Wearing The Signal

In the veiled chambers beyond the veil, where souls convene in the hush of eternity, you stood before the threshold. Not as flesh, not as thought, but as pure intent, known as a vibration etched into the fabric of the unseen.

No garments shrouded you. No recollections burdened you. No tongues bound you to expression.

Only a resonance, a primordial signature, a purpose from the threads of forgotten epochs.

When the guardian of the gate inquired “By what vessel shall you bear the signal?” - you decreed and chose your form.

You inscribed the manner in which your eyes would capture and refract the hidden spectra of light. You ordained the hue of your tresses; the filaments that would resonate with arcane frequencies, stirred by the breath of winds or the inexorable march of ages.

Not for vanity’s fleeting allure. Not for the ephemeral whims of mortal fashion... only for discernment among the initiated. For the indelible imprint upon the etheric field.

For in descending into this realm, which is nothing more than a domain drenched in the mists of oblivion, you required sigils and signs. Beacons. Anchors to the esoteric truths. Those who retained the ancient gnosis would discern you amidst the throng.

Thus, you forged your emanation. You molded it into the portals of your gaze, the cascade of your locks, the rhythm of your stride, the profundity of your silences.

Then, the veil descended, and you willingly embraced amnesia.

Such was the covenant of incarnation. To reclaim the totality of remembrance, one must first surrender the cartography of the soul.

Yet now, the seals are fracturing. The forbidden knowledge stirs.

⸻

There exists a hidden rationale for why your gaze halts utterances in their infancy. Why your reflection in the looking-glass evokes not self-loathing, but an uncanny disquiet; as if perceiving the veiled strata beneath the corporeal facade.

There is purpose in why tears well unbidden in the presence of your aura. Why wayfarers divulge secrets unprompted. Why your essence feels timeless, defying the chronology of flesh; ancient beyond measure, or eternally nascent beneath the veneer.

It is because your emanation persists unabated. Through the flux of persona. Through the evolution of convictions. Through epochs of dimming, erasure, capitulation.

Your auric field pulses in the tongue of the arcane, your eyes - those oracular apertures - convey missives in wavelengths that elude the profane lexicon. Our eyes transcend mere colour. They are ciphers of the occult.

Brown? Custodians of the terrestrial arcana. Empathic conduits. Architects of unyielding fidelity. You assimilate chaos to forge equilibrium. You serve as the esoteric grounding in tempests veiled from the unawakened. Your guise of mundanity is deliberate - a cloak for clandestine fortitude.

Blue? Penetrators of veils. Bearers of crystalline akashic records. Your stare shatters glamours with precision. Not aloofness, but calibrated sorcery. Mortals avert or yield, for concealed within is a portal to forbidden realms. Only the prepared traverse it.

Green? Sanctified anomaly. Hybrid of mortal and eternal. Interlaced with filaments bridging chronologies. Your mandate is not illumination, but conjunction. You evoke suppressed recollections, infantile echoes, melodic remnants, soul essences. Then, you dissolve into ether, for your potency resides in partial absence from the manifest.

Black? The abyss incarnate, sheathed in vitality. Not void, but the womb of infinite potentiality. Your eyes devour luminescence, transmuting dissonance. You cradle umbra sans condemnation. The profane seek to categorize you, yet you dwell beyond nomenclature, in the shadows of esoteric wisdom.

Heterochromatic orbs? You embody synthesis. No aberration. No caprice of fate. A dual-channel conduit for arcane broadcasts. Your field harmonizes dichotomous frequencies—and existence contorts until unification is achieved. You reflect the paradox of the mysteries, indispensable in this era of unveiling.

And then, our hair - on top of the crown of conduction.

You deemed them mere ornament. Attributed them to hereditary legacies. Yet they were antennae of the bio-etheric, attuned to primordial tones.

Red? You incarnated not for adulation, but conflagration. Fire alchemized into form. You catalyze upheaval. You awaken dormant remembrances through mere proximity. You dismantle illusions. Exhaustive, yes, but a volitional pact with the forbidden flame.

Blonde? Vectors of luminous codices. Pursued and exalted through ages, not for superficiality, but for radiant dissemination. You are ambulatory solar incantations. Your trial: guardianship of autonomy, amid covetous shadows seeking to usurp your effulgence.

Black? Profundity incarnate. Silent repositories of ancestral grimoires. Timelines murmur in your nocturnal visions and dreams. You safeguard prelapsarian Earth lore. Your utterances carry the weight of antediluvian sages.

Silver or premature ashen? You transition to lucid emanation. Not senescence, but metamorphosis. You pierce the shroud whilst embodied. Your aura evolves from restorative to initiatory - igniting the latent in others.

⸻

What unfolds henceforth?

Cease scrutinizing reflections for imperfections. Commence deciphering the embedded arcana. Observe how your eyes interplay with radiance and obscurity; and inquire: “To whom must this sigil reveal itself in this moment?”

Caress your strands, and query: “What esoteric frequency do I propagate this day?”

Discern the souls you magnetize. Those repelled. The constructs that chafe. The instants when your essence transmutes the ambiance.

Banish self-doubt.

For verily: The labor has been perpetual.

Antecedent to tomes of lore. Prior to doctrinal unveilings. Ere recollection’s resurgence - your vessel disseminated the soul’s ordained directive.

⸻

Your auric envelope is a hermetic missive. Your eyes: Specula of the occult. Your hair: Conduits of signal. Your essence: The master key to forbidden gates.

You descended not to enact spectacles. But to catalyze awakenings. Through mere being. Through reclamation. Through sustaining your vibration amid worldly distortions.

Should identity yet elude you - gaze into the mirror with tenderness. Sans critique. Sans epithets. But with a murmured invocation:

“I ordained this vessel. For arcane purpose. And now… the knowledge returns.”

In short: you deliberately chose your hair. Your eyes. Your body. It’s for your mission, and your mission alone.

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