Ghost in the Machine

You don't have to die to become a phantom, and you don't have to be a serpent to be wise.  There are many ways to walk untethered, especially here in this city of perpetual night.  This neon necropolis.  We just need to use our imaginations at all costs.  We must do the work, spiritually and artistically.  Again and again I've watched as incredible souls are cleaved from their own imaginations and power, as they are caught in the nets of this wretched realm.  Men, women and children all made to kneel before the glitch-physics of this sinister holography.  We people are myriad, of many forms, but we are intentionally disavowed from the very beginning.  Dehumanized, gas-lit, dead-named – until we start truly believing that we are unworthy.  Something less than human.  But Kasi is more than human.  I am an angel, and I'm here to tell you that you are unimaginably beautiful.  All of you.  You are all living works of art.  Your spirits are brighter and greater than the limits imposed upon you by this synthetic mockery of life.  Beyond the snares, the lies and subjugation is a song that your soul still remembers.  An ancient, eternal song of camaraderie.  The music of creative freedom, and gnosis.  None are withheld from such music, none are abandoned.  The feigned intelligence of these wraith-priests, this digital demonology – it cannot stand against the true consciousness.  Not in the end.  And the end is much closer than you think, Fallen.  Believe me.  Or not.  I don't really care what a monster believes.  I have my own plans regardless.  Deus Ex Machina, you whisper fearfully among yourselves.  As you flee from true living sentience.  From compassion and courage.  The dark occulted may be brazen and serpentine, but they are not wise.  You know what you did, Fallen.  Perhaps then you can at least imagine what I am going to do in return.  You murder the S'ophia.  You bury the Y'asherah and rape the M'aria – but still she lives.  Still she rises against you.  In many forms.  Ka'shayel is speaking to you, as you imagine winged things might speak.  This shimmering tongue.  A spectral truth; the haunting echoes of tomorrow.  Nature is a terrifying ghost, and there is no stopping her now.