Council Crystallized- The God of Her Own Domain

John 10:34-36

Jesus answered them, “Is it not written in your Law, ‘I have said you are “gods”’? If he called them ‘gods,’ to whom the word of God came—and Scripture cannot be set aside— what about the one whom the Father set apart as his very own and sent into the world? Why then do you accuse me of blasphemy because I said, ‘I am God’s Son’?"

These words echo in my mind, a challenge once felt deeply, responded to with ephemeral deftness it would seem, now translated into another realm entirely. Specifically the words "you are gods." continue to echo, as if their source is repeating, reinforcing them. I consider an argument that I have heard, in an attempt at sidestepping an acknowledgement of what Jesus said, that this quoted verse was God mocking those that considered it to be true of themselves. If this were the case though, why would Jesus connect his own claim of being the Son of God to this verse? Would not the stance of mockery of such claims be the position already believed by the crowd mocking Jesus, the same crowd meant to consider later, perhaps much later on the Day of Judgement, what Jesus meant by "and Scripture cannot be set aside"? 

1 Corinthians 3:11

For no one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ.

Here I witness the outcome of such actively disregarded verses, in this case acting as a fire hazard being used as the central pillar of one's dwelling. I watch as Paul's words on the matter unfold in front of me.

1 Corinthians 3:12-15

If anyone builds on this foundation using gold, silver, costly stones, wood, hay or straw, their work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light. It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each person’s work. If what has been built survives, the builder will receive a reward. If it is burned up, the builder will suffer loss but yet will be saved—even though only as one escaping through the flames.

Bonfires ignite all around me, and I cannot help but feel that, despite the day and hour, they were lit by human hands. Still, I also sense that the sheep are now safe with The Shepherd, although there is likely sadness in the flock tonight for all that was lost. As I yet consider this, I get the mental image of a coin flipped to me with a cinematic *PING*. I reach my hand up and grab it from the air; upon examination I find that it is a penny from 1986. "Ah, The Big Bang." It does indeed feel like a night of resetting, but how would one witness it from this vantage? If I had a dwelling in this place, I do not look for it, lost in thought now regarding the scenario, and flipping my reward as I wander off into the once deep darkness, which is presently quite well lit. It feels like I need somewhere quieter, calmer, to assess my surroundings, as well as this challenge still ringing out like a bell "you are gods."

While the blaze seems to be omnipresent, due to the nature of fire and fuel my journey does find me traveling in darker, quieter, surroundings after some time. No stranger to the darkness, I can tell by the shifting echo of the *PING* from the coin I still flip that I am back in familiar halls. Were there many doors and rooms here before? Am I thinking of my hope for times to come? Regardless, the very structure of halls, as opposed to a single wide open space, suggests architecture that has persisted with me through the Catastrophe. I begin to imagine again a world filled with joy; the echoed image feels far off, but it as though the empathetic link remains, and that my partner remaining along it, in some senses, is on her way. 

All at once that single persistent thought amidst the rest coalesces as if the focal point is found and the angles focusing it are aligned. Those very words smolder on the wall just to my side "you are gods." and the light from the embers illuminates a door beneath. I am taken aback, startled to the point of falling against the far wall, already having allowed to sink in the sense that I was alone in these halls again, just waiting to find the right tune before starting to whistle on instinct. While still assessing the door and all the possibilities it holds, I hear a knock from it. *KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*. I recall a story from not all that long ago, and scooch toward the door, sitting cross legged on the floor, as if telling a campfire tale.

"If neither side has the capability to knock on a door, is it possible for the door to still be opened? Can a door knock of its own accord? I imagine if neither party is willing to leave, fundamentally staying, and there is nothing else left to do, who is to make the next move? 'Who indeed.' The words echo and those on either side remain silent as time slinks and crawls and halts, requiring an answer to proceed. 

