If you walk deep enough into the halls, you will come to a place where concepts exist. Like Plato's world of forms.
But the Gnostic Halls and Plato's Form World are odd cousins of one another.
Forms in Plato's reckoning are perfect. Not so in the Gnosti(more)c Halls, there they are fancies mingling together with oeuvres.
The residents of the deepest parts of the Gnostic Halls are the remnants of lives lived which never stop living and only attribute more and more rubbish into the openness.
In mingling together, the wandering concepts, ambitions and questions break slowly upon each other, like smashing ten tons of fine china with a wrecking ball and heaping it up into a tor.
This is how strange ambitions, perversions and thoughts too taboo to risk whispering to yourself enter into the mind.
A word dreamt up by a beat poet might very well have flogged its way backwards in time by millions of years, slooped down accidentally into the mish-mash at the end of the hall and re-emerged in physical form as the ancestor of the platypus. That's how it works deep down in the Halls that the Gnostic Mysticism will teach you to reach for.
Darkly now. Frightening you now. The will to power is a concept that dwells in us. We each possess a bit of its totality. Our other attributes crowd it out and damp it down but if those attributes of ours that temper their cruel brother fall away in the currents of a trillion trillion lives going on simultaneously. If they do fail. Then the self that was once the vessel for many things becomes the shrine of just one.
This will for power rules many worlds. This disembodied urge that lives through broken mangled minds of lords too deep.
It shattered when it hit the floor, the honey jar, into four jagged chunks and a hundred tiny shards that scattered across the filthy linoleum. Jasmine stood above it with her chicken legs spread out in her Minnie Mouse dress. She stuffed her fingers into her mouth and looked(more) up at Anya with big, teary eyes.
"Shit," whispered Anya. She sidled to the window to sneak a glance outside. Nothing there, no one. She fingered the handle of the gun in her waistband.
To be safe, she let the curtain fall back against the window pane and the room fell to smothered midday darkness. She could barely make out the girl standing in the center of the room, her dark skin melting her into the background so that only the whites of her eyes marked her place in the darkness. A whine started in the back of the girl’s throat.
Anya struggled to get the words out in English. "It is ok," she said, crunching ceramic under her combat boots as she crossed to the girl.
Jasmine clutched at Anya and buried her face in the older woman's baggy sweater. "We ain't got no broom. How I gonna clean it up?"
"Leave it," said their prisoner from the corner.
Anya looked sharply in his direction, couldn't find his eyes beneath the mess of dark hair that hung in his face. "Hush," she said.
"It's the damn apocalypse, woman," he said. "No use in cleanin' up after ourselves."
Jasmine turned her cheek to Anya's stomach to look at the man tied up in the corner.
"Watch yer language," she said.
The man scowled. "Watch your... butterfingers..." he tried, then fell silent.
I am not broken, Beloved. I am not the shattered, scattered person you desire. I am whole and hale. I am dust and demons alike. I am my own strength, my own song.
I am not broken, Beloved.
And neither are you.
(more) You’ve let your fears too close, but I can see past them. I can see the flames underneath. And I stand with you. I cannot find your strength for you, but trust me, Beloved, I will not sleep until you do.
Because, Beloved, you are.
I am not broken, Beloved.
And neither are you.(less)
Nothing is ever all gone
Even your dust stays around
Skin shavings and nail clippings ground up
Into particles floating through space so only a
Tick or mite could hitch a ride on the wave
To the sea of death that used to be me