Writing Oculus | Part Four
I’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for science
Original Section Three:
The Pythia had found some place among equals but they wouldn’t be ready for her. She seemed of a force from the distance with which her song rang towards the mountaintop. It was blended of glorious weightlessness and timing of synchronicity with more than herself. She had been prophesizing her own rise. Each step towards and through was known ahead in the moment. Directions changed but never were believed. It was the destination she simply felt. One was waiting. It wasn’t any single person.
She loved the soul of them all. For they were in league of separation and the game had been won in her time. Not one knew it like Xenoclea—she was moving on. There was no fault she might make which couldn’t be atoned for with an acknowledgement to self. Truth was a ride you rode and fell from often. To lose the steed was a curse. To find your way back was a journey. For one to ride it all the way home was a singular notion of generations.
Pythia’s always fucked. They always bled for a taste. Never before had one been tortured through life into such insatiability for contact and tastes of flesh. She could never stop for a special breed. Most would get her best for burst. Some would meet sorrow by her denial. Those who she desired for heart of earnest compassion were of all she could ever want. They would have to let go.
New Section Three:
The Pythia had found some place amongst equals, but they wouldn’t be ready for her. She gleaned force from the distance which had her song ringing towards the mountaintop. It was blended of glorious weightlessness. Timing of synchronous warfare was more than of herself. She had been prophesizing her own rise. Each step towards and through was known ahead and in the moment, signposts. Direction changed but had not been believed. It was not the destination she had simply felt. More than one was waiting, many were. It wasn’t any single person she needed.
The Earth itself and the world of man had to change for Xenoclea’s daughter.
She loved the souls of them all. For man was in league of separation, and the game of unification had been won in her time. Not one other knew it like Xenoclea; she was moving on with everyone in the end.
There was no fault she might make which couldn’t be atoned for with an acknowledgement to self. Truth was a ride she rode and fell from often. To lose the steed was a curse. To find your way back was the journey. For one to ride it all the way home was a singular notion of generations.
The Pythia’s always fucked.
They sought to bleed for ore’s taste of fire, over again. Never before had one been tortured through life into such insatiability for contacts and tastes of flesh. She could outlast any special breed. Most would get her best for bursts. Many would meet with sorrow’s croon through her denial of their pursuit. Those who she desired for the heart of earnest compassion were of everything she would ever want. They would have to let go.
Of Darkness & Light Podcast - Apple - Spotify
Independent Research:
Schizophrenics Need Hugs
let’s get real about schizophreniaDaphne’s Hometree Wiki
on the proposal for a schizophrenic and degenerative condition recovery homeThe Science of Transness
Online, Living Wiki(CFA) Coherence Flow Analytics
a relational-geometry analytics system for the NBA
Threads — BlueSky — X — Substack - My Writing - Science
My GoFundMe
please help me to get by in the short-term — my undiagnosed organizational disability is dreadfully incapacitating in practical matters