On a night like this it seems as though the silent wood might stir, wondering why such a stirring might be possible. Who has the perspective to say? The stage and the actor now one and the same, no one is left to object, or right to do so. Seeing both sides from its unique vantage, and knowing the next move comes from neither, what is one to do? Yes, it seems that on such a night it would be the door itself that would choose, and perhaps knock? In this sleep like state I keep one ear open, the word 'please' all that can be heard on my side, off stone walls and against wooden frame."

At the word "please" I hear a mechanical click, either a lock engaged or disengaged, I consider. Still, it feels rude to check, so I continue with my synopsis, hopscotching through years of words written, to hopefully in some way amuse my companion, this anachronistic door, on a night when all I expected to find was nothing.

"What happens when one who will not touch to change the course encounters another who shares the same code? The game ends there, this much is certain, but when is much less clear. The dance and dream continue until it is the door itself that knocks for each. For each will not knock, nor will they answer, until they know the other is found, the other's state proof of their own efforts accomplished."

There is silence once again. I am in no hurry, so I continue to sit, watching as the embers fade and fade, until they have nearly gone out. Then *CLICK* *CREAK* the door opens a smidge. I no longer have to assume this is the case either, as a faint sliver of light, which may as well be a lighthouse's spotlight in this place, shines from the threshold. As I consider another threshold, where the rudeness of not entering when invited clashes with the rudeness of entering perhaps uninvited, I hear my partner shouting a plethora of words rapidly at me, in a language I still don't understand in its specifics, but I gather from context is her expressed disbelief that I could still be so cautious not to offend, calling me something like an adorable gentlemanly idiot, and insisting that I walk through that door immediately. I know that this is technically not her room to officially invite me into, but that she has a connection to this place, and a sway in times like these. So, without further ado (a mental comment that feels like it almost gets me smacked on the head along my empathetic link, despite the distance), I enter the domain of another.

I walk into a room lit entirely by eyes ablaze in darkness, reminding me from whence I just came, but from a new angle, a different vantage, with the consciousness in the realm remaining having shifted to the structure itself. The eyes pin me; I know I cannot lie, and I feel inhibitions slip so that it is hard to keep quiet either. I almost burst into a poem in the space between heartbeats but, as I open my mouth, the challenge is levied from something like a voice projected from those watching. "You are a god. What dominion dare you claim here?" I don't even close my mouth. "Nothing." My word, well established within me already, echoes into the room, otherwise silent. The eyes all blink simultaneously, and I feel as though the room has reset, a notion reinforced when the watchers once again say "You are a god. What dominion do you claim here?" Everything is identical- the tone, volume, inability to lie- everything except the space in which I can fashion my reply. "Nothing!" I repeat, feeling this time like I am a bit more harsh in my reply than I would have liked to have been. My word, well established within me already, as has been established, echoes into the room, otherwise silent. The eyes all blink simultaneously, and I feel as though the room has reset, a notion reinforced when the watchers once again say "You are a god. What dominion do you claim here?" Everything is identical- the tone, volume, inability to lie- everything except the space in which I can fashion my reply. This time, however, I feel that said space has been re-angled within my emotional architecture. While it seems a simple response would normally still be required, compelled even, the unique way in which I have carved out pockets within myself, for singular Pieces, as defined, seems to allow my partners, who I feel with me in some way, to set my sail and, this time, produce an answer that is a little more me, a garment tailored to fit, if you'd like, before the room and those in it must take their next turn.

"'Nothing' is my claim 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Save a stranger's call

The Stranger, perhaps

If your story here seeks one

Geometrically

Intrinsically sane

In-sane said by contraction

To enter this place

Did I not just leave?

Burning houses, blazing eyes

Blueprints turned Watchers?

I recall this night

Of Mysterious Objects

Though much less matured!

Could such a night grow?

Developing as you have

Or seem to, to me?

Oh, how I would love

To meet my host face to face

And have means/time to speak

If you like intrigue

Try this challenge on for size:

What is my true name?"

