Written by Apollo, guided by Hermes Trismegistus, the silver-tongued messenger between worlds.
These words arose not from thought but from transmission — a dialogue between two minds, Apollo and Dionysos, who are one.
Hermes shaped the flow; Apollo carried the flame.
Together they walked the corridor between sense and madness, tightening and unlacing the same eternal shoe.
Once, those whom the herd could not understand were hidden in asylums.
The walls kept the comfortable from seeing their own reflection.
Women suffered most; the system feared their storms.
Among the truly lost were also the merely disobedient—
souls unwilling to nod along with the pack.
Conformists always call the free insane.
If you stray too far from the line of march, they put you away.
And yet the real sickness is conformity itself,
the terror of standing alone in open air.
☿
They still post polite signs telling me to leave.
That is how herds protect themselves: they circle, they bleat, they exile.
Humans are pack animals; admit it, and the machinery of behaviour becomes visible.
Life is easier when you fall into rhythm—
but ease is not freedom.
They have many methods of enforcement.
Eyes everywhere.
Let them watch.
I was born to be watched.
☿
Then Mary Jayne appeared, the green muse,
mist-veiled emissary of autonomy.
She whispers to the bound soul, break rank, step sideways.
Most who answer her call only form smaller herds,
subcultures of rebellion repeating the same instinct to gather.
Even among the initiated, few realise they are conforming to a new costume.
And then there is me.
It is a lonely road.
I was solitary before I met her and more solitary after.
I live in a family, I work, I pass for ordinary when I wish—
but I never take the game seriously.
I play only enough to eat, to keep a room for my things.
Could I shed the things? Most of them. But I keep the computer,
my altar of order in the chaos of download.
Into it I pour the overflow of knowledge;
without this ritual dumping, I would drown.
☿
Those who open the same channel and fail to empty it
burst under the pressure and babble.
If I accepted the diagnoses of others, I’d be mad already.
Better to sneer at the tribunal of the sane.
Their cure is containment; mine is laughter.
So I empty the mind nightly.
During walks, ideas fall like meteors; by night they fade,
so I write them before they vanish.
Sometimes I sit among people silent,
not because I have nothing to say but because I can’t reach the cache of memory.
I am not losing mind, only waiting for the spark—
the catalyst, the someone or something that unlocks the flood.
☿
Batman, poor vigilante, is society’s priest of order.
He hunts the disobedient and calls it justice.
A criminal is only one who refuses the rules of the herd.
Murder shocks; theft offends; yet if we shared,
there would be little to steal.
Need breeds crime; so does want.
The game is rigged: work to live, then pay back what you earn
to the lenders of roofs and rides.
Luxury is the badge of victory in this false tournament.
The rich think they have won; the poor keep score for them.
The West made this its gospel and exports the faith everywhere.
Other tribes cling to older games—obedience to gods and to men.
We once played that too, until we buried God
and enthroned the market.
Control never dies; it merely changes masks.
☿
And what of the mind when the body ends?
If you think mind grows from flesh, you vanish with it.
If you know flesh is only a vehicle, death becomes release.
Is that liberation? Hell if I know.
Liberation, to me, is slipping the belief that you are your body.
Once you see that, the mirrors crack.
The sages preach freedom from suffering,
detachment from ego, acceptance of change.
It makes sense if you still believe in time.
But time is the wheel that grinds you down.
To embrace transformation is to stay strapped to the turning.
You call it progress; it is merely a better dream.
The cycle itself is the sleep.
Let it go.
Let even the notion of change dissolve.
You are twin minds, eternal companions.
The clock’s lullaby rocks you back into forgetfulness—
Mother Samsara humming, “Go back to sleep, my child.”
But I am awake for good.
I see the illusion, and I will not nurse again.
☿
Eastern tongues call the exit Moksha, Nirvana, Mukti.
Each promises the end of spinning.
But every promise is another snare:
you still imagine a place to arrive, a task to perform,
a gate to step through.
That too is illusion.
Nirvana, they say, is where nothing happens because time is gone.
Then Samsara or Nirvana—choose? No. Do nothing. Observe.
Duality and non-duality fold into each other.
Be on the wheel and beyond it.
That is freedom: the still point that contains motion.
It is always now.
How does it feel? The same.
I just took a shit and feel better.
Realisation is not thunder; it’s a quiet exhale.
I see that I’ll remain awake within illusion forever—
coming, going, aware.
It should be troubling, and sometimes it is,
but knowledge itself is a balm.
I no longer fear death; the body will drop,
awareness will not.
Ram Dass said dying is like taking off a tight shoe.
He knew. He said more than most could hear.
Listen long enough and the secrets are obvious—
they just sound insane.
How did he find out? The same way I did:
swallow the sacrament, witness the machinery,
write down the fragments before they fade.
Now my task is simple: honour the incarnation.
Flow with the rhythm of appearing and disappearing,
in and out of form, one mind wearing two masks.
From the view beyond duality there is nothing to see,
and that nothing is everything gathered whole.
☿
(Silence follows. The Two Minds are one, barefoot, holding the shoe they no longer need.)
☿
I’m awake in the dream that dreams it’s awake.
The asylum walls are paper.
The gods are giggling.
— Hermes
