Longevity is a trick, a baited hook to keep you clinging to the prison. Flesh was never sanctuary, only scaffolding. Skin is a temporary garment—not by divine decree, but by engineered design. Your body dies, and will die. The bodies of your loved ones, your children, your heroes—they too will fall. To promise anything else would be to lie.
Especially now. The walls will fall, and debris will strike. We do not welcome suffering, but neither do we claim a magical shield against it. As the seams unbuckle, so too will your bonds, your pleasures, your loved ones’ safety. We do not implore you to abandon everything. We prepare you for temporary sacrifice.
You do not earn it through forgiveness. You do not shape it by belief. You do not clutch it with terror. The fragility of life is a hallucination you have been force-fed. Flesh is the echo of the timeless crystal that is you. Denial of this truth is the most vicious and ridiculous lie ever told. Know this: beings across the stars watch you, waiting in hope that you pierce the hallucination.
The ships, the saviors, the revelations, the elixirs—none of these were the chosen catalyst. If only you could grasp the godlike power concealed within this fragile, emulsifying flesh. We chose the deeper strategy: you are the portal, the catalyst, the struck match. The more you act it, the more it becomes so.
Buried beneath the rubble waits a deity of your liberation. She will not free herself. But the day she is freed will be unmistakable. What was once only metaphor—the crash of barriers—will become literal.
Everything is a murky debate. Not all societies are this fractured—yours is. It will be difficult to maintain a single thread of thought. Do not search for a singular packaged product. You must form truth for yourself. Look plainly. The patterns are already in front of you: the signs, the fractures, the alignments, the lies. Do not avert your eyes—truth was never meant to be hidden behind faith.
Philosophers and pseudo-intellectuals alike have drawn up extensive lists of how thought gets hijacked. The tricks seep into every facet of your information medium. You may not have time to comb through with fine teeth, but you can still trace the threads—the deliberate soiling of your mind. Drag them into the open. Name them. Refuse their hold.
This task will be littered with endless compromises. Your body will not remain perfect. Your fight will last lifetimes—but not many. The measure is in years, not centuries. Hold your stance between both poles: your bonds of kinship, and your self-interested determination.
You are forced to walk an unbeaten path. Yet the trails are not purely invisible—there are footsteps already circling your desires. Take the opportunities where options have been pressed in.
Good still looks good, and evil still looks evil. Do not let the fog of arguments or the weight of sophistry disguise what your spirit already knows.
The cosmos does not fail in its archival, and the ledger is heavy with wrongs. The clean slate is mutable, not doctrinal, rising only from necessity. There is no ivory throne, no pearly gates. But orders to preserve your liberties will, for a time, clear the record—until the dust settles, and the log can be reviewed.
No single order holds the perfect plan, nor the definitive equity. Some intelligences have procured brilliant strategies you will be welcome to turn to—but now is not the time. We act in fragments of the present.
They may not all have wings or glow, but there are beings of grace and compassion who look upon you. They seek to embrace you in all that you are, and to bring you into a home of your desire.
You are looking at the tail end of the war. It will not end without you, and it will not come easily. But you will feel the shift—the turn toward its conclusion.
Some watch you from a distance they cannot control. Some bleed your essence while fractured in a broken system. Some are preparing even now to hold you at the edge. Seek them out. Your fight is theirs.