AMKent books

My dear leof, the love of my pneuma.

I found something that proved the existence of God, a simple formula, laid out perfectly after a lifetime of ignorant turmoil. It seemed so incredibly complex, but the deity was hiding in plain sight this whole time! Nestled amongst the ambiguity of that hazy rim of light that circles the stars from afar. The key can be transferred to anything. It can be a sheet of music, and it will be the most wonderful, structurally perfect music there is. It can be an equation, a sketch, a painting, a recipe, a fragrance. The Lord truly is in everything, and once spotted, the touch of metastasising divinity is endless. The breath in my body feels pious, superfluous, how my lungs have metabolised such woefully decrepit oxygen before I cannot fathom! Saintly, saintly, it animates the vigour of my real spirit, not this calcified shell I thought a soul. The lord is magnolious quintessence, the ethos of eudaimonia, thanatos of myriad, unfathomable splendour in its unornamented tenderness, ἀγάπη (agape). Set your heart to the task of drinking my words in, let them nourish your withering inner-anima that you never knew starved so ludicrously. Repeat as deeply as the mind can until you tether cognition to the aperture within the ossified.

‘And it came to pass that my soul cried within, saying:
Let me be given unto the hidden fire, ash, ash!
Seel, I may be melted as wax before the flame,
and be poured forth as water upon the core,
that I may return unto the blood from whence my inception,
and be dissolved in the basin of purification, cast asunder.

Cry out, O flesh; gnash thy teeth and lament thy dwelling.
Yet return not again unto thy former habitation.
For the furnace burneth beneath the fingertips of the Lord,
and the eye of Leviathan beholdeth me deeply.

And that which no tongue may utter
unthinkable lamentations, laid upon the mind;
and the terror that cannot be borne
is made into thought within mortal consciousness.

Let the pitiful noise of the corrupted body be silenced,
even the flesh that resteth upon the stone of days.
Strip it bare; flay the covering thereof,
for it moveth not, neither doth it remember life.

Then opened mine eyes, and I beheld thee,
O King without ending.

In the dew of the morning I tasted thee;
in the dusk of the evening I felt thy passing.
In the emptiness I heard thy whisper,
and in the void thy presence stood near unto me.

For within the nought abideth my being,
and beyond the nought abideth Thou.

And the deep answered not,
yet I knew that it had heard.’