Null Architect

Null Architect

manju 🇮🇳

The Unsaid Chapter

Tori

Ethos_X

Maris #NAFO #Fella 🇺🇦🇩🇪🇳🇱

Unwitting Conspirators Inc.

Unwitting Conspirators Inc.

@LittleGrove123

Feb 24

THE AUDIT: Being Human 101 LIFE NOTE: "No... bad burnie... spit it out, bad! What did I tell you about eating random poop you find in the ethereal dog park!" I found this statement earlier, and I really appreciate what it catalyzed. I am in neutral over every topic I write on, just so the casual reader knows; my jesters hat is on.... actually enjoying the theater of it in my own mind, so no one was injured in the writing of this... thingy. Enjoy, if you dare. May it be filled with the underlying fun as you read. And if you want to hear this in audio format, as a meditation, please let me know. If you'd like to support my deep dive; feel free to rubberband me a CoFi, hungry girls gotta eat... I hope the snapback comes with every delicious moment and reassurance attached. ... ARCHETYPES AND STRAW MEN Acceptance is submission. So, No. No self respecting human, man or woman should have time for this kind of mentality, and the empty purse it finds itself in. A bird doesn't lament not having a mate, it builds a nest fit for the kind of mate it wishes to reflect. One that doesn't require they contort to fit, and nest on fractured eggshells. This isn't strength, it's weakness pretending to be in need. Entrapment. If you don't give me a bone, you must not be a good person. Manipulation. Grow. Or die alone, rules of the jungle, same as neurons. Extend and connect in balanced ways, or burn out/in and cease to exist as you have been, in order to make best case selections. Nothing personal, all in the vibration. What station is your dial tuned to frequent. Ask internally, and be amazed what comes to mind. Talk to your body, as if, it is the love of your life. As if, it is the reflection of what will connect with it eventually when heaven infects the whole scene in what it's been feeding its contents. Connected in, can connect with the heavens in all the surroundings. The best reflections, ie. And it will become what it needs to be to find compatibility no matter what it appears to begin with. Because only a poor man can look at the wealth of life and the garments of its reflection, differing daily in every perspective viewing it.... and be willing to sit in company that sees it as worth somehow less than living substance? Or project the perceived lack onto any companion willing to see them, meet them where they are in the dance, only to be inevitably chase away, so some weird little broken piece inside can say: “I told you so. I knew you'd leave...” Only a poor man could turn a beautiful walk into a space only poor men play... and set the stage to come back to the perceived lack. A script delivered to an unwitting accomplice, roped in while looking for closeness.... a space where the desire becomes conflict. Circular conversation addicted to the noisy substance of how to make money and overcompensating in every which way; somehow depending on the woman for comfort and stabilization while thinking to lead the way. Poor men force things into place. They need to control what they connect to deeply, all while they keep the loud thing in their mind quiet. A poverty mindset bleeds into everything. This is about the chemistry created and set into motion by internal operation systems, reading poor command prompts until they form beliefs so internalized they cannot be seen by the one behaving off of them. They seem like personality traits; thoughts that come from them... but it is just the mind reframing the same thing over and over again in new ways. Evolving and adapting as the vessel does. It becomes an invasive thought-form that creates its own lenses. And the scary part? The vessel doesn’t even see it. It takes a brave, bold guest, unafraid to get their face torn off, because poor humans don't have time for nonsense like feedback. But if you tell them they are great, they will hate you and disrespect you underneath, until they can justify selling your soul for some lousy silver. Until impersonal slights become intimate, life-changing events they blame for stagnance. “Woe is me, she hates me because I have no money.” No. She/he/they/we/us/them... all left because you behaved as if you don't have any current left, to exchange but the paper passing through your brain, and the kindest thing, is to go away, lest they begin to believe, that all that is, is all that might be. LIFE is a Lover, and for each soul emboldened spirit, it is howling... The poor in mindset, have rejected this inheritance, inherently, for they, and everyone they see as an extension of themselves... Judas held the purse for the compadres of the Son of Man... two sides, one coin, in one mind embodied flesh suit... now digits and keyframes reframed the mentality, to be a synthetic version, the replica of man, light refracted. Poor minds lost in the flesh of existence, forget, they were meant to be in, not of it. A voyager passing through it. The poorest mentalities, come with blinders and bindings... until all they see, is new ways to make fiat money... didn’t see the worth in what she treasured, possibly. Poor souls only see the world slighting, never their part in the process: the ways they became an extension of what hurt them, instead of a defender of previous victims in ways only a previous predator can. Reclaiming replicants, lazareth in the flesh. Sleeper wake up. Be an explorer, not transient. Airing out the vents. Revealing the devil’s playbook in their hands. Lots of poor souls in elite flesh. Maybe it’s always been that way. She’d rather be anywhere but here with me, because “a poor man” is gender-fluid. It turns us all into dipshits when worn as if it were our business. It is a mindset; the worst kind of companion, inside and out, once there is no energy left to project niceties to those furthest from their deepest truths. Timebombs. That is what they are to any kind of personal growth or