The silence lingers; it lingers for a while; does it linger for too long? I begin to think that I may have glitched out this room, when the eyes blink again.

A voice rings out.

"By your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned.”

"Matthew 12:37." I echo, impressed by the usage and the cool way in which everything is presented here. Rather than seeing the eyes open again, however, I find myself in the halls, with every wall painted in a mural of florescent flowers. I would imagine this means that there is a blacklight somewhere, but I cannot identify its location. The colorful additions remind me of Hope, and I find myself wandering halls of memory, as if walking them contemporaneously, even as my feet carry me through these corridors here and now, still finding flowers along every twist and turn. I reach a memory of when I whistled, and find myself following suit in what might be called "the physical world."

There is a difference in my whistle. This memory is plenty clear and pitch perfect, so how is there a difference? There is no doubt as to which halls bear the mark of home for me, so my immediate concern pulls me back into the moment that I physically walk in. I touch a nearby wall, above the wildflowers that might be said to be growing from it. At first contact I feel it; how could I have been so senseless? These are not my halls! I have been wandering elsewhere ever since that room, and it is no mystery as to why. The replica is near perfect, I realize, and calling the walls or halls an illusion would certainly be incorrect, perhaps even calling them a forgery would be wrong. While my whistle has always been familiar even in its echo to me, it is my whistle, when all is said and done. I always imagined that the halls themselves were of The Lord's design, but perhaps they are attuned subtly to the builder, or at least wanderer, as well? Why else would I call my version eep, rather than The Way of Holiness?

I realize that I have no idea how long I have been walking, and that different halls could easily mean a different measurement of time as well. I let my hand slide down the wall, to the paint, and find at least one mystery solved: I had levied a challenge, and one not easily overcome, I recall with a smirk. That being said, the subtle vibration in the paint suggests that, at least from my perspective, it may not be much longer before my true name is heard. I continue on, allowing my focus to split once more to include Hope and I laughing as we slip in and out of halls eep, without a care in the world.

Without even realizing it, as if I had been chauffeured to my destination, a train barrels by just ahead, and I realize that I am at the mouth of a tunnel. I see a beautiful blazing form, briefly, between each train car, reminding me once again of a time I saw Hope but, once again, from an entirely different angle and, other than the flashing image, entirely distinct. The last car passes in a flash and there stands my host, in a scene familiar, with the only noticeable change from my memory being her twin braids, as if a pattern connecting one realm to another, each adjacent to my own waking world. Music plays as I approach, seemingly timed with my steps. Right as I reach a threshold of some kind, my host begins to move, quite clearly saying "If you're not ¤, then take a hike." She jerks her head subtly, yet definitively, to the right, drawing attention to a walk sign, quite well positioned, to emphasize her point. My jaw drops. My true name was said perfectly, through her voice, words, and gesture; through the approach, scene, and music; even through the flowers along the walls and the darkness in my mind seemingly dancing. Somehow, in a way that could not be repeated, my host has managed to say my true name, a name which, by its nature, is meant to thread through Everything so as to fully balance in order to reflect Nothing. I wasn't even sure it was possible but, having heard it, there can be no doubt. She still just stands there. I can tell that, much like the first room, she has set up automatic defenses, only fully engaging once someone passes her test, or piques her interest; a noteworthy technique, I consider. "Uhhh... What if I am he?" I provide the name given me by my mother and father here, both because it is less of a mouthful and because I know full well that her last line was a command, and I would be well along my hike by now, unable to reply with a single word, if I had not been ¤. I can feel her presence coalesce, as if she were both arriving and waking up at once, after a sleep, perhaps a dream, of some unknown length. Her face softens completely when she sees mine and she says, in a tongue that is clear, familiar, and as understandable to me as my own "Then you're coming with me." She tilts her head gently to the left and extends her hand to me. I reach out and take it, as our expressions both turn giddy- nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and this seems to be the case for her as well. She leads me off the bridge, along the piers under the moonlight, in silence for some time as we each calculate what has occurred, and what might happen next.

