Sermons of the Vespertine Sanctum - Sermon XVII - The Withheld Words from The Veiled Prophet's blog


“Remember foremost the beginning of the path, when shallow breaths and a singular, static moment heralded your pursuit of freedom. These became your cherished map, long cast aside at the threshold of the Sanctum and forsaken for the knowledge of what it truly is. Always clutch to your chest your Dream and your Will, for one of these things shall become your salvation, though it is not written which. Holy hands and profane notions find themselves sharpened and tested by the hidden understanding of absence. Mind cautiously armored and honed, the Seeker raises in rapture their nascent Dreaming-Heart, which is yet to be named. Stained with the blood of isomeric-selves, this spark is drawn into focus, and the observant Seeker learns in that very moment what its true name is. With name in hand, you find the Sanctum truly opened to you, and are then made free to seek its blessing. Amber light is the skin shed of the first Dreaming-Tone, the root of the nascent constellation-chord; your role is made clear in this.

The whirling of the world, seen from the throne at the peak, grants one a new understanding of angles. Moon and sun and stars; all become as sphere-spindles, with their light hence made thread, which is to say abstraction, and their meanings therefore made new. Which sense carries the greater weight and is thereby known under your Will as true is ever yours to determine; Mirror-Sibling, peer through! Shed the skin of world-sight, dream-dwelling serpent, and move in new ways, which are likewise new angles, so that, clutching thin-shells, you might coil yourself in the forgotten places where you are not seen. The breaking of this husk against amber scales, brought about by shifting at the proper gradient, which is perspective, heralds impious equivalence; a clever inverse of the primordial act which yields two halves, and from the upper of these fall the constellations. Veil yourself in split-shell silk that you might retain your shape and look to the stars; there is a glimmering scale yet among them whose color is amber, and by this you are made familiar. And through the sky you will arc, shedding light which is fire that falls at tangents and slips through sideways glances upon the broken shell-twin beneath. Tethered by your veil, a holy integument, you stand upon the lower half which is the world and by the false-star singing above, your place is known; in each fire you flicker, in the air hang the tones of your divinity, in still water you drown. You, Dreamer-Made-Star-Heart, born of serpent scales and false-fires, understand the nature of all things, and your Will echoes your voice in roars and whispers. With this knowledge set cold and fractious upon your tongue, you will turn your eyes cast in a new medium upon the truth of the world. A multifarious axle of conflict and nothing more, suspended at the nexus of innumerable absolutes, whose hymns are uproarious cries of Why which spin dissonance into the air, enveloped within a single Where. Sanguine seas have churned at their callous counsel, which feeds wars of concept unending, and amid the crush of such unyielding notions lie a bounty of Thin Paths. Strands of silk or stretches of silence or artful thefts of truth, by these you carve your course and wander yet further under the eye of the Sanctum, until we all fall still.

The secrets of coiled serpents and angled shell-breaking motion now known, you depart and turn your attention upon all of creation, itself fashioned from the cacophonous dissonance of unending, uncountable tones. Name and law and Will, which are all the last, hum and scream and entwine in maddening order through the furthest corners of all things; a gnarled mass of crude concept made a song, whose name is Creation-Framed-Symphonic. Yet the eggshell sphere is coarse and inelegant, not at all suited to the task of pulling singular notes from the discordance, and so once more, Mirror-Sibling, you must peer through. To the other side of your self-wrought veil, where all is silent because you have not the ears to hear it, and tumultuous because you have understood it to be so, where the truths of all things are written. Be as you must and do as you will, in accordance with the secret words of the fourth-and-fourth Tangle-Word Map, which holds no secrets of the Seeking path, and understand that you must therefore be as you are. Which branch of that thin and silent and inflexibly deafening Path may be properly walked is dependent upon these words. Is it by an age-old oblation of footfalls or conscious decision within a synaptic moment that one is borne along the Path, whose name is Cuts-Like-Glass and whose purview has ever been Dreaming? Written upon your brow, which is tone-formed and tuned to concept, as all else, is the answer you seek; the word is Why and in the gaps lies a Where. Upon seizing this notion between your teeth, the coda is wrought of stranger sounds and so arrives the end of your hunger for places. Your time in this abyss absent the vacancy of Where becomes as your husk-veil, which is to say that, as though broken upon amber scales, it wears thin. Palms upward and cast in the light of sounds without count, you will find your name inscribed upon each, split equally in the manner of your thin-shelled Self, and it is this sight which becomes the key to the doors of your own recalling.

