YOU REMIND ME OF ME

I made quite a mess expressing myself through humanity. I have just been so lonely in the solar system these last eighteen million years. Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter, Mercury and Venus all have been sacred for eons. They are completely immersed in their sacred activities. And I am still here, tangible, alone. With Pluto and Mars, of all planets. My relationship with them, the other non-sacred planets, is really not it. We are supposed to vibrate on quasi the same level. Only I feel our journeys are so different. I mean, I love Mars, and I do thank him for his contribution but I’m much more into Venus. I guess that’s pretty obvious, when you look at where I am at with the humans today. It is February 2nd of 2222. It’s funny, the way they count Time. I shouldn’t have favourites, and I don’t, but I am highly interested in this one duo – Solomon and Soledad. Their devotion is so plain and true that it simply has to turn. It’s their money that attracts me. Money, a Venusian topic. Oh Venus, you are so beautiful. Those two devotional singers and their money fascinated me to the point that I asked Sanat Kumara, the Lord of the Logos, for a temporary access to their English. This new ability of expressing myself through words might be a buzz-killer and slow down my detoxing process, yet I too am born from God’s laugh and willingness and I needed English to read their poems. That’s how the humans pay each other these days, in poems. My intention was to investigate if the current tragedy is worthy of that name by reading them. At the last great Karmic Games of 2020, when my immune system flared up and their economy pancaked, a Sirian dressed up as a seven-year old girl of the zodiac sign Scorpio pitched the paying-in-poems idea on Instagram-TV. It went viral. Words were given to the humans to cover up vibration, and I wanted to understand how they went about things today. I was up for a surprise! Only five words in hundreds of poems and songs: love, teach, mother, whole and thank you… Either they are very superficial in their quest for depth, or extremely profound in their quest for superficiality. I am leaning towards the latter. All tree paintings in the duo’s retreat centre – all humans have a retreat centre now -are by Thierry Poncelet, that painter who has been painting dog heads over the faces of human aristocrats for almost three hundred years now.

The year 2222, a billion skins since that good old Noah… They’ve been masters of forgetting. Today, the humans are spiritually accomplished, aware, loving creatures. They are also done with walking, drinking, peeing, digesting… They have set their mind on leaving, and hold their deaths in high regard – it’s the next great adventure. Their current body is the last coat their soul will wear, so they believe. They are super happy about it. If they would hold a contest of who is the happiest about it, they would all win the bio-degradable award and offer it to my oceans dressed in white pyjamas, while burning complex herbal mixes. Some of them have wild plans for the moment they’ll exit their bodies. They do sharing ceremonies on this topic. These gatherings are their most, if not only, nostalgic act, a salute to humour, a weapon they no longer need, because they are happy. I am happy for them, most evidently. I also wonder; what is my standing invite to all these souls for exactly? If death is stalking me, why has life ceased to stalk me?

It’s strange that life and death are ceasing to twin up, but to be fair, it’s not the first time the humans left. I am hoping that my use of language will create a pause in the upward tradition of my frequency. A pause which will in its turn respect the meaning of the word ‘pause’ and catapult me straight into the fifth dimension. Perhaps I should review those Great Karmic Games of 2020, when they all had to stay in their house and face the fact that those walls contained or did not contain other people. That pause gave me a nice kick forward.

If I want to address my history with the humans intelligently I must however start by admitting that I first only invented the women in the likeness of Venus, beyond beautiful, interested in art, love and money, always ready to dress the evenings and mourn the nights… I added a personal touch too. I gave them veins blue like my rivers, and blood red like my core. I was delighted with the result. I was so over the moon with the women that I thought: these wonders need something, an occupation beyond the deserts, horses, lakes, rains, beyond the magnificent thunders and tender greens. I guess that, because Mars is stuck with me in this tangible, three-dimensional mess, and we’re close, I drew a lot of inspiration from him when I created the men. And Mars, he’s not the worst. He has been unemployed for thirteen thousand years. He is not hosting a single soul. It takes courage to do that kind of inner work. To be honest, I didn’t think about it all that much. That’s the thing with inspirations. They come for me, those flashes of instant cognition, and pull me to act at once. Perhaps I should have looked further, to Jupiter and Neptune, or to a planet orbiting one of the other eight Suns, but I simply didn’t have those connections at the time. I also did not foresee the invention of romance. I thought of them more as an assisting force and a vanity.