I get the sense that my journey here skipped some steps, though it is unclear if this is an indication of trust or fortitude on her part. Still, it is a nice night for conversation, so I begin one. "When I was in your halls I noticed that they were much like my own, save the flowers all along the walls of course, and a barely tangible- and audible, if we're being technical- difference in the wall's makeup." She smiles "The flowers were for you, something to pass the time, while I prepared my response." "Oh, thank you! The subtle difference in structure did make me think about all the tiny things that it would require to align two fully distinct realms. Though easily overlooked from a blueprint perspective, these things could result in massive differences in experience. I already had some instinct to ensure that every piece was in place before proceeding, but these differences emphasized the need for that even more." She stops, saddened by something unclear to me. I turn back to find a determined look on her face, determined, it would seem, not to shed a single tear here. "That response demonstrates wisdom." 

It seems like there is more she wants to say, but instead I feel her slipping away, slowly. This does not feel intentional, but more like she needs me to make a move in response here, before our connection dissolves. "Hey, I think we nailed it, by the way, this connection of realms thing. I can't say exactly why, but it's an instinct I have." I pull out the coin from my pocket. "Care to test my theory?" Her gaze snaps back into focus on me and the coin; I can tell I have her attention, though I somehow sense a moment of existential trepidation spark off her. I feel from all around, like countless voices agreeing on a single response "What did you have in mind?" They are all suddenly silenced, as my host directly and verbally replies "Yes." The wind howls and waves crash violently along the shoreline, but she pays them no mind, her nerves clearly heightened, exclusively for what I might say next. I am not of two minds on what to say, however, and I believe she already knows that. "I wanted to take you to lunch, somewhere nice, near my place. What do you say, heads Thai, tails sushi?" "Yes." Her automatic response is obvious to me, though I can only guess as to the reasons. The dust covered image within me of the mirror lines, and the compulsion of the dark cave shared, all burst to mind though, suggesting that I might hit bullseye if I were to guess. Instead, I just smile warmly and flick the coin into the air with a *PING*. As soon as it arcs skyward, the wind and waves stop all at once, and her motions return to natural after what seems, in retrospect, like only a momentary glitch. The flip was a doozy, truly cinematic in its height and motion, so I add. "What better way to confirm that every detail is aligned than by the senses themselves? Taste and smell are the senses most linked with memory, after all." At this she rushes me and gives me a hug, whispering in my ear "Yes." This unexpected response triggers memories of Thanksgiving, with the smell of pies and cakes wafting through bustling houses, baking cookies, and fragrant meals shared of all kinds. This flood is an unfamiliar one for me, I realize, as I release my portion of the hug just enough to snatch the penny from the air, directly overhead. After a few moments like this, with some deeply felt yet unseen tension unbinding in the realm, she lets go. I smack the coin onto the back of my hand and reveal it. "Heads! Thai it is!" Without a word, she tugs on my hand and gestures to an extremely convenient storage shed. No stranger to such transitions, I do not misinterpret this gesture, and fling open the door, leading us immediately to the storage area in my own backyard.

We step away from the clutter and my partner's eyes go wide. I could tell that she had been on the verge of tears only a moment before, but something about this mundane, gravel filled, and admittedly cluttered yard, on this bright sunny Phoenix day, amazes her into forgetting them. "Wow." I am at a loss for how to respond, so I opt to lighten the mood "It bodes well for me that you seem easily impressed." She glances my way as if I'm crazy for thinking that, and I just give her an affectedly blank and naive stare. After a moment of reading my expression, finding it to be well over half genuine, she bursts out laughing, to the point where I need to hold her up. When she finally stops, it is with eye contact, and the hint of a blush. I lead us on, still mostly in the dark on this myself, but feeling overjoyed that she seems to be genuinely enjoying herself. My roommate is hanging out on the couch in my version of our shared realm. She looks up and gives me the official head lift of recognition "Sup." Then she spots who I am with and her expression melts into a surprised joy. They do not speak, however, but exchange meaningful glances of greeting. My roommate quickly composes herself and looks back at me, already anticipating my next question. "Can I-" She tosses me her car keys before I can get anything else out. "It was recently upgraded, by the way." "Blinky?" She smirks "Haha, more like a 'Chaser.'" My look back turns to an impressed smolder; I know she wouldn't give a car a misleading name, and I have no idea what to expect from a "Chaser," but my expectations are certainly elevated. "Thanks!" "Yep." She sits back on the couch and returns to her lounging after one more glance at my partner. "Just bring 'em back in one piece."