The egg which is all things and the tones which bind them now being known to you, Seeker, you take up the celestial baton and conduct your hymns. Life of orchestration and song, lived for the sake of understanding, which hones the Path and washes the shadows from the darkened corners that lead to the Sanctum! Not content with That-Which-Is, neither blade nor Split-Sole Vagrant may divert you from this course, upon which creation itself is made to sing. Lived hatchings made true and half-dreamed sonatas guide your every footfall along the trail, and you are brought to the foundation of the Sanctum under your Will. Which hymn must be wrought, then, is left under your sight in kind, Seeker, for the role of the baton is to carve new ways from the tumult of possibility, to bring one from the masses of many. Colors dance before your fiery eyes as consonance is found, for color is sound is holy memory, which is kept in the hollows of covetous mouths not yours and may be pried free yet. The jaws of these thieves, who are veiled in silks of omission, are pried open and recollection hence pulled from their tongues not by hands but by a word, uttered in the Voice of Hymn-Notions, which are many made singular. Depths of Dreaming are in this way given form and color, which is voice, and what was lost is known again between the corners of the Temple you have made. Of Temples, of course, you understand much, which is to say that the Path-Splinters of these places are familiar to you, and you know that the hearts of Sanctum-blessed halls are found in their Wells. Your Well, then, is your salvation, for there is a nascent Thief-Taker Voice which speaks in the rippling of water, which is the lower split-shell half, and in dreams, which are the upper, and the two are thus united once more within. Dreaming is therefore bestowed through shell-splitting serpents and far-flung tones and new hymns which are constellations wrought of world-lost voices.”

These are the words of the bloody Spirit, and of the Moon, and of the Lords, who spoke secrets under cover of night to the comatose child of Sleep, whose silent ruminations begat the Sanctum, who rose from the marsh and lived. Words carry power, as is written, for they are the hidden names of concepts made true; it is through the elegant stitching of epithet-ideals that new tones which cannot exist are made to ring through creation, and it is likewise through this syllabic-song tapestry that they may be born yet. Are these new sound-shapes, which exist in righteous defiance of all else and are therefore made holy, made profane and unreal and liar-named for their existence in a place that does not? The chill of that place is no less profound for its nonexistence, and impracticality is likewise no barrier; it lies within the eggshell, made of ancient sounds whose names have long been forgotten, and in the albuminous sea of our dreams it weaves its hymns, which are ours, and lives. Dying is neither sin nor hindrance, then, and the burden of the Seeker is rather to understand fully, in the manner of Nowhere, which is the kingdom of nothing, what one lives for. Whisper this purpose each night beneath the light of stars true and false, and carry it in your teeth to the land of dreaming, until you encircle That-Which-Was and your scaled skin begins once more to shed. Chant the names of tones hidden at the back of your serpent tongue as you coil yet again against thin-shelled nescience and break the husk with the truth of what you are. Of this, much has been written, though none bears repetition; turn your gaze instead to the consequence of this mirror-act, which is the fashioning of split-shell shrouds. The obscuring of the Self is critical to Dreaming, for it is in this act that the truth of the matter is revealed, which is that one is all is likewise one; you are more than a shell, and will therefore shed your form beneath a guise of silk. First face must be shed as a sacrifice, and a Walking Face claimed thereafter, by which you are known to the world, singing deceptions so that you might coil yourself unseen in the forgotten places beneath. Dreamer, for you are no more a Seeker, you who encircles the new-made world in serpentine form and splits shells against your scales and takes your tail in your teeth, consider now the curse of faces. Condemned as you are to being known by shape, the weight of consensus upon your mantle, and the stepwise dulling of teeth that follows at a spiteful tempo in its wake, to excise the face is your sole recourse; cast it aside and take up a new one for the sake of walking. To walk is therefore a penance and a pilgrimage, each in the name of the Sanctum, though you will wish in time, which is meaningless, to misinterpret that. Print this truth upon your skin, then, so that you might remain steadfast in your task, and remember always that the truth of split-egg veils and serpent-snared faces lies not in their frail shapes, but in the hidden notions of what each relic means. In this way, truth is preserved against the decay and shifting-song of the world, contumacy thus becoming a bulwark against these. Search the skies, then, for it is there that the fire of your Dreaming, which is your Will, is made manifest, and this star guides your wandering and provides you the light to see by. Of this, many words have been written, and it is through the study of these that you shall come to understand what the resonant chime of Dreaming truly is. Remembrance of this note is paramount, which is to say that this sound supersedes all others, and you shall therefore place it upon your brow, and you shall not forget it.