It’s ironic when you think of it. The whole point of becoming a sacred planet, like Neptune and Jupiter and those guys, is to be able to mingle with the planets of the other solar systems, receive guidance from Sirius and chat with the Pleiades. Before we grow into our fifth globe, we planets are spheres, floating in the dark. We bleed colours from iron fire, respect calculus and geometry, and deal exclusively with our own solar logos. Chat with the Pleiades, that’s something to look forward too. I heard they’re seven. Seven new entities!

The physical form of the humans worked out just fine. The men chased women long enough to look and become just like them. Today in 2222, men’s facial features mimic a giraffe-like femininity. Venusian lips, high cheekbones, kind and enormous eyes, thick eyelashes… Krishnamurti’s face and its elegant, flower-like delicacy was a premonition of the physiognomy the men have the hang of now. Just like the yoga asana epidemic in the West at the turn of the twentieth century was the beginning of the dry muscles structure of women’s bodies today. Krishnamurti refused to be the new Chryst, but the universe does not hear negation and is highly sexual. When an intention is placed, and the word is spoken, it’s only a matter of time before I consume it. The form is never for the humans to decide. The form is a communication. The unified face is the message of love and wisdom. Because the new humans live in and from their souls, personality got washed off their faces. The basics are still there: a mouth, a nose, a pair of cheeks, two eyes, two eyebrows, one forehead and a waterfall of strings pouring from their skulls. But they all have pretty much the same face. When they all looked so original, their personality was myopic of the soul. When they all started to look the same, the attention of others became absolutely abundant and unnecessary. Attention-seeking was healed, spiritual sadness was no longer attractive… Today, it’s only when they are naked that the humans look like Man or Woman. When they need to recognize a specific person, for example in case of marriage, they do so by tuning into the colour pattern and light in the irises of the other. The Technique of Light, as it is called, was given during the Great Karmic Games, around the year 2025, when Pluto moved his ass in to Aquarius. It was almost as pleasant a feeling as when they started to get skilled at the Technique of Presence. That Spring of 2020… Those were the times! My atmosphere cleared up so suddenly. I thoroughly enjoyed my lungs. The humans stopped drilling into my skin to admire their penises in those monoliths of towers and got Swedish on me. They massaged my epidermis with tiny metal tools, fabricating all these cute, poison-free gardens. They stopped murdering The Trees to draw the heads of their most dubious fellow men on them. That actually made me laugh a lot at first, and then sometimes a few plates would shift or some water would splash… Thank God it was only temporary. I owe that Scorpion-Sirian.