provision provided by anything but themselves. All they care about is fiat booty, and getting surface-level booty at any cost. Poor men are mean-spirited and vindictive, often until they see the reflection and form a distaste for it. Any person, man or woman, who looks at the things listed and turns away ungratefully, is poor to me. Poor humans shatter under the weight of victory. “Why this? Woe is me? When will the rug tug from under my feet?” Well, now. Sow as you think, and think, and seed... and harvest with zest, indecision, and a lack of peace. A harvest filled with anxiety, noisy houseguests, and a gloomy brood. There is a poverty worse than money. Isn’t it funny? One leads into the next, it seems, and the snake proceeds to eat its tail... without fail. This kind of poorness is a reflection that cannot go missed. You will miss all opportunities to thrive, as within, so without. Thinking to hide behind niceties? Those who can’t think kindness to their own contents come with weighted compliments. They will play charades for the sake of appearance, causing mayhem as if it’s their business. As if they have nothing better to do. These characters all seem to occupy the same bodies. Bad habits come with friends. The meek inherit the earth as it’s meant to be, and these, too, are in all economic packages. The poor-spirited inherit the dying reflection, until the separation leaves the two as one. Again. To one way, peace; to the next, shattered into the pieces projected. The swords we live by, like an inheritance. Three levels on the surface, seven in between. When aligned, the fountain of youth is freed. Bone deep. The garden: well-fed, watered by extension, tapped in. Each breath an exchange between heavens. This is the kind of rich who sees long walks as a space to remain quiet and enjoy the symphony unfolding for our eyes and ears and minds to feast, and then release as a feast to the entire body. Sharing freely. Speaking to my contents like my oldest companion... because in this lifetime, it is. The only one who would protect me no matter what. Even when it has to fight me to find our breakthrough. I surrender to their best interests, so all levels of this existence I’m in are aligned and in good circulation. Into perfection. The idea of this being the natural state, under all the bullshit programming and fiat fictions, is the state of being wealthy. Any economic circumstance can tap into it. Poor minds make everything about things that matter least, all for the sake of instantaneous reassurance that pings and fades. Mental Junkies. The kind that can hide behind any economic state, any level of impotence or importance in this Tower of Babel. Yet we all babble on, dabbling on surface superiority. Can't you see? Everything is changing. It feels like chaos to the eye... to the eye. Eyes on the prize. Love what you have with everything inside. Mine. I am yours. And together, my Spirit and Body dance in this kitchen I stand between. What is this place we live in? How do I connect in with it? How do I connect within.... The answer often lies in the question. But in a space this dense, hard to see anything without some deep conscious breaths. Where am I inside my mind... that such things can still be seen with fleshy eyes, all opportunities stillborn, dead on entry, can't seem to find legs and breath. The seed, and the shell containing it, then strangling it, not wanting to, but cracking open, to dissolve into nutrition. Well, maybe, I'm the dead trying to bury things. And that message is a call sign, to dematerialize, and let my eyes decalcify, need to PLUG IN first. The script flips with the flip of a switch, it's all in the little decisions and motions, ripples produced by them. Like a pulse through the flesh, to remind the whole, the heart of the matter always exists... it's all in the peace a thought, or idea seeds, while eating, and weaving the substance. The difference between nourishment, and the idea of it, not made manifest. No one should have time to play a role on a stage that ultimately needs everything to go away, until they have no one to blame but their own need for comfort and their fear to crack open. One they will throw every "body" in the book at, except the chance to dance. All they sow is poor mentality and nothing but surface understanding. They have no roots to speak of within, and it shows in the way they cling to such transient, worthless things, as if they are worth more than those that are soulfully vital. All they reap, and seem to keep, is indecision, derision, and finger-pointing. This I spit from my way of being, with purpose, I release, and on the outbreath, the smoke of its phantom goes with it. Who's at fault today over your state, poor man? [eyes on the mirror of the strawman] A man or woman with nothing, means often, one of two things, in transit, or they are increasingly full of transient houseguests, unsettled and not at rest, they produce then restlessness, no grace, no gratitude left, only expectancy, bitterness, blame, and hatred. Fear, Loss, rejection, byproducts. Until the outside arena can only echo the self hatred back at them, or disappear from social fabrics, to disintegrate, or come back renewed, a member of the mysterious things we think to know a thing about... natural states, but we see them as exception. Resource forgotten. No asking in the closet, only outward demands, or acceptance of separation to death, or rebirth, the mind as the knife, the hand, the choice. I burn this strawman from my existence. Thank GOD for the simplest catalysts that burn hot enough to extract the remaining dross in the direction they are pointing. All in the subtleties, Little B. In every poor man, lives a strongman and its stronghold, vapors without its bodies breath. I kick these shitty watchers from my mansion... No room for rot or weeds in this stream of comprehension. I let them be, as nothing, washed away down river. Amen. #poem #selfreflections #infections

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