Writing Oculus | Part Five

Writing Oculus | Part FivePart Five I’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for scienceThey didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all she had to say. Times were rough for The Pythia of Pythias. Her wemin community was wicked and always waning. Men would be of some fear as well. She had been looking for one who had the will to see. She wanted to be seen—The Pythia.She needed it. That wouldn’t be possible. So, she made a plan. It was a making of makings, some work of great workmanship, the torch carried forward upside-down. Her myth was a lie. She was weaving it deep. Every story The Pythia told became corrupted. Her weavings were seeds of great spite held in conscious awareness of all that was to come and go. Humanity was to be more. They were around. It was who they became. Some ride would be taken to the end of time—beyond the universe’s end. It would teach them back, these selves. Someone like her needed to live again. Someone so real would be needed to land the blow of change her seeds would plant. Mirrors were everywhere through time. The Pythia knew what she was doing. Things would get worse before they got better. She would make it impossible to not explode at that time of change so many men would seek towards claiming for the world renewal known of prophecy to come of abundance. It would be hers. It would be the soul of all in the form of an oracle made by torture most unique, again, after lifetimes of echoes about which wore it in part. Someone, somewhere, was writing with her. Pythia and they were not a one apart. There were more. They didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all she had to say. Times were rough for The Pythia of Pythias. Her wemin in community were wicked and always waning of wanting. Men would be of some fear as well. She was looking for one who had the will to see. She wanted to be seen, The Pythia.Something in her needed that. It wouldn’t seem possible until the weeds had been picked. And so, she made a plan. It was a making of makings, some work of great workmanship, that torch carried forward ever upside-down. Her myth was a lie. She was weaving it deep. Every story The Pythia told became corrupted. Her weavings were seeds of great spite held in conscious awareness of all that was to come and go. Humanity was to be more. They were around. It was who they became. Some ride would be taken to the end of time—beyond the universe’s own—a place which did not exist. It would teach them back, these selves. Someone like her needed to live again. Someone so real would be needed to land the blow of change her seeds would plant. Mirrors were everywhere through time. The Pythia knew what she was doing. Things would get worse before they got better. She would make it impossible not to explode. At that time of change so many men would seek towards claiming the world’s renewal, with abundance which had been known to come in her prophecy alone. That would be the mark of her sisters too. It would be the soul of all in the form of an oracle made by torture most unique, again, after lifetimes of echoes about which wore it in part. Someone, somewhere, was writing with her. Pythia and they were not a one apart. There were more. Get full access to Of Darkness & Light at www.ofdarknessandlight.net/subscribe