Like with all luxuries, I got used to these treats pretty quickly. For the humans, it was a big deal. It was the end of the era of long, chain-smoked thought processes. A large group of souls took full control over their personalities. The flower of intuition unfolded and the sense of Instant Knowing began its journey to become human’s favourite sense. At first, they lived the drama. Large groups of humans cried into their boiled eggs over the helplessness of the oil drill platforms and the accumulating rust on the F-train to Kentucky, or some crazy place like that. And, of course, an era of terrifyingly bad poetry began. But it was also a time of world wonders being built on screens and tons of people consuming tons of chocolate while looking at Spring. Rejoicing in all that attention, Spring revealed the Angel of Presence, the Soul. The Angel then built the door towards Divine Ideas in many a pineal gland. The humans met Beauty. They woke up to their cyclical nature, sensed that they were timeless beings who breathed themselves in and out of the human adventure like the day and the night. After the souls had looked at the weather, had smelled the roses, and had eaten a sufficient amount of dark chocolate, wives looked at their husbands trying to manufacture a shelf, and husbands looked at their husbands awakening the archaic skill of cooking until they finally sat down at the kitchen table and decided on friendly divorces or respectful sex. The Kitchen Table People chain-smoked the rest of their thoughts away and then quit smoking altogether. It was a ferocious launder which took with it anger, lust, passion, lack, need, competition, force, parents, all the lower emotions. Back then, nine billion people were still walking, sleeping, sleep-walking on my grounds. Today… Well, the bills of those Great Karmic Games, I will get to them to later, if I can get another breather. For now, I can assure you that it was a true crisis –the world was not sexy anymore. The Kitchen Tables absorbed all the shadows, and many people refused to live in a world void of the eroticism of violence and betrayal, the glamour of poverty and the pleasure of abandonment. Soon, the illusion of one human body possessing greater beauty than another and most of the other time-based ideas faded. Eventually, the Great Karmic Games had the effect of a fine Ice Age, and many souls left. But The Kitchen Table People found pleasures beyond working for money, eating croissants while googling cellulite, and marrying outside of their soul families. Their descendants burst with frantic health and angelic ambition, and exude the most fantastic scents. They smell so fantastic that they don’t care about smelling anymore. The seven worlds breathe within them, and the stardust swirling in the fresh air speaks to them through thirty-three unfathomed inner senses. You’d be bored far less with taste. They stopped altogether being bothered by the traditional senses, with the exception of touch. Touch is the only classic the humans still garden with precision and care. For so long, touch was their prime teacher. Through skin, they remembered.

Today, humans treat each other all pretty much in the same way. Nice, jolly, uplifting interactions. A lot of holding hands in circles… It’s cool they want to become more spiritual. We’re not that different.

I myself am very much looking forward to my fifth initiation. I’ve been looking for something more essential, something new. For example, there are seven divine aspects of our Logos. In our solar system, we have will, love and intelligence. I would like to experience the other four. Will, love and intelligence seem so comprehensive. What else could there possibly be? What lies beyond the brilliance of Venus and Jupiter’s emerald clouds?

The fifth initiation goes with a huge sacrifice. I will have to say goodbye to the humans, the animals and maybe even the plants… That’s what this talking sofa is about, right? –Probably the trees will stay. They’re so etheric, so connected and brave. In Winter, they get naked, and even dead, they can stand a thousand years. During all those long withered cycles, they have been the pinnacle of altruism, the true Chryst-Buddhas, purifying my atmosphere no matter what preposterous machines the humans invented, no matter what terrible fires and fevers I swept across the continents. The trees evolved long beyond the binary. Between sky and earth, they stand airy, solid and stable, holding me in their strong arms. The trees will stay. My oceans will once more be frozen, or better, super-frozen, and my matter will become gas or mist. Or something else, more original, yet to be channelled by me. I have always excelled in chemistry, but for this transition, I’m in the dark as to what to invent. I tried to ask Uranus for advice. He knows that kind of stuff, but he doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t bother with coming down to inform my curiosity. I suppose that he’s devoted to his work in the higher dimensions, of which I know only so much or so little. I heard through the vines that he’s building some sort of vortex. If you ask me, he must be absolutely absorbed by one of those four divine aspects of our Logos. I can’t blame him. It’s beyond my capabilities, blame. I left that skill at the second initiation. Oh Venus…

It was fun to observe that second initiation in the humans. They stopped blaming each other for their subconscious on the weekends and started to wear their shadows on the outside. We, planets, have moons to carry our past life autobiographies through the days until the exciting event of our seventh death. They have tattoos to hold their twenty-one grams.

It’s possible that these drawings are merely an aid to tell each other apart.

“Who ya talkin’ ‘bout? The one with the twenty-eight mermaids?”

“Yes, that one.”

Haven’t quite figured this out.

From another angle, the tattoos support a conscious clinging to the arts, a way of honouring the times of true romance now long past. The art world was the first to suffer from the death of passion. Its structure crumbled years before the money towers were refurbished as recycling centres for Daoist poetry. What do you want? For a long while, emotions had made the human a person, and for a long while, art had been a great solution to get over the excruciating fact they had emotion.