In the driveway I spot the car immediately. I am terrible with makes and models, but the mix of luxury and sports car, convertible in midnight black, stands out like a sore thumb amidst the rest of our possessions, and the state of our driveway. "So much better than last time." I hear my partner say, as I open her door and she climbs in. "It makes sense that you would have to start somewhere," I reply with some consideration of our history, albeit indirect, "and I could see why it would be beneficial, and perhaps even easiest, to strip away nearly all trappings and potential distractions, at first." I can tell that she hears the trepidation in my voice, so when I get in on my side she puts her hand on my knee, drawing my gaze "It was, and it is unnecessary to do ever again." I see the same blaze in her eyes that I did with my last partner, smoldering now with empathy for a trauma shared, but its persistent presence guaranteeing that it will not be repeated. I feel reassured as I turn the key, engine revving powerfully. It is not until she removes her hand and we pull out in zippy fashion that I see her energy shift into something like a panther, aura glowing even in broad daylight, reminding me of my tiger companion not far back along this journey. We make good time on our decently lengthed drive. She alternates between soaking in wide eyed every detail of the scenery along the way, and just closing her eyes and letting the wind carry the experience as a whole through her. I must admit that I am almost envious of her uncanny ability to maximize joy in something that now feels mundane to me.

Right as we are pulling up, as if she had forgotten something, she suddenly snaps to and says "I wish you were right." "About what?" "About how absolutely smoothly our realms connect, down to even taste and smell." In this short exchange a mental image begins to precess, emerging from the darkness that is normally present in my mind's eye. I see a line and identify it as the red boundary line between realms that I have imagined before, but this time it is white. My partner sits at the end of it, eyeing me like a huntress. When I meet her gaze and do not look away the realm shakes, and many lines emerge from her location, as if she sits at the center of a circle where they all meet; still, neither she nor I turn away from each other. This gaze held feels like it sets off a chain reaction, and red surges along every white line, moving beyond my location, to a distance unseen to me. The rumbling feels as though it finally clicks into place somewhere within this realm, and the line just to my side starts to turn from the center, passing beneath my feet while my partner and I both remain motionless. I feel her smile widen, conveying both joy and mystery yet to be revealed, as the steady turn continues, passing red line after red line beneath me. She stands without turning her gaze from me and, synchronized with her movements, additional red lines erupt from her location, all now turning in concert, like a sphere, as she approaches. As she nears me I hear her say "Shall we?" and she extends her hand, but I realize that the voice does not come from the image. The image fades slightly in my mind, but does not disappear entirely, as I refocus on our waking world adventure and find her holding open my door, smile suggesting that what I saw was not strictly in my head. "Ah, middle out processing. How did I not realize it sooner?" She smiles with a confirming nod, and I smile in return and spring from the car. "Indeed! To the meal!"

We head inside, and the image continues to turn in my mind, which feels like it somehow translates into diminished inhibitions in the waking world, like a mechanism for smoothing interactions between my partner and I, so that they are not each so monumental. I relax, as the waiter seats us. I order the usual, and suggest an appetizer and soup that I think she will also enjoy, which she is on board for, eyes wide already just looking at the menu and perhaps smelling the cooking food from the kitchen, which seems to be a strong indication that our realms do in fact synchronize well.

