gnimbley's index

Without appearing to be redundant, the concept of magic (or its
functional equivalent) as a solution to your problems during your
travails in this particular time space continuum could be thought of as a
metaphor for how you interpret the world (or its functional equivalent)
around you - as if it were something you could interpret (as opposed to
something you would flirt with) without falling prey to its insidious
trappings and hooks, the false theology that replaced the messiah of your
youth (who was neither true nor false nor anything in between) with the
materialism of your desire (the eBay of your soul), the blanket
expressionism that binds you to the rituals you consciously ape, as it
were - and the practice that adheres you to the hierarchical restrictions
imposed by an orderly and well processed orthodoxy (or a chaotic and
disorderly meliorism) may seem to temper your mind and focus your
thelematic power, but relies it must (oh, it must!) on the servitude of
your spirit to the clandestine gluttony (slurp, slurp) of the lords and
masters who seek to extract your marrow through the straw (strawberry
flavored, we hope) of obedience, enhance their corruption, misdirect the
blind, and eviscerate the naive (even as you read this you are being
conditioned (obfuscated) by a religion that denies its own existence),
while leaving you with breadcrumbs from a darkened trail through a
lengthy and withered forest where you find the pristine paths of
enlightenment (the Truth is outside your existence) trampled underneath
the stampede of eagerly emaciated sheep, without whose blood to drink
the powers that bind your mind with strips of torn philosophy
(conveniently borrowed unacknowledged from older, forgotten (and
frequently fraudulently fabricated), but no less discredited sources they
hide in secret scarlet boxes (encased in black satin bulses) stored beneath
opulent four poster beds spread with satin pillows and gold threaded
blankets and the warm, musky, captive meadow of moistened dreams)
would perish, for should you discover the smoke behind their mirror
(countervailing theory: everything is derived from warblings in the
quantum flux, in other words the universe is an error and life is a
mistake; believe nothing you read) and break free of the tenuous hold
you have surrendered to them (or their functional equivalent) they will
have only their own selves (to blame) to draw from and that is
insufficient to feed their greed; but your own desire derives from within
your own self (or its functional equivalent), out of which only you can
extract the essence (a recipe for which is forthcoming in a later edition)
of that which you are without betraying the ectoplasmic envelope (or
water vessel) which defines the hole you make in time space and in
which is harbored not just your pleasure and your desire but also your
lust and your hate (and your next door neighbor) and your failure and
your delusion, making it imperative that you cast off the encrusted
carapace that has been grafted onto your perception by years of
socialization and anti-socialization (yin and yang, toast and coffee,
Balder's Creek is rising) and in its place pour only the energy of your
own light (or dark), because even rebellion against the machine has
betrayed you with another machine (kitchen sink), created by those who
would have you believe (lest you believe what they warn you against,
for the against which you struggle is not the against of theirs but of
yours) their tattered morality (raised whole cloth from dirt and ashes);
which draws you to the self being the solution to which magic is the
problem if you are seeking a shortcut to the restructuring of reality (or its
functional equivalent), for such is the nature of the space time fabric (or
tapestry, if you prefer) that shortcuts are a long ways (through blind
alleys of thrashing machines and seedy bars of boygs and forgotten
fraudulent tomes, into which you fall lengthwise without safety
(nevertheless, where there is an unachievable peace and serenity
waiting)), yet paths do exist along a myriad of inner dimensions through
which magic (or its functional equivalent) can work if you understand
the valley you occupy and the hilltop you seek, which is not the
destination that you have been told to seek nor the one you have been
trained to seek or even the one you want to seek (but does come with a
really nifty toaster oven), but merely the point at which you achieve
freedom from delusion and discover that magic is exactly what it is and
all it ever could be and nothing more (and now that I am finished writing
my sentence, may I be untied and have my cookie, please?)

The Magic Sentence