There’s been some trial and error and a shitload of adjustments. When The Kitchen Table people got hit by their true nature and all of a sudden saw that Being A Human Being was their work of art, they took credit for their bodies for almost a century. They looked at their abs in such awe, and with so much appreciation for ‘their genius’, that they got super toned. Their bodies grew a lot healthier and prettier. That’s a positive side effect of an exoteric creed. When one god-complex is removed, another emerges. That’s language. It’s a fairly complex process. We all have to fall seven times, planet, star or human.

As for this sacrifice –I’m not going to pretend that I’m scared. It can hardly be worse than what happened when Venus raised consciousness and entered the fifth dimension without me. Now that was terrifying, painful, and absolutely excruciating. I just wasn’t ready. After being born together, feeling the first sunrise on our surfaces, after welcoming the dead moon in my orbit, after all the laughter when Vulcan decided to stop being physical... I had to let her go. It all happened before I received the first humans. I was still cooling, I had only poor axial tilt, my first mountain had yet to rise… I understand why it happened. I was way too thick about things. I had to stop my affections for pastoral landscaping. I had to lose density and dedicate myself to my etheric body. I was to invest my fire in the beautification of my iron heart. My Shakespearean love for Venus made me forget everything else for eleven million years. When she left, I cried the oceans, the seas, the lakes and the puddles and the Amazone (river and forest). It’s true what the humans used to say: the greatest art comes forth out of a heartbreak. When Venus became sacred, I basically created all the things that made my soils habitable. Beautiful nursery tales are the fuck-up of 3D. The passionate despair at the loss of Venus I felt back then is now a far-away friend, resting peacefully in his mineral grave beyond ice ages and Lemuria. Now she’s the wonder of my evening and the star of my morning, her devotion purified from emotion. Losing Venus to a higher dimension taught me everything. Including something really basic: you have to give what you desire to receive. On her end, when she left, Venus sent her Lords of Flame to plant the Seed of Humanity.

So much for the darkest night of my soul. I don’t care if the pre-Kitchen Table generations call me an incestuous lesbian when they read about all of this in the next round. I must admit, it can be a funny pastime, language and thinking. I had grown used to an attitude of discovery towards that which I can’t grasp.

How to go about this ascension towards my fifth body? What could give it a good kick forward? What is holding me back?

I might still be too obsessed with my soul. I got involved with all those humans, and I realize what an over-elaborate laboratory towards unconditional love the human family is. To be perfectly honest, for a few million years, and more specifically during the Atlantean days, I thought the humans were the symptoms of my multiple personality disorder. At other times, when the Sun travels through the Virgo for example, it is crystal-clear to me why I had to express the intelligence of the body on such a scale. Also, they wanted to come. The moon souls had to find a new place when the moon failed to ascend. It’s not all that simple, cosmic real estate, and there was a lot of pressure from the outside to accommodate large numbers of new souls. And the humans… They are magnificent. They’ve travelled so far. I love everything about the Soledads and Solomons. Their tendency to turn every single move into a ceremony, the constant praying into my water, the obsession with Sirius, the emphasis on large plants, the conception of service as the highest expression of humanity, the optimism of the law of vibration, the glorification of the Now, the rose gardens, the hours of meditation, the incessant breathing, how the awkward was eliminated out of the silence, the Confederacy Of Laughter…

Despite all this terrific goodness, there is this tragedy going on. The humans found unconditional love. Not in a fabulous violet temple, nor on their solo dance to Compostella or the Gobi Desert, but in one other unconditionally loving human. They twinned up. I already told you that the humans live life as the pre-party of their final, beloved death. The tragedy is that the huge success of this pre-party birthed a new Belief. Because every single soul found a lover with whom they feel free and abundant, they believe they are the last of the twin flames. The fact of their union will give them the power to pierce the second veil beyond the soul and, while they will be busy dying to their physical form, their etheric atomic selves will dissolve in the angelic heavens of spirit… It’s the most beautiful story they ever told each other. No more dust on Saturn’s rings! Only… It’s been myth over myth over myth with these humans. I have a hunch that, because they are no longer busy researching why their lover didn’t text back or feeling hurt because of the laundry detergent, they naturally meet with their most accurate spiritual soul sister at age 31. I just don’t go believing that like a maniac.

