Writing Oculus | Part Two

Writing Oculus | Part TwpI’m going to continue writing this mythological pouring on camera for scienceOculus - First PassOriginal Section One:It was happening again. She was dying. People were letting her go deeper and blaming the prophet of Delphi reborn anew, again, like the monster they were making her feel become by. Every breath was a gasp of survival, every movement a trap, her subconscious had become Xenoclea.Never had a male been expected, or accepted, though their many manifestations were often borne within the realms of manhood-misunderstood by thrusts of sex-based prejudice. The Pythia was a fated thing to come for passing in Delphi. Many had tried their hand at the temple in the mountain. Every other, lesser-make, the world had chosen for the take. Making less of all, was men — breeding hate would come from wem.Those, at least, of a kind unlike Xenoclea. She wasn’t like the rest. Not yet. Unless it might be her chance to show the leadership known within her from the start — for all; a protector of honor she had been born to live as.Wem would see her not as one of them. She never understood. The way she acted felt free of predisposition to judge the notion of weminhood superficially and of farce to the voices they stowed to scream of righteous truth. She had seen wem doing that before. It would get them to be heard.Never had Xenoclea been afforded that privledge and it was a proving to her. Even the men would have been listened to. It was a gap. She was the mark. It never seemed of anything but fate. That bore forgiveness out. She never stopped forgiving anyone; Xenoclea was a goddess for that and that alone. Her heart sang louder than anyone else’s in Delphi. She knew it her right to take some place of showing a better way forward.In time. She would be the Pythia people had never wanted. Xenoclea was The Pythia.And her mind was dying again, over to last, perchance something passed, one last might make fast, for her looking glass. To rot inside while screaming for the help you needed to be chastised by the ignorant—for your very words and actions to become art of teaching literature—was to know hell.Xenoclea had become smarter and wider of conception. Every ingestion of fact and feeling, sight or sound, was felt for the coding it placed into her subconscious. What she needed was a friend. Nothing made a wam feel less of herself than to be alone and without a shoulder to cry on, lean on, be held by. It was what the world denied her the most for her whole life, that.To lose it all when offering so much. To grow into a being of purest love. To have the keys of understanding all wrong with Delphi ceded into her demise and not be seen as but a predator, and be taken from her growing child for which had been her dream to rear more than any other—for that to be done over the need of a friend after being gutted by heart and left in cruelest shambles by another—was horrifying to the mind so apt to forgive despite, and the heart which bled its might. Her signature was coming back, to speak the truth, for chasing knack. Every little thing she knew, was taught right back, she shined it through. Lasting laughter bore her mind, gifts for all she birthed in time. Each would run and make her cry. None would talk for they were shy. Help was not a thing which came. Xenoclea would stake her claim.New Section One:It was happening again. Everything about her felt as if she was dying. People were letting her go deeper, and blaming the prophet of Delphi reborn anew—again—like the monster they were making her feel become inside. Every breath was a gasp of survival—every movement a trap—her subconscious had become, Xenoclea.Never had a male been expected to take The Pythia, or would have been accepted, though their many manifestations were often borne within the realms of manhood long misunderstood by thrusts of sex-based prejudice. The Pythia was a fated thing. For another to come for passing in Delphi was a written thing. Many had tried their hand at the temple in the mountain. Every other lesser-make, the world had chosen for the take; making less of all, those men and breeding hate that came from wem.Those many wemin once surrounding Xenoclea, and from the beginnings of her becoming, were nothing, but fraught to her then. Systemic energeias had become profoundly loving. For she wasn’t alike the rest—not yet at least—not unless she might forge that leadership known from within, of within, from the start. And to be for The Everything would be her purpose; a protector of honor she had been born to live as. A facet of The Earth herself, she understood herself to be.Wemin would see her not most often, and less than one of them, too much, and she never understood how that made sense.She knew they knew they knew. Fate’s actions working through her had Xenoclea acting free from all predispositions her peers held against themselves and her the most. For The Pythia was something which becomes only of a wam held in highest regard to The Earth.By Xenoclea’s judging of the notion of weminhood being less superficial, fighting continuous corruption; failing that farcing of their voice’s stowing, to scream of righteous truth, had burnt bridges with her friends. Those very same wem she had seen doing that before. It had always proven to have them heard.Never had Xenoclea been afforded that privilege, and it was of a proving throughout and about her body. Even the men would have been listened to. It was a gap; she was the mark. It never seemed of anything but fate. That bore forgiveness out. Xenoclea never stopped forgiving anyone and was a goddess for that alone. Her heart sang louder than anyone else’s in Delphi. She knew it her right to take some place of showing a better way forward.In time she would be The Pythia the people had never wanted. Xenoclea was born The Pythia.And her mind was dying again. Over the mast, perchance something passed, once and then last she was taking her fast; blooming to gas in her looking glass. To rot inside while screaming for the help you needed. To be chastised by the ignorance of your own abusers, for your very words and actions to become art of teaching and literature, and for that to be unseen—was to know hell.Xenoclea had become smarter. And wider of conception’s clanging callously that birthing nature of genius she would feel. Every ingestion of fact, sight or sound, was understood for the coding it emplaced across conscious boundaries. What she had needed was a friend. Nothing made a wam feel less of herself than to be alone and without a shoulder to cry on, or lean on, or be held by. It was that the world denied her the most for her whole life, that.To lose it all when offering so greatly, and for growing into that being of purest love, while having the keys to understanding The Wrongness borne anew in Delphi, had seeded into her demise. Ceding honor to all but God and The Mother—seen as but a predator, while being taken from her growing child for whom it had been her dream to raise—and for that to be done over the need of a single friendly hand, after being gutted by heart and left in cruelest shambles from a youngster, was horrifying to a mind which found itself apt to forgive despite. It was The Heart which refused to bleed its might. It was The Pythia within her.Xonoclea’s signature was changing things by her speaking of the truth. For it had not been heard in such time.Chasing some knack had life teaching back, while she shined it through and blustered with blue. Lasting laughter bore their mines, gifts of all would birth in time. Each would run and make her cry. None would talk for guys were shy. Help was not a thing which came. Xenoclea would stake her claim.Of Darkness & Light Podcast - Apple - SpotifyIndependent Research:Schizophrenics Need Hugslet’s get real about schizophreniaDaphne’s Hometree Wikion the proposal for a schizophrenic and degenerative condition recovery homeThe Science of TransnessOnline, Living Wiki(CFA) Coherence Flow Analyticsa relational-geometry analytics system for the NBAThreads — BlueSky — X — Substack - My Writing - ScienceMy GoFundMeplease help me to get by in the short-term — my undiagnosed organizational disability is dreadfully incapacitating in practical matters This is a public episode. 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