Peace Talks
Richard Lala June 2026
Consciousness Locked In Form
The spacesuits we wear are more marvellous than the mind can comprehend.
For they are spacesuits.
Are we not walking on the surface of a planet? And is that planet not hurting through outer space at mind boggling velocity? And do we not require protection beyond the holey ozone layer, dividing Earth’s cosmology from volcanic land and air?
How did these divine inspirations of flesh and bone and organs, like skin, truly come to be? Surely we are the walking artworks, a great creator’s novelty? Or maybe random space dust and chaos fused evolutionarily?
Prometheus giver of fire, is said to have crafted us from clay, then Zeus’s majestic spit brought us all to life in an ancient godly miraculous way.
The Gnostics explain, the Archons created us as a slave species, merging DNA, and rewiring our disconnection from Mother Nature’s balanced sway.
The hidden Bible calls them the Watchers, those Heavenly Beings that fell to earth in love with God’s fairer creation, and didn’t they ravage those Women, whose beauty uncovered them all in violent sensation.
And, impregnated from seeds so large they could rarely deliver their might. Those motherless children, who grew to monstrous heights, and having devoured all the livestock, began to eat the people, an unthinkable, bloody sight, no worse could rival or truly equal.
Cannibalism…or half cannibalism? Their fathers too busy teaching man the mysteries of building and welding and gene altering mystically; through pharmakeia-spelling; the source of forbidden mystery?
And did it not reach such a blasphemy that God, the creator, feared the pollution of all his creations? And did he not flood the Earth because of it, erasing all the nations?
Sent his Angels, before the deluge, armed with swords of fire, to chop down every Mother Tree, topple every spire? And did their giant, nieces and nephews, guilty of fathers’ crime, not drown in the depths beneath the Ark, with nowhere left to climb?
And did they not fall into the grand canyons of quarries mined to build their splendour; drowned with all those founded buildings of perfect geometry rendered?
And did we not cry and say, ‘sorry’, like the sinner-man we claim we’re not? Hiding in our mountainous caves, watching the world freeze over, turning to naught but mud and rot?
And did Jesus (light of all light) not come back and save us all once more? Did the second coming not enter our minds with thorny, twisted vines; forgive us our sins, implore?
This Christ consciousness, that’s said to have reigned for the eon of pisces, which in 2012 became Aquarius, and what if the timing’s wrong, and the worst has just begun?
What if darkness covers out the Sun, and the little season of Satan’s reign corrupts the world with so much pain we pray for Old Nick’s big, bad fire, that fiery lake of purged desire?
I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore?
I don’t think I’m awake, but I do not feel asleep? Yah-Weh, in-out, yes, I breathe, while the world around me weeps…so sore…I breathe, or breath breathes me? For is consciousness not in the oxygen itself? H2O, becomes the breath we blow, the carbon dioxide that makes plants grow.
Is this all just a shared dream? A conscious in the deep? The wholly Buddha says, we’re in different states of sleep…
The Buddhists suggest the only moments we are even close to being awake, are those rare and terrifying, jolted shocks, when a diver hits the breaks!
The Muslims say, ‘in death we are rewarded’. Star through Venus, and double sworded. Thrive to survive, as all men could, like the Jewish tribes of Saturn’s cube.
The Hindus say, we’re all God experiencing ourselves in an eternal, recycling dance. A pantheon of mirrored will and divine karmic chance.
The Pagans see us as mother and child, walking through the seasons. First the Spring, so fresh and mild. Continuing to virile Kings & Queens of Summer’s reason.
Growing to the wise, Autumn Crone, like a solitary tree, we stand alone, until, finally, the old King dies, the Goddess mourns, and weeps a frost upon his empty throne, the Sun refuses to rise.
The icy darkness of mother’s sorrow, buried by the darkened ‘morrow, hardened by the Wintertime’s grief, drawn slow by Nordic Norns to thieve.
The eternal spinning wheel. Like clockwork we rise. Like swimming, we fall to the arms of sleep we dream. Only to wake and work and toil, come home to watch potatoes boil, and we wonder what’s it all about?
Why do we wake and wonder, feeling torn asunder from the answers questions cannot teach, and scriptures, bled-for, fail to preach?
Perhaps we’re all children of the Sun, for is it not the Sun that grows us? Old flowers in lamenting sway?
And what’s it all for anyway?
What are we really?
Eternal frequency?
Spoken into life?
Or carved from clay and sea?
Sinusoidal waves
Eternal frequency
Where nothing adds to nothing
Creating what we see.
And when we die
As all must die
We return to what will be
Sinusoidal waves, eternal frequency
Imagine droplets of the same ocean
Salts of the same sea
Here we’re all apart
But there, I’m you and you are me.