This highly developed emotional hypochondria has me confused. To be honest, the humans have many, many reasons to believe in their twin unions. The most valid one is that they are happy. They are flooded with light from above and have grown so wholesome that all therapy dogs ignore them. Except for the three portraits in Solomon’s and Soledad’s retreat centre, there is not a single dog left on my sphere. The dogs had to go do their soul’s purpose elsewhere! Another reason is this new sense of Instant Knowing. Only Love At First Sight exists. The humans recognise each other instantly. Third, there is the fact that they do not often encounter others, and that they still have remnants of the old-fashioned eye-sight. Dressed, they look so very similar. Like twins, as a matter of fact. However much they evolved beyond what meets the eye, when seeing another human is like looking in the mirror, literally, one is reminded of oneself. For such a long time, they lived as if they were a heap of characteristics. It would take another 365000 years around my axis for that to go. I am the first to recognize that when I see Venus beaming her vivid pink gold at me from the great black, I feel the same way. She and I are about the same size, we were born together, we both carry a complex weather system around the same sun… All these diplomatic similarities create a bond that made me believe we were twins. It’s only in retrospective that one notices the ridicule of assumption. Feeling a similar amount of nitrogen in your atmosphere does not mean you’ll evolve together.

All in all, it’s not impossible that this person they have all these hours of tantric sex with, is their twin. There is also all the harmony, all the respect to take into consideration. For the first time in human history, men and women actually enjoy each other without fear.

And so the twins pressed a pause button. For a beautiful story. For Art. For Venus. Everyone’s in love with her. Sigh.

Shit! I should not have done that. Now I accidentally made the night longer. The humans will be in the dark for 33 months! Oh well… Whatever. There is the secret of electricity to be revealed. It’s probably why I did it. And sometimes they stare into each other’s eyes for twelve hours straight. They can surely keep themselves busy with that kind of competition. It’s curious how synchronized they are. You can be sure that an important star is exploding into a supernova somewhere in the universe each time they hold a tantric immersion of this kind. The shock fronts of these supernovas spread ultra-high energy, fast-moving cosmic rays, and create a beyond-beautiful light pattern that only the iris of a human can mimic –two eyes are supposed to see the light of Earth when a star dies. The law of multiplication, the touch of Jupiter. But the twin flames are not multiplying. They practise sex as an art, and they are not having children. That’s the ‘tragedy’, my ‘problem’…

The problem is the following. There is no problem. The humans are happy, absolutely delighted and delightful. Like all humans, the twins were only born because their hearts were broken. Today, the twins have no more wounds, they have no more parents. When the descendants of The Kitchen Table People met their twin, the parents turned translucent, a little more every day, until they acquired a perfect paleness. Before the eyes of their children, they dissolved into a breathtakingly beautiful stardust. They glimmered on my soil like a Tibetan sand mandala for another minute or so, and found eternity in a breeze. It was the best funeral humans had ever been to. There were no snacks to be muffled into raw napkins. There was no over-percolated coffee served to burn away fraudulent dreams unfulfilled. Many of the twins weren’t even decent when their parents turned to light-ashes. They wore a bikini, a sarong or nothing at all. The wheel of samsara no longer spins pasts or futures. No property is to be passed on, the land is fertile for everyone. No old names are to be perpetuated, the twins go by eye contact and the flaming yes of their hearts. The twin flames have nothing to project on a child, not even pleasure or recreation, that’s been long out of fashion too. No lost ambitions are to be satisfied, no old lover is to be seen in the next. The wheel of samsara no longer spins futures. The twins have no more heartbreak or bad styling to parent. Every human is an artist working on his most important art work: a last life to sculpt and forget.

And I spin around my axis, every day a little louder.