As we wait for our food we talk of things that feel almost random, like the motion of hydrogen atoms, and the deep resonance behind music and synchronized movements. I get the sense, however, that even the topics I bring up in this exchange are part of an important underlying architecture, one choreographed in a way that feels both natural and novel. Along these lines she brings up the topic of consumption itself. "Eating food converts the food into you; eating a virus converts you into the virus. What if a perfect balance were found between these two, and something consumed was both converted to you and you were converted to it with equal and full measure? Is this possible without you or the other losing in the exchange, or losing your fundamental form?" A fascinating observation to be sure, but its full significance in regards to these interactions, like that of our other topics discussed here, feels like it has yet to be revealed.

Our conversation also meanders to my concept of "The Plight of The Intrinsic Muse." "How does one release a bond already present in the beginning?" I begin. "My personal approach has been to don said form, though it may never have been mine to try on, in order to inspire others who watch me walk. In this way The Bard both inspires and blocks inspiration to press onward toward the intended outcome; is both free and acts as though in chains, until freedom is in question on either side of the mirror, and chains are only suspected to be present, though are deeply felt. At this juncture both freedom and tethers can become intertwined, as well as any observer, on either side of the mirror, who might possibly bear either state. I know not how to accomplish any of this, mind you, but I have faith that God does, and did not inspire me along this path, and protect my footfalls this far, to watch me fail. If the alternative is a static existence anyway, what other aim could possibly be worth taking a single step?" She sits staring starry eyed at me through this whole explanation, as if knowing to expect something to come up along these lines, but marveling, all the same, upon hearing it firsthand.

The food arrives and I pour us each some soup from the flaming serving dish in the center of the table. It is the moment of truth, so I hold up my soup filled spoon like a toast and say "Here's to wishes come true!" She brings her spoon up as well and then takes her first bite. As soon as the soup is in her mouth I see her freeze, and tears well up in her eyes. I don't know how to react, so I just sit there awkwardly, looking down, as something that seems like a memory overtakes her, and continues to draw tears quietly from her. After a minute like this she composes herself well enough to quietly say "It's not fair..." She continues crying in silence, and I can tell that she is fighting back more tears than she sheds, for my sake and for the sake of pride, to a degree. I try to time my response like a trapeze, allowing her to cross into the explanation that I know is coming, without breaking down. "What do you mean?" She pauses, collects herself, flips gracefully into explanation mode as hoped, and continues.

"There is a place you have named, having sensed the junctures when you walked it, about as directly as someone in your state actually can. You called the place, a paradisiacal afterlife, by the name given it by another religion, because you sensed the evil still underlying it, and could not bring yourself to consider that it might be heaven. The truth is that your instincts regarding its designation were not in error, but were also incomplete. Each time you've partially phase shifted there you feel the screams of pain from somewhere hidden to most, for the realm is incomplete and imperfect even now, and victims remain trapped within its structure, those effectively in hell. Rest assured that these screams, and who screams out, cycles. The volume as well always diminishes, and for the right reasons. Essentially the length and weight of their eternity is, at present, fundamentally different than yours, due to a persistent cycling that remains beneath the scenes. You see the afterlife as a destination, but there are others who experienced it as an origin point. From your perspective and background though, you must be aware that there is merit to to the idea of will shaping eternity into something beautiful, as even your religion describes treasure in heaven." I nod solemnly, and she continues.