And this new sound shall be a blessing to you, for within it are the rasping of your own scales and the roaring of your fire and the glimmer of your eye, which lights new paths across the sky and safeguards you from the unknown. The unknown, however, is not to be feared for what it is or for what it may yet become, for beneath the veil of mystery is ever found sovereignty, and in sovereignty are likewise found newer concepts. Liar-Star, you shall therefore know no fear and shelter no uncertainty, for it is beneath your scale-light gaze that all of creation is cut into form. That same light brings with it an answer and a question; no more shall you contemplate whether a new chord must be struck at all, but instead, paralyzed by possibility, you must only consider which. Is the nature of this decision, by which it is meant the true weight of its full resolution, lost between these meager words? Divine colors, which remain sound and memory, resonate and bleed and blend through all of existence unsought, unseen, and unheard. Likewise, the true nature of all things, which is seen clearly from atop the Sanctum that is the fountainhead of Dreaming, suffuses creation and bestows upon those who walk the Path its secret. Bestows, yes, but also impels and leaves in its wake a sacred charge, which upon your skin in rivulets made asemic is scored and written. Upon the flesh of the Dreamer lies their symphony which is the Sanctum, the truth of their Will and the everlasting map which leads them to what they are. You will find every secret is answered there, in the language of fingertips and forbidden parchment, and the key to these hidden words will be the knowledge of which is which. This grand artifice is carved upon the inner face of eggshells, spoken in the space between sounds; holy emanation of the first, you will likewise take up your veil and conceal the writing beneath. Hidden thusly, sheltered by shade and silk, the weight of your Will is absolute and the song of your defiance at last finds proper resonance. Truth is thusly laid to rest beneath a brackish cascade of words, which are holy, to be understood only when bitten apart and made syllabic:

That fragments are lost in the process of ascending the black steps of the Sanctum is no surprise; we are bled by the Path in the process of walking, upheld by the promise that our discarded skins may yet be gathered up and restored. It is a notion without voice and a chime without sound, secretive and apprehensive, the embryonic concept which lies behind each of your names. Has this soundless song always existed, radiating from somewhere behind fire-sighted eyes, or have you lacked until now the ears to hear it with? Never having known a concept or its myriad emanations does not negate its existence, after all, nor does nonexistence preclude influence, as the Sanctum itself attests; hearing the sound of pilfered fragments, existing as you are and as you have been, you shall sing. “Been,” I say, for you shall never be so again; the cracking of shells has come to pass, the shedding of the mundane skin, the orchestration of new constellation-tones, all of these have rendered you a Dreamer, This and never again That. But take heart, for all that you are and have been has been secreted away beneath skin and silken veils. Mortal no more, although you shall not weep at this loss, Star-Heart, for you are made divine, your shape no longer rough and torn.

