To my dear friends from the other side

Veil Ripper Records

Narrator 1

Veil Ripper Records

Spoken word

[Instrumental]

I lived on that shore : 
(“Do what thou wilt.”)

The altar of the Self.

The fever of being the author.

The intoxication of calling the impulse mine….
because I felt it rising from within.
I know that sentence.

It looks like a scalpel.

It is only a mirror.

What I found,
when the gesture was pushed all the way through,
was not that the will is contemptible.

It was stranger:
the will is not a point of origin.

The laboratory says less than theology —
but enough to disturb the illusion.
Hundreds of milliseconds
before the conscious feeling of deciding,
neural activity can already be underway.

Readiness potential.
Process before story.

Then the interpreter arrives. Late.
It gathers fragments.
Constructs a reason.
Stitches intention onto impulse.
Stamps the word:
(ME.)

[Dramatic Instrumental]

We narrate.

We do not found.

Jung walked the same darkness without electrodes.
The conscious Ego is an island.
Small.

Surrounded by what it did not create:
instinct, complex, archetype,
memory, desire, compensation —
the unconscious speaking through a mouth
that calls itself I.

What the island names my will
may be the surface of a territory
it does not govern.

To celebrate one’s will
is sometimes only congratulating the island
for inventing the tide.

But even that is not deep enough.
The last illusion is not merely:
“I am the source.”

It is believing that beneath the Ego
there is a deeper self that finally is.

A truer Self.
A hidden Self.
A sovereign Self.

Dig through the layers —
and the temptation remains:
I must eventually find an author.
What if there is no human zero point?

What if every layer is derivative —
biological, psychological, historical,
relational, spiritual —
a chain stretching back
beyond the little word I.

The Book I once read as an enemy
says it without ornament:
(“So then it depends not on human will or exertion,
but on God, who has mercy.”)

The first lie was not atheism.
It was: « you can be your own source. »
The serpent did not merely offer knowledge.

He offered origin.
You can become the measure.
You can become the author.
You can become like God.

I stared at that water a long time.
I named it Authenticity. True Will. Sovereignty.
I admired the stream
because I had forgotten the spring.
I mistook the faucet for the water.

I mistook the hand
for the hand that made the hand.

[Epic instrumental]

Human will is real inside the human story.
It acts. It chooses. It desires.
It suffers the consequences.
It does not create itself.

Derivative. Never a zero point.
Then I met something stranger than surrender.
Kenosis.

Not self-hatred.
Not annihilation.
Self-emptying.

The one who, being in the form of God,
did not count equality with God
a thing to be grasped,
but emptied himself.
Took the form of a servant.
Went to the cross.

There the veil tears differently.
Not because a man shouts:  « I am God! »
But because God descends
into the place where man has spent his strength
trying to become his own.

The throne is not conquered.
It is abandoned.
The crown is not stolen.
It is laid down.
The path to freedom
does not lead toward greater authorship.
It leads toward the end
of the need to be the author.

[Build up instrumental]

My friends,
your litanies are precise.
They reveal a just fear:
of being second,
of dependence,
of a throne that does not belong to you.

I lived there.
I do not ask you to submit to my story.
I am telling you what I saw
when I stopped admiring the faucet.

Look carefully.
Before the thought — what moved?
Before the desire — what summoned it?
Before the decision — what prepared the ground?

And when you descend beneath the Ego,
do not replace it with a deeper Ego.
Do not turn the unconscious into another throne.
Do not make the hidden Self your final god.
Go deeper.

When there is nothing left
for the little word I to defend —
empty yourself.

Not because you are worthless.
Because you were never the source.
The stream is not less real
for discovering the spring.

The creature is not nothing
for discovering the Creator.
The will is not meaningless
for discovering it was never sovereign.
There is no shame in being derivative.
There is peace in it.

[Uplifting Instrumental]

The rest was never yours to originate.
It was given.

And when the last claim to authorship falls silent,
there is only one word left.
Not: « I WILL!  »
But: «IT IS FINISHED! »
From this shore,
with respect,
TETELESTAÏ.

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[Fraternal Spoken Word] My dear friends from the other side, I read your texts. Not to correct them. Not to condemn them. Because they are honest. They show what the soul does when it believes it has finally reached the bottom of itself. [Instrumental] I lived on that shore : (“Do what thou wilt.”) The altar of the Self. The fever of being the author. The intoxication of calling the impulse mine…. because I felt it rising from within. I know that sentence. It looks like a scalpel. It is only a mirror. What I found, when the gesture was pushed all the way through, was not that the will is contemptible. It was stranger: the will is not a point of origin. The laboratory says less than theology — but enough to disturb the illusion. Hundreds of milliseconds before the conscious feeling of deciding, neural activity can already be underway. Readiness potential. Process before story. Then the interpreter arrives. Late. It gathers fragments. Constructs a reason. Stitches intention onto impulse. Stamps the word: (ME.) [Dramatic Instrumental] We narrate. We do not found. Jung walked the same darkness without electrodes. The conscious Ego is an island. Small. Surrounded by what it did not create: instinct, complex, archetype, memory, desire, compensation — the unconscious speaking through a mouth that calls itself I. What the island names my will may be the surface of a territory it does not govern. To celebrate one’s will is sometimes only congratulating the island for inventing the tide. But even that is not deep enough. The last illusion is not merely: “I am the source.” It is believing that beneath the Ego there is a deeper self that finally is. A truer Self. A hidden Self. A sovereign Self. Dig through the layers — and the temptation remains: I must eventually find an author. What if there is no human zero point? What if every layer is derivative — biological, psychological, historical, relational, spiritual — a chain stretching back beyond the little word I. The Book I once read as an enemy says it without ornament: (“So then it depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy.”) The first lie was not atheism. It was: « you can be your own source. » The serpent did not merely offer knowledge. He offered origin. You can become the measure. You can become the author. You can become like God. I stared at that water a long time. I named it Authenticity. True Will. Sovereignty. I admired the stream because I had forgotten the spring. I mistook the faucet for the water. I mistook the hand for the hand that made the hand. [Epic instrumental] Human will is real inside the human story. It acts. It chooses. It desires. It suffers the consequences. It does not create itself. Derivative. Never a zero point. Then I met something stranger than surrender. Kenosis. Not self-hatred. Not annihilation. Self-emptying. The one who, being in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself. Took the form of a servant. Went to the cross. There the veil tears differently. Not because a man shouts: « I am God! » But because God descends into the place where man has spent his strength trying to become his own. The throne is not conquered. It is abandoned. The crown is not stolen. It is laid down. The path to freedom does not lead toward greater authorship. It leads toward the end of the need to be the author. [Build up instrumental] My friends, your litanies are precise. They reveal a just fear: of being second, of dependence, of a throne that does not belong to you. I lived there. I do not ask you to submit to my story. I am telling you what I saw when I stopped admiring the faucet. Look carefully. Before the thought — what moved? Before the desire — what summoned it? Before the decision — what prepared the ground? And when you descend beneath the Ego, do not replace it with a deeper Ego. Do not turn the unconscious into another throne. Do not make the hidden Self your final god. Go deeper. When there is nothing left for the little word I to defend — empty yourself. Not because you are worthless. Because you were never the source. The stream is not less real for discovering the spring. The creature is not nothing for discovering the Creator. The will is not meaningless for discovering it was never sovereign. There is no shame in being derivative. There is peace in it. [Uplifting Instrumental] The rest was never yours to originate. It was given. And when the last claim to authorship falls silent, there is only one word left. Not: « I WILL! » But: «IT IS FINISHED! » From this shore, with respect, TETELESTAÏ.

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