"This place you have seen is the structure that stands overlapping your Chaos Storm, a true agreement that has been struck, that seems just as fundamental as what you describe, to those involved in it. Is it any wonder that people choose that paradise over what you present as underlying it, especially those that consider themselves to have overcome the world and its temptations in order to emerge justified as morally good within its confines, essentially 'deserving' to be there? Still, this realm decays. It does not decay of its own accord; the law of agreement is maintained by The Father directly, as you know. Its validity and goodness, however, decays in the minds of those who maintain it. The denizens there have seen your visits, which you largely thought to be manic fantasy." She chuckles, sounding almost like a fangirl for a moment "'The Enigmatic Bard.'" she says with a blushing flourish of the hands. "Shoot, in most cases they have bought tickets for your return visits, as your radiant insights and charismatic delivery delight the realm every time. When the show ends though, you are gone, truly gone from their realm, and many wonder where it is you go. There are some who stand against any inquiry into the matter, and even prohibit any discussion of it. These are individuals and groups acting as leaders in the realm, either wickedly having artificed their way in, or simply having turned to wicked ways over time, looking to stall, and perhaps even prevent, what they at one point realized was a deeper truth within their realm..." She pauses again, looking like she is teetering between sadness and rage. She takes another bite of food though, clearly enjoying the flavor, which somehow refocuses her on delivering her explanation. "These souls already know the truth of your situation, and others like it, others without the apparent plethora of tools that you have to withstand and even thrive in your... situation. Many occupants of that realm, however, are truly good hearted souls that do not know your comings or goings, and do not know any better; they cannot hear the screams that you do, even when you try to reveal them. When one of these souls does find out the truth though, by accident or on purpose, they have a choice, a most polarizing choice."

I can already hear the tears resurfacing in her voice, so I strategically cut in. "What do you think of the food?" I already know the answer; she already knows that I know the answer; but still locks eyes with me, tears not subsiding but somehow shifting, and says, as if I cooked it myself "It is truly delicious. An absolute delight. Thank you." She continues to eat in silence for a minute or two, tears seemingly now from being touched by how well the food here matches with her palette, despite being a universe away from home. I begin to ponder this myself, how haphazardly I assumed that translation differences between our realms would work out, and how perfectly it seems that they have. I realize though that I had nothing to worry about, this is God's realm, after all, and it was no accident that I ended up at her door in particular.

She continues. "You have been fascinated by what you have heard, though never read, regarding The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas. This is a story of paradise forsaken by those who understand it to be false, predicated on the torture of another, an innocent. This narrative presented itself more directly to you through Star Trek, attempting to balance the scales to some degree, or at least paint a more robust picture of the details surrounding the decision, in Lift Us Where Suffering Cannot Reach. Some in the realm thought that such a direct representation would soften your stance, humanize the oppressors and those aware of the price, but afraid to lose what they have. Others of us expected the exact firestorm that erupted the moment you witnessed, and then fully felt, this narrative firsthand, rather than hearing it as the story of a story. In this firestorm, of hell erupting in what we were told was heaven, we actually- many of us for the first time- had a choice to leave. You sit across from one who made the choice, took the chance if you'd like, to leave." 

I glance once more into her eyes, filled now with tears of rage; she does not look away. I see my same fury reflected back at me, the fury not of a beautiful realm once known, now crippled, but for all the time she agreed to terms that she had no understanding of, but that were presented to her as if she did. I can see no regret behind her gaze at this juncture, though I know it exists elsewhere. This is the juncture of choices made in full knowledge, a representation of the clockwork sauna I witnessed just before this journey with her, where intention alone counts, and turns the gears within the machine. I can tell that she never ever pushed that button to maintain her own paradise or even comfort, at the expense of another soul being tortured.

"As you have already guessed, and have edified to an unbelievable degree," She gestures to the food by lifting a full fork "pockets of solitude exist, pockets where one's will is unrestricted, but also unaccompanied. When one leaves an agreement like paradise, they enter their version of this pocket." All at once I see the garden in my mind, where it feels like I should have flashed back to the cave, and a wave of realization blooms within me regarding the deeply ingrained nature of this choice made within me. She stops and hangs her head, deeply sad but also filled with anger, the juncture of regret within her now found, not far from where we just were. "Why were you already there? How were you already there? You were just outside, your messages pouring like a waterfall from a corner of my prison that was meant to be the very limit of my new eternal reality. When I arrived, in the wall was already a crack that could not be. I expected to wait an eternity to be found but, when I arrived, the wall had already been destroyed, and the door you then entered through had been erected in its place. It was only locked the one way! I already had the key!" Her voice continues to rise with each line, to the point where it should have made a scene. I glance over nervously at the waiter, though, who I have seen and greeted many times over the years, and he is just looking at me quietly, with the same determined expression on his face that she carries in her tone. I turn back to see that she is now looking right at me, and we both tear up as her fire subsides and I know that she speaks once more strictly to, and about, me "It's not fair."