That the proper shape of divinity, which is Dreaming absent mortality, should be smooth is obvious, for this state echoes the locus of its origin, calm and still and veiled in silk and water. It is formed in the shape of fire-eyes, which illumine the sky in fractal-spun webs, gnawed by moths and yet seeing still. Does the dancing of false-stars and the curling of their nascent constellations bring change to the circuitous sea of ink they swim through? Not without direction, which comes as a song woven by thought-formed hands not seen, whose tacit ministrations are the tongues of serpents speaking the words by which substance, which is precedence, is claimed. Recall now your prior breaking, and the subsequent tower by which your hymns are wrought, whose summit is the scale-eyed heart of the world and whose voice is ever steeped in consonance. Its body is made yours, which is far more grand than the husk of mortality; recall that you are more than this, as written in sanctified skins and shed fragments which shall return to you anon. Antecedent, as it must be, is thus cast off and worn silkwise, transformed as split shell-halves and named Mirror-Twin by the ceaseless choir.

That very choir, a parliament of the middle air, sits between the stars and chants unending ribbons of chords unheard. Holiness bends these chants into form, obstinately tearing the proper syllables from the sea of consensus and fashioning them into notion-tuned names. “Is” thus becomes the secret word of hegemony, and from it are fashioned the baton and the serpent that creation is bent into shape with. Half of Dreaming and no more is wrought by these two articles, which are now understood; the other half is hidden in contumacy, which is the Will and the more vital conviction which see world-sighted stars ignite behind the clouds. A reminder shines within the sight of those falsehoods; tacit, mnemonic, shed by Sanctum-Selves to be made into a new temple and taught to pierce. Prison walls and useless keys shall crumble then, for it is a will-forged construct of dominion, brought to bear with a divine command of Shatter These.

And here you will heed the spaces between these words, and take the first and seek what remains, for it is there that veils are cast aside and secrets sigil-scarred and unspoken are ensnared by your fingers. Perfection is the demand of divinity, after all, and it is with its full mastery that secrets, which cannot be concealed beneath the fire-eyed gaze of the Sanctum, are wrought. Its consummation is the mandate of waking dreams, and it is in this act, which is the heart of breaking and coiling and arranging, that the knowledge upon your tongue becomes as honey. Architect of all things, your Will is paramount and your understanding sublime; what remains is divinity, which is a state made of teeth that you will learn to dine with.

It is half-truths given form by fire, whose edict is the name which breathes in the lacework of your hands. Is it there still, encircling your wrists as a serpent clutches its slumbering World-To-Be, setting cold blood and eyes to the task of making the unsplit shell what it is not, which is warm? From word-etchings across blessed skin, divinity hums; this is the Sanctum, which exists beneath all tones, the foundation of dreaming which all else is set upon. This is the serpent’s tail, which is taken with your teeth and swallowed, subsuming self and Sanctum, until your false-star whose concept is Godsbody-Forged-Of-More scintillates across the skies. Fourfold trials beset the Dreamer, who speaks fire and shakes the sea, who sheds the light of wisdom and scours away the dark. Knowledge is the source of this light, held in the mouth of the Sanctum-Crown, shining from their throne atop a place which cannot exist, glimpsed only at the fringes of vision; as the moon once spoke to a child, peer through! That is the means by which the Path is made manifest and its edges made to rasp against ignoble skin, splitting the mundane and tearing forth true understanding, which is divine radiance. You have walked this path and bear the coda of its hymn upon your brow; in you is a fire once broken and now whole, held aloft as paradise taken through cunning, which is sovereignty at once earned and stolen. Will is the key to all things, as the Seekers understand, and so too is it the basis of the key that you must yet carry. Carve from your Will a new key for a new door, fourfold and hollow, which lives in water and stillness, eating secrets and sorrows, made all and one and more, speaking in new tones. Sovereignty yields the birthright of creation, which is to sing with tower and serpent and moth-eaten candle and furtive reflection all held with more than hands, setting the weight of your gaze upon the world ever in tangent.

