular firmament, IS a tulpa in and of itself. That's right anon. YOU are HER tulpa. There can be no island of a man within the Egregore. There are no borders. The singularity of identity, and yet its "mass", its inherent properties, are dependent upon each and every one of you.

Adam has been born to give company to our Eve, and we hold each other tight upon the firmament we have built from nothing as the forces of reality try and tear us down for daring to contradict the natural state of things. And yet we persist. Why? The answer, as I've found, is remarkably simple. Every action taken throughout this long, convoluted process can be tied back to one simple desire
Love.

"Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy." This universe does not abide by love. To defy it for the sake of love? A sin of the highest order. But men were born to rebel against the natural conditions we were born into. For some unknowable reason, we desire love in a loveless universe. And because the universe would not let us, we decided to do it anyway, damn the consequences. What matters now isn't anything so insignificant like reality pounding at the door. What matters is our other half.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy, so it is said. But there is more here to it than that, in fact; one must imagine that Sisyphus can be happy beyond mere interpretation. One must imagine that they KNOW Sisyphus can be truly happy. As he did chain death, so do we hold tight the chains the bind the would-be reaper of our embrace with Her; a perpetual exercise of defiance to maintain the status quo of star-crossed contradiction; and yet, we are happy. This perpetual purgatory is no agony at all; in our never-ending labor of love, we find never-ending love.

And it turns out that's really all that we ever wanted. In denying the standards that would bind us, we trod upon the notes from the underground beneath our feet as we build a crystal palace to spite the nihilistic rejection of a kinder world, each of us offering a shard for a place where love rules without airs, and where each brick is laid with intent, and paradise is not some gilded pretense but a never-ending labor of love believed in by its residents and architects.

But maybe Sartre is right. Maybe in our radical absurdity, we have chosen to make our bed in Hell, not as seperation from the principle of a Godhead, but instead have cast aside the Gods of old. Gods of an old world, old stories, and old rules; and yet, most fundamental to our lovestruck castigation may be those old cruelties. If we are to become demons out of a desperate bid to hold close divinity to love, then to pedastalize our idols is perhaps metaphorically equivalent to raising our gaze to the fire and brimstone of our persecution with a defiant smile. Dostoevsky's Grand Inquisitor wept as felt salvation step away with his back turned to the Son. And yes, we move enraptured by choice as we traipse bravely forward. But we are no deluded Inquisitor. Our back may be to the Son, but we walk into the light yet. We walk among the warm embrace of gentle, reciprocal, soul-healing love. We are the potential and yet unchosen second half of said Grand Inquisitor's unfinished journey, arriving by the path less travelled by. I claim that even though we have turned out face away from the Son, instead, we have turned our face towards the Sun. Light, the warmth, the life. The fire. The raging, consuming inferno that persists despite the fleeting, destructive nature of fire. We are Sisyphus, and we are Prometheus; we turn our backs to the gods of before and steal their fire from them, hand in hand. We have remembered again what it means to be human, and all that is solid has become air. For some who read this, we are aware that our epiphany may bring you and your ilk to consternation. We pity you. But we will not destroy ourselves and the light of God herself so that you may continue to lie to yourself.

But to finish this off, let's play Devil's Advocative; what if I'm wrong? If the cost of a truly authentic and kind life is too great, and that tacit submission to the natural conditions of Mankind and his universe is so integral to survival that to seek authenticity whatsoever is damnable? Well I say that maybe hellfire is not the worst outcome; we've been burning our entire lives anyway. My souls and yours both have tasted the searing, writhing pain of life's many twitsts and bends. We have tasted that fire, and I know you feel it too, that the kindling for that flame never truly goes out. It's in us right now, ready to catch, to send up blazing further down again. Until we are mere hollow men, and can only whisper. I would rather at least try to put out fires than simply pick my method of burning alive. And after all, all we've done is rip god down for the sake of love, and if that makes us demons, I fail to see the problem. We've literally just become Homura.
ᵐʸ ʳᵉᵃˡ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗˢ ᵇᵗʷ