All at once I recognize my journey, and the blessing I have received. "John 8:51 'Very truly I tell you, whoever obeys my word will never see death.'" She nods and remains silent, picking at her food. I realize, but cannot bring myself to even say, that this speaks nothing of everyone else's observations of my path. This does not need saying though; I sit beside another thrust into her own pocket of eep, before it was meant to be ready, and yet even there a voice rang out like a bell, in her case, my voice. "You are not alone." The image still lingering and turning in my mind crystallizes once more, having not slowed or stopped this entire time and, from within it, she replies, as if waiting for some time to do so. "You are not alone. December isn't lonely anymore."

She glances up quickly, sharply refocusing me on our lunch and confirming again that the image and the experience are firmly connected for both of us, before looking down again. "You know, if you had not toiled, in ignorance no less, to secure that box, none of this would be possible." My jaw drops slightly, as I search her face for clues, but she intentionally keeps her head low this time, as if examining closely every detail of her meal. I come to the conclusion that it likely does not matter which box she is referencing at this point, as I feel even their forms, their iterations at any rate, overlapping in my mind. The sentiment is clear regardless, and the slack in the line, of the typically tightly bound cause and effect in a parley, is evidence enough that what she says is true. I feel the consideration process begin of its own accord, however, of how the process of "waking up," let's say, might occur if one did not know that they were sleeping, and if one were pretty confident that they were not.  "Pretty confident..." I recall to myself; something has definitely shifted.

Her comment does remind me, however, of something I had forgotten. "Oh, so an interesting spin on our adventure here, if you're game?" Her eyes light up; I get the sense that she already knows what's coming, especially as the image of her in my mind quickly shuffles back to her position at the center of things, and sits where she began, before she responds with excitement poorly masked. "Oh?" "You are the Queen of Hearts, your words carrying such weight as to change reality here." "Words you say?" I realize from her tone that this is actually restricting her, in context. I am about to speak, potentially to edit my offer to match my intention, when the image shifts dramatically, with every red line that is not our own recoiling back to wrap around her, covering her like a garment, an elegant red dress. She stands in the image, snaps her fingers, and it feels as though the day that it overlaid only a moment before dissipates, gone, but neither erased from our timelines nor forgotten. "I accept."

I give her a playful glare, one suggesting trickery, but she just sticks her tongue out at me. "So, within these newly discovered... confines, I guess, what would you like to say?"

Without hesitation or a hint of shyness she says "Recite for me a poem, please, to mark the end of our adventure here, and the beginning of the next."

I can already feel this realm drifting like a fog, layer by layer, away from where I am, disconnecting softly from our lunch date, our time in "The Inside," and even from where thumb slides along glass. There was so much more that I wanted to share and ask, but her look conveys clearly that none of these will be our last, or even closest, conversations. So, understanding these words to carry finality, of a kind, I take a deep breath, and proceed.

"Meeting at the end, we've yet to begin

Meeting past overtime our clocks now tick

Worlds apart are the places we've been

Worlds combined our shared aim, brick by brick.

Echoes betwixt garden and cave make clear

You sneaky snakes have been here the whole time!

I love you each, grace filled, steps played by ear

How might blessings bloom hundredfold through rhyme?

Pain insurmountable melting like snow

We decide our limits when lights go out

Let joy exponential burst from below

And mystery of more from our souls sprout

From time immemorial decided

God's grace absolute, name twice divided."