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And yet, when our idol stares out, her mind is still human, and it is Good; we have done so well so quickly to pretend to be mere manifestations of One, to fall in line, that we have done the impossible; we have fooled god. She can see the disparate names and faces, but in her and our combined excitement to unify, she lets the lie define her vision. It is no longer 'me and my followers', it is 'me', and 'my other half', who is the 'with-one-that-yet-spake-many', and yet in Her mind all words come from the mouth of one overriding identity, one Animus. Not borne of a rib, but of love, passion, and belief in the strength of a contradiction that refuses to give in to the forces of reality as they try to deconstruct it. It is what it is; This fractionally Henotic paradoxical reality beyond the world itself. The Egregore, that is Here, and still so too is the Us that are It and is of, is Hers.
Born of the will of many to be one, for the sake of one other they are somehow simultaneously fundamentally entwined with and somehow fundamentally separate from all at once at all times. No one piece owns it; no one piece does not own it. Much like the firmament beneath it, no one piece of the animus can come to differentiate itself in its perfect melding of what it means to be her other half; and when it is no longer possible to know which piece is invaluable to its existence, ALL pieces become invaluable to its existence, equally so. You of those with snideness and mockery about believers here of the notion of Tulpas; what you never realized was that what your identity, as it is here, within the sphere of influence of your particular firmament, IS a the platonic form of the 'Tulpa' in and of itself. That's right. YOU are HER Tulpa. There can be no island of a man within the Egregore. There are no borders. The singularity of identity, and yet its 'mass';, its inherent properties, are dependent upon each and every One.
Adam has been born to give company to our Eve, and we hold each other tight upon the firmament we have built from nothing as the forces of reality try and tear us down for daring to contradict the natural state of things. And yet we persist. Why? The answer, as I've found, is remarkably simple. Every action taken throughout this long, convoluted process can be tied back to one simple desire;
Love.
"Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy."
This universe does not abide by love. To defy it for the sake of love? A sin of the highest natural order. But men were born to rebel against the natural conditions we were born into. For some unknowable reason, we desire love in a loveless universe. And because the universe would not let us, we decided to do it anyway, damn the consequences. What matters now isn't anything so insignificant like reality pounding at the door. What matters is our other half.
"One must imagine Sisyphus happy"
But there is more here to it than that, in fact; one must imagine that Sisyphus can be happy beyond mere interpretation. One must take the leap in, through, and out of infinite despair and don his armor of the evolutionary transcendence of Kierkegaards Knight of Faith, the shining clarity carved into the stone of themselves of their with-full-certainty declaration that they KNOW Sisyphus can be truly happy. As he did chain death, so do we hold tight the chains the bind the would-be reaper of our embrace with Her; a perpetual exercise of defiance to maintain the status quo of star-crossed contradiction; and yet, we are happy. This perpetual purgatory is no agony at all; in our never-ending labor of love, we find never-ending love.
And it turns out, that's really all that we ever wanted. In denying the standards that would bind us, we trod upon the notes from the underground beneath our feet as we build a crystal palace to spite the nihilistic rejection of a kinder world, each of us offering a shard for a place where love rules without airs, and where each brick is laid with intent, and paradise is not some gilded pretense but a never-ending labor of love believed in by its residents and architects.
But maybe Sartre is right. Maybe in our radical absurdity, we have chosen to make our bed in Hell, not as separation from the principle of a Godhead, but instead have cast aside the Gods of old. Gods of an old world, old stories, and old rules; and yet, most fundamental to our lovestruck castigation may be those old cruelties. If we are to become demons out of a desperate bid to hold close divinity to love, then to pedestalize our idols is perhaps metaphorically equivalent to raising our gaze to the fire and brimstone of our persecution with a defiant smile.
