The Western Gate

Foreword

It was a simple post on social media, are we, the collective minds ready to be synchronous, ready to be one hive mind?> I answered, but immediately deleted, something had been stirred, some question unanswered that deserved more accreditation, the post I wrote- and deleted- I include here;-

I believe the collective ascension is happening. In terms of global use of Internet we all collectively are connected. We are all embarking on ideas of What is identity? what does it mean to be ‘male’ or female’, we can see the comparative and archetype in all religions and therefore also culture. Globalism, Multiculturalism, appropriation good and bad.
Ego itself is based in the subjective realty, whereas ascending this would be of the nature of a purely objective foundation, as of course in these formative aeons the nature of the Kingdom where we are each individual in our broken collectives under a flag or design… made by whom? Why have only prophets and kings been the sole recipients of the ‘word’ and ‘knowledge of “God”. Of course Philosophers and those of an ‘Orphic’ tradition who understand the nature of objective reality through poetry, music, art etc do so by years of study until they relinquish their ego to become of the nature of say, N’Aton ¹
In a riddle perhaps by saying In order to Unite the Broken Kingdom one first has to refuse (or reciprocally break) the Crown. “If you bow to me I will give you this Kingdom”, but how can the true nature of oneself bow to itself? 
Can the veil between our self identity be parted universally, to do so would make us all not just empathically aware of each other but we would each exist as a collective and universal mind, it would in effect abandon free will (separation and dynamism) to exist in ‘love’ ( one synchronicity), or Love above will, or Not At One but Not One. ~ N’Aton
As the Hindus say “Niti Niti”- Not this and Not this or as Buddha showed, deny the Crown and rest upon the tree.
I believe an individual can perform “the dance of the universal rendering of the veil” and it would manifest through dream. We would awake as if risen from the dead and instantly that final judgement is that we all collectively are existent in each other. But who can make that call and who can dance that rite that the heads of prophets are delivered, remembering of course that the price to pay is the very nature of ‘self’.

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I waited until the full moon August, the fourth moon in a season, thus a ‘blue moon’ true-

In the obsidian depths of my slumber, I found myself ready to drift in dream, not merely a vision but a phantasmagoria so vivid it would clutch at the very tendrils of my consciousness as those lucid visitations always have. It began with the formation of a circle, severed into quarters, each segment painted in hues as dark and foreboding as the night itself—deep crimson, shadowed green, murky yellow, and an all-consuming black.

These were no ordinary colours, but the sombre shades of the Queen Scale, the ancient palette that represents Malkuth, the Kingdom—the very earth itself, the material plane of creation.

Awake, yet not fully, I summoned this image into the forefront of my mind, steadfastly refusing to let the mundane intrusions of daily life disrupt the sanctity of this moment. My thoughts warred against themselves—should the circle be perceived as flat, a mere surface, or perhaps as a mirror, reflecting some unknowable truth? And in what order should these colours be arranged? To me, there was only one answer, immutable as the turning of the seasons: Green for the East, Yellow for the South, Red for the West, and Black for the North. This was the map of my mind, unchanging and eternal. The crossroads of the Earth.

The image solidified, the circle firm before my inner eye, resisting the usual distractions that would lull me into sleep when my mind already weary would deign to end this futile exercise and rest, halt this petty game and sleep. But on this night, the circle did not waver, this night I remained resolved, its ancient symbolism anchoring me in place. Spring’s green, summer’s golden yellow, autumn’s blood-red, and winter’s cold black—they stood as sentinels, guarding the gateway to a world beyond the veil of dreams.

My mind, at last, capitulated from holding onto the physical whims and monkey noise, and I felt the circle begin to shift, tilting as if to lay flat before me. In that instant, it shimmered, and I was drawn into it, falling through its abyss as one might plummet into the void of a forgotten well. My body jolted with the shock, but I was no stranger to this descent. I had ventured down this rabbit hole before, each time surrendering myself to the capricious whims of the dreamscape and the jolt did not waken me back to the physical.

I found myself standing before a vast circular lake, its surface rippling with the same four colours that had defined the circle. In the distance, the waters shimmered black; to the right, they gleamed green; in the foreground, they glowed yellow; and to the left, they burned a deep, unsettling red. At the centre, where these colours converged, the waters swirled into a whirlpool, and from its depths, a figure emerged.

It was a trickster, a fiendish jester with a grin that sliced through the ether whence it came like a knife, its eyes blazing with a fire that mocked the very heavens. Draped in the motley garb of its kind, its three-pronged hat bore the colours of the spheres above Malkuth—an emerald green as vivid as envy, a rich orange that flickered like a dying sun, and a silver-violet that shimmered with an unnatural life, as if the fabric itself danced with unholy animation.

