Writing Oculus | Part Six

Writing Oculus | Part SixI’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for sciencerote[rəʊt]nounrote (noun)* mechanical or habitual repetition of something to be learned:They didn’t want her. Nobody seemed to truly care about all Xenoclea had to say. Time was 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 a 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; there would be no 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 deeply. Every story The Pythia told had become corrupted. Her weavings were seeds of great spite held in conscious awareness of what was to come in snow. Humanity was to be more. For they were all around. It was who them became. Some ride would be taken towards the end of time—beyond the universe’s own—a place which could not seem exist. It would teach them back, those 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-two. Spinning soul—that form of an oracle—was 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 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’s for that way her seeds were shown. 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 keep a wamin’s heart like Xenoclea’s down. Abundant truth was buried by their blasphemy of her rote excellence. Wem were those who knew it in their hearts—that alone would sour the minds of other who presumed themself to sit there by expectation. The Pythia would know them as what they were and more, but less for show with more to go. Something back was taught and true; The Everything—it led to you.Deception came to flow through without a trace, no longer absent and more. Something was forsaken at last. Staging grounds of pretense were loosening into flowing charges of justice seeking. Fiction was flowering—choices narrowing. Findings were founding. 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