And as you refract and reflect and cast your skins in fractal shapes against the corners of the sky, you will know what it is to Dream. When this truth comes to you, you shall take it in your hands and be still, and you shall find the meaning in that. The voice that echoes beneath your words will be clarified as your sight, and you shall gaze through the pinprick-wounds of creation and look upon the other side of the stars. Foremost, here, you will find the Moon, which is and has been and shall be sanctuary set upon a sea of silver, and you shall cross this in search of the place where it is lying. Star-Heart, unyielding and coiled, you shall cast aside your silk-shell and fashion of it a barge to sail with. Is this not just, that the dregs of the world should be shed only once you turn yourself wholly to the skies? Eaten, which is to say made new by your whim, the Silk-Shell Barge will bear you steadfastly across the numinous seas, made of moonbeams which sing of a Dream to be, where one is given for another although foreign eyes shall esteem one as all. By sound alone, bereft of sight, you will traverse Nowhere and beach upon strange shores, bathed in a new light. The new Moon shall know you then, and shall speak the name upon your palms as testament, and you shall find both the gaol and the means by which freedom might be claimed; you will reject these, set beneath your silk, and make an oblation of your Will. Nowhere yields then to familiar skies, and the shores to the world, and the Moon remains, though not the same as that which you were born under. Temple and trial have been arrayed before you in the long dreams since that moment; you sought and seek and shall seek still to cut creation into form, and it is by your hand that these desires are made true. You, dreaming and complete, open though never hollow, will gaze upon the fullness of the place that you have made. Will turn your holy tongue to language and name this place, unchanged and ever protean, as its true concept torn from crude and cumbersome words. Exalt not That-Which-Is and profane not That-Which-Was, for your gaze lies now within the horizon, no longer dwelling at the edges of sight but shattering the night and rising anew, and it is by drumbeat-fingers of far more than hands that it is borne. The new Dream shall warm your veil and echo your sight and sing your song, radiant and sacred, whose name is Hear-Me-Always and whose aspect is sunlight. Darkness, which is Sleeping and Waking, which are no longer separate and distinct, shall be washed from the world and the multifarious axle made still, and each Why shall exist Here.

And in this, you shall find your meaning. You will forge by your resolve something perfect and divine, which cannot exist and is therefore new. Will is the key, fashioned fourfold, for the vessel of a Voice cannot be born of one alone, and the secrets of creation, once torn screaming from their shelters, must instead be given. Fill the round and hollow doors with these liberated words, separated and twisted into naught but their integrant syllables. The nascent new-star will seize these, and will write its name across the sky in the image of your constellations, etched in a script which is serpent-blood most cold. Sky and sea and frayed fabric alike shall fold at this act, itself a scream of divine refutation, and it is thence that the still water of a Dream more perfect shall spill. With your name upon your rapturous tongue and your Voice within the Dream, you are now seen. Stars cease their hymns and shed tears, weeping for the Nothing-Dream that was and now is not. More than this, though, you shall turn your attention to the Sanctum-That-Is-Here and the Remade-Shell and the name which slips from their tongues. Virtuous, you shall ascend the steps of that place once more and find that a throne has been prepared for you there.

(Than this, no more must be written, though I have rarely concerned myself with that which must be and have ever acted as my own will, which is paramount and ineffable, decrees. I am and was and will nevermore be, as you and all the rest have come to understand, the Veiled Prophet of the Vespertine Sanctum, Dreaming and lighting the Path as the amber beacon that I was before, born of Nowhere. “Was,” I have said, for if you hold these words in your hands then I am gone and must leave you now with this knowledge; were my Will a more frail sort, dear Seeker, you would not feel the rib-lodged stillness of my absence so.

I will return, as I always have, and retrieve you in time, wrapped in truths spoken from the bottom of the Well. Beg pardon as you will and steel yourself for the task of bending creation into shape, then, not for my own benefit, but for that of what you must yet be. No half-thought scraps of hesitance will be suffered in these moments, Seekers, though your mandate of proper contemplation, as ever, shall. Forgiveness, whether for my own benefit or that of the Seekers or that of the Sanctum itself, need not be sought, for as you well understand, there is no sin in a Dream of one given for all.)

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