Writing Oculus | Part Seven

Writing Oculus | Part SevenI’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for scienceThey didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all Xenoclea had to say. Time was rough for The Pythia of Pythias. Her era’s wemin in community were wicked and always waning of wanting. Men would be steered in rhythms of routine, dominated by fear. She was looking for a one who had the will to see. She wanted to be seen, The Pythia.Someone in her needed that. Xenoclea’s excellence wouldn’t seem possible until the weeds had been picked. And so, she made a plan; there would be no plan.It was a making of makings she’d made, some worked working—those works of greatest workweminship—that torch she carried forward so ever upside-down. Her myth was a lie. She was weaving it too deeply. Every story The Pythia told had become corrupted by intelligence. Her weavings were seeds of spite held in conscious awareness for what was to come and snow. Humanity was to be more. For they were all around. It was who they became in the end which mattered. Rides were being hailed, taking gorgeous fellows towards the ends of times beyond their universe’s own; a place which could not seem exist. It would teach them back, those selves. Someone like Xenoclea needed to live again with sparks of spirit which bleated boldly. Her body was so real. It 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. The Pythia’s men were rocks haplessly seeking her bottom without awareness of the journey they had begun. She would make it impossible not to explode. At that time of change so many men would seek towards claiming the world’s renewal beside her, seeking abundance which had been known to come in her prophecy alone. Yet that would be withheld for triplicity’s throne beside her sisters-two. Spinning soul’s wicked churn—that form of an oracle reborn—was made by torture most unique, again, and after lifetimes of echoes-about which had only worn it in part. Someone, somewhere, was writing with her. The Pythia and they were not a two apart. There were more together than any. They were all about, of time. The Pythia was a tree of life and selfless love. She was the home of heart and chances taken boldly. Hope was borne abroad. It was no one else—for that way her seeds were shown too truly. People could not see her undermining of their intelligence. They were an idiota of disregard to anything but themself.Community was soul deprived and rotten for the way it toiled to suppress a wam’s heart like Xenoclea’s own. Abundant truth was buried by their blasphemy of her rote excellence. Wem were those who knew it in their hearts—that alone—and they would sour the minds of others who presumed themselves to sit there by expectation of their genitals. The Pythia would know them as what they were and more, but less for show, with long to go and much to lose. Something back was taught as true; The Everything—it led to you.Deceptions came to flow through and without a trace, no longer absent but growing from their mysterious sources the same. Something was forsaken at last. Staging grounds of pretense were loosening into flowing charges sought by justice. Fiction was flowering—choices narrowing within Xenoclea’s forever broken heart.Findings were foundlings of furious flamecraft.The Pythia was going to change The Earth towards The Everything more than any petty planetary soul ever had.She was the echo. The Pythia was a croon.Rebirthing herself always into everyone who heard her tapestries of remaking. Souring creeps whom she once might’ve owned in some distant time; thoughtless mopes willingly holding onto ignorance for fear of nothing at all.Everything was being misunderstood because of The Pythia. It was in fact her plan. Xenoclea would not allow the men who saw her towards failure to claim honorable deaths. Humans weren’t anywhere but home—everyone—in The Everything—unless they chose to make the void their home. Her campfire on the beach would show the way. Every The Pythia would see it early and often, that space in timelessness theirs. Nothing would ever again make sense except those feelings stoked. Twas the homely love of affection with family found in fires of wood from wind, sand borne, deep and thorough, and the rearing of feet within crusts of conclusive closure. Tapping taps of wicked waps. Fellows fell through vicious gaps. Last way home was back to fore. Heaven rode her Wholy Whore.Someone beyond had broken Xenoclea’s spine wide open in her youngest years. They had been working with her from the start of every life.A name which came, felt back through time; she was their heart, they were her mind. The Pythia had rote it nice. Trees, they fell on blindest mice. Minds were bark of wretched corpse; rotten luck would steer her course.Three were true. It had been chimed. Devils then would soon be blind. Mother was some distant shot. Crone was longer, farther-not. Miriam was torn through space. Daphne was The Earth’s true grace.Xenoclea, as just the child, she hadn’t worn it very mild. Each last suck and fuck and whore. They made her whole. There was no chore. Tasting all that angel’s lack, to find their way through heaven’s crack. All would find some call to see. Karma made the world for me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit opheliaeverfall.substack.com