“Beloved of the Winding Stream,” it intoned, its voice dripping with sarcasm, mocking my name—David, the beloved—and the old English roots of my surname. I remained silent, unmoved by its taunts. The trickster’s grin faltered, irritation flickering in its eyes as it realized that its words, designed to provoke, had no effect on me.

“Has the stream reached the lake?” it asked mockingly, gesturing toward the shimmering pool upon which it hovered. But I was weary of the dream’s deceptions, the rhetorical games that once fascinated me now felt like empty distractions. The spiritual quest that once drove me had lost its meaning, leaving me in a state of existential ennui. It had been more than six months since a dream had proclaimed that the time of the witness was over, and yet I remained in the shadows, hiding within the hidden. here I came, to question this stalemate, and the fool before me cast no game for me to play, I am weary of the same old same-old.

The jester, sensing my disinterest, reached within its voluminous cloak and produced three large keys—ornate and heavy, one of gold, one of silver, and the last a bronze or copper, dulled by age. The jingle of the keys resonated in the air like the chime of a Tibetan bell, the sound echoing through the dreamscape. The trickster’s eyebrows lifted in anticipation, as if it expected me to be tempted by the promise these keys held.

But still weary of such promises, of doors that led only to more doors, of riddles and quests that offered nothing but further folly. The keys meant nothing to me, just as the synchronicities and coincidences that once captivated me in life, born from the mysteries of dream, now seemed hollow.

The trickster, undeterred, jangled the keys again, its eyes gleaming with mischief. Behind it, an archway began to form, three doors materializing within it—one to the left, one to the right, and one directly behind. “Which key to which?” it asked, its smile widening as it pointed to each door in turn. “The door of iron?” it said, indicating the right-hand door. “And chalk?” it added, nodding to the delicate, intricately carved door on his left. “And the door of carbon?” it finished, gesturing to the black, beehive-embossed door behind it.²

I felt laughter stir within me, the absurdity of the situation breaking through my apathy. I cared not for the keys, nor for the doors they might unlock. But in my mind’s eye, I had already reasoned where each door would lead. The door to the trickster’s right would open into Hod, the sphere of logic and structure, where all is measured and precise, a place devoid of humour. The door to the left would lead to Netzach, the realm of beauty and art, where the senses are intoxicated by poetry and song. And the door behind… perhaps… it led to Yesod, the foundation, of dreams, though…. we were already within the dream?

Curiosity stirred within me as the trickster leaned closer, sensing my interest. It shook the keys once more, whispering, “Which door?” in a voice that slithered through the air like the serpent inherent in all denizens of the astral. The choice lay between the cold logic of Hod, the creative ecstasy of Netzach, and the mysterious, shadowy path that lay behind the trickster.

I finally spoke, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “Between Jerome and Rumi, there is laughter³,” I said, watching the trickster’s eyes narrow in confusion. It knew the analogy, of course, but the meaning behind it eluded the trickster, and that pleased me.
“Which door? Horsey” now quizzed the trickster, mocking the sign by which I was born under.
Aye, the horse. Whose moves are three to a ratio of one. Three wishes for the Goddess and one as I am but her shadow, Mr Trickster, by thine own words art thou condemned.

I moved then, as a horse might move on a chessboard—three steps forward, standing now directly before the trickster. One step left or right, or perhaps downward into the abyss from whence it came, or even …upwards to a higher plane. The trickster understood my move before I made it, and as the thought crystallized in my mind, the trickster’s form began to dissolve, breaking apart into a million points of light that scattered across the surface of the lake.

With a final, defiant gesture, I reached upward to the keystone that held the arch together—the stone the builders had rejected—and as I removed it, the dream collapsed. The doors, the trickster, the lake—everything dissolved into nothingness, leaving me alone in the void, where all was still. In the distance I could see a deep indigo flicker and headlong towards it I rode, the light shattered the silence and I awoke.

Afterword

The Trickster represented our folly, our laughter and our ego. Our individual nature. Without this we bring Yesod to Malkuth, that the veil of illusion which exists in order to give us separateness is merged into one collective, likewise, logic and creativity merge as indicated to pure renaissance thought. We become emulations of each, clones and beings of pure empathetic synchronicity.

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1/ N’Aton represents a future state of human consciousness, an evolved collective that emerges as a result of humanity’s spiritual evolution.

2/ Graphene~A single layer of carbon atoms arranged in a hexagonal lattice.

3/ Rumi – Born Sept 30th
Jerome – Died Sept 30th
I was born on September 30th and as such used these characters to be the pillars of reason- of logic and creativity. “Where Poetry is born its commentary dies”