palicedotorg

Forlorn, simplicit.

I yearn and muster to digest the prognosis of insanity, their words bereft of creativity or enlightenment. Quite the opposite: finite, inconclusive, only spoken from a modern book of cognitive thought but not yet totally understood. A practice, an experiment leaving the mind clear but the physical form unnerved.

Why did Amadeus lose his way? Was it his need for Amadeity? The Yang needing The Yin?

The Kundalini, Chi, Kinesiology, Acupressure or nutritional expertise is far off from this decade. Why money seems to hold us back. The one consumption we made up, play and control but knowing the apparent richest of countries have the highest national debt: the countries rich in Mother Nature’s treasures; we have stripped only to increase that debt further. We leave their land naked but pure for only the devil to see their purity has been greedily chiselled in haste and their debt does not exist and never it shall ~ Impure numbers at best.

What is this need for materialistic gain which will ultimately be our undoing? A pattern stretched far beyond the imaginations of the original sun and moon gaias. To channel the wisdom in Sanskrit of ancient literature from the rarity of air, water, trees, rocks and stars. Where are we heading? I keep telling people, we will reflect upon this time as The Golden Era. We have everything we need, it is that which causes the psychiatric temperament of frustration. When we don’t: it is loved, cherished, blessed, religiously celebrated. Water for example: our purest and best Primum non Nocere medicine which took centuries to bring to purified health. Many countries would die for that luxury yet we do not serve it first in hospitals. The tables I sit at with other patients consuming ill health and the mess we have created on their plates must surely have a connection to the mess in their and their Doctors’ minds?

What about the elements? The fire needed to extinguish the discarded greed of materialism. I could shout it from the roof tops yet it continues to be buried due to the fear the toxic gases and fumes the fire would muster. Not allowing a Phoenix but more a monster to rise from the ashes of our sins.

I see great beauty when listening to our youth for I hear clarity of thought and understanding of their deeds: City Year being a perfect example. Working all hours with no financial gain. Parents indebted to the government for their children’s education trapped by a system we so love to complain about but have allowed to be created generation upon generation. Have we the choice or not? I hear the masses cry, pray, think – ‘There are more of us than them’. Surely there is another, clearer, simpler, better way. A sounder, fairer leader within a team with a network needing each other on an even plain.  Like an Anonymous meeting, we are all and will all be on the same level: when you’re in the gutter, it’ll only be those who know you and that gutter to reach out their hand and pick you back up. ‘Your suit’ Cameron cried to Corbyn. I only wish to remind him of the fingertips that picked that cotton, more distinguished slave labour from an imbalanced, fast paced world that only an insane person might recognise.

Amadeus cries

Amadeity replies

Harmonious Synchronicity that I could only explain in a musical symphony.

I think of Einstein, Newton, Di Vinci, Darwin, Monet, The Mercury Man and when I recognise them again in their now future lives, I question why we always do come back for one another? You do not have to believe my school of thought but I merely ask you to be open to the poetic fluidity of soul to future soul in spirits’ musical motion. Why do ‘we meet again’? As Shakespeare once wrote inspired by Wilde’s notion. It is as clear as day when I recognise the souls of their past like Sting having been stung to death in his past life: to do what he does with those hands of past it would take a Saint in the name of Francis to recognise the tragedy which he so eloquently projected to absolute prophetic perfection. To play with those hands, that clap in unique motion, is inconceivable to man in itself. But to master a Labyrinth of confusion, gaining a musical Doctorate only a matrix could understand the delicacy of that instrumental code. From a man to a wo-man.

In Style of Trudie from council to film, to fame, to la di da romance. A friendship lost in this grail within this dance. We do meet again, a rhyme, in future’s past. But what I fear, year upon year, in every life is that it always arrives too late. When wrinkles have found those eyes and energy has surpassed their dehydrated capillarous veins. Rivers of blood I have seen, oil we have drunk to hollowed death streams. 

Israelites to Palestinian Prophecies reading from the same book written from right to left only misinterpreted by man’s gluttonous wrath.

But where do I go from here? From Bethlehem in Aramaic to Arabic through the Yemen, Spanish ancient literature to France she lay, to rise again and travel to Island they found, a Grail, a pale of water, who knows what’s best? A Sacred Love, I leave in blue blooded metal vest. The Rainbow Golden Prophecy is best. A blessed nest.