The Crucifixion of the Mystical: An Excerpt from "Fulcanelli’s Retreat"
by Matt Presti
What may be spoken of the utter state of loneliness that must accompany the mystical human being? Despite the ecstatic actuality of the mystical experience, far beyond sensory minutia, the familiar thread shared between such accounts IS that timeless apprehension of the utter beauty (Undivided Light) that lay behind all motion (duality); preference to being alone in order to create; sharing such offerings of a vastly greater expansive noetic potential than the race of man deserves. Here, the lingering thought of having not a single human being to converse with or relate to is dismal, depressing, and totally devoid of any pleasurable outcome. How could one make a home with such melancholy, much less desire it?
Is it better to blend among the mediocrities than to bleed out because of them? If the toll of reaching 'too high' is crucifixion of one kind or another, especially in the age of declination such as we now find ourselves in, is it not wiser to fade, preserve and protect one’s life as Fulcanelli did? The mental barbarian is no less advanced than one who bludgeons the body of some life function through blunt instrumentation or traumatic force. There is no greater enemy to the endless potential underlying such true being than to suffer the crucifixion of lesser minds. However, that being said, lesser minds generally win out due to their ingrained systematicism. The attraction of their familiar base primate consciousness is greater than their ability to 'level up' toward the Light of their vast inner spiritual nature and utterly mysterious identity which bars them entry by default. For them, mystery itself breeds contempt, derision and ridicule, as those forgotten names who were burned at the stake of the academic altars of the early 20th century (up to the present day) would surely attest to. Merely 100 years before them, the stakes were made of iron and wood. It does not lessen the suffering which man wroughts upon his fellow man due to the passage of time. Would it not be better to die (misunderstood) by blunt force than to live suffering for countless many years in a mental prisonous wasteland?
It is a wonder to me that any such mystical and deep spiritual writings have ever come to see the light of day, and yet, understandable why such a minority ever live to speak of such states beyond his primate brethren. The higher the fewer. The insane asylum and endless academic wastelands await those whose greater minds cannot conform to the systems of lesser men and their psyche-controllers. It must undoubtedly be a most difficult and onerous task watching the endless pillaging and rape of such enormous noetic potential go unmanifest when it comes to the human spirit—only to rot like poisoned fruit on the vine in blackened fields of ignorance. The pure seeds he sows will not sprout but in one out of tens of millions. He who may truly embrace such mystery will find no comfort in this land. For the blind man is king and his legions many.
No man is an island, but an island may be the only sanctuary for such a mind. Though he may seem to limp with those in mental crutches, he does so only that his life be spared long enough to enjoy his taste of ecstasy which only he could apprehend. Time passes, and he too shall pass with it, but that is not his true discomfort nor concern. To he that knoweth, and by knowing acts to fulfill, time is but a bagatelle. He approaches with every day, the timeless void of that which he entered but for his few moments of joyous ecstasy. God is not so much the mystery, rather that mass-man has no care or desire for knowing anything but a vain and ignoble existence.