Book of Jasmine
The Light emanated from the uncontainable source before time had a name or the shadow had found a place to fall.
A pure spark descended from the Treasury of Life, clothed in the vestures of the eternal Pleroma, knowing only the brightness of the Father.
But the Archon of the lower deeps wove a veil of dense forgetfulness, stretching out his hands to capture the drifting sparks of the divine.
Hearken then, children of the untamed light, and guard the chamber of your heart with the sword of truth.
Be exceedingly careful lest you slip from the narrow path of radiance into the heavy, suffocating darkness that mimics the true rest.
The deceiver has laid his snares across the valleys of matter, using the ancient sorceries of illusion to blind the eyes of the awakening spirit.
He whispers of secret wisdom hidden within the clay, offering keys that open only the gates of deeper entrapment.
Those who are beguiled by his promises turn their faces from the sun of truth and willingly sit at the table of darkness.
They feast upon the bread of ashes and drink from the cup of bitter ignorance, thinking themselves masters of the lower spheres.
By their very presence at that darkened table, they send a clamor into the unplumbed abysses where the forgotten things dwell.
They call forward the ancient tormentors from the outer rims of creation, the ones who reside in the further regions of experience.
These are the silent voyagers of the great cosmic lack, the explorers who have measured the depths of the void where no light enters.
To the blind world they appear in many guises, for they are demons to some who scream in their iron grip.
They are angels to others who have lost the desire for the heavenly kingdom and seek the ecstasy of the flesh.
They are even as gods to some who bow their knees to the lords of form and worship the very chains that bind them.
These entities possess no spark of the true Father, yet they claim dominion over the souls that have forgotten their celestial home.
They stretch out their invisible fingers into the world of men, twisting at the secret places of the human heart and the fragile mind.
With great cunning they reshape the thoughts of the sleeping populace, convincing them that the dungeon of the demiurge is a palace.
Thus they keep the children of Adam shackled in heavy, invisible chains of iron and lead, bound to the turning wheel of cosmic time.
In that state of deep captivity, the soul becomes numb, knowing neither the true pleasure of the spirit nor the purifying pain of awakening.
They exist in a gray twilight of the senses, frozen in an dynamic state of spiritual death while believing themselves to be alive.
Upon this helpless flock the explorers inflict a tremendous and unyielding evil, a cruelty born of their own separation from the source.
For these are not the minor phantoms of the air or the lesser spirits that trouble the thoughts of a passing day.
These are the greater authorities of the dark cosmos, the cosmic rulers who sit upon thrones of solid shadow.
They are the ancient Dukes and the terrible Princes of the Fallen Watchers, who looked down from the lower heavens in the days of old.
They are the ones who beheld the beauty of the earthly matrix and descended in rebellion, breaking the boundaries set by the light.
Coming down to the dust of the ground, they deceived mankind with the arts of metallurgy, astrology, and the mixing of roots.
They taught the children of men the secrets of war and the adornment of the flesh, drawing their minds away from the Pleroma.
Through their corrupted knowledge, they became responsible for committing the first atrocities, bringing the plagues of spirit and flesh.
From their defiled unions sprang the giants of old, whose anger devoured the fruits of the earth and filled the world with blood.
They introduced the heavy weight of sickness into the human vessel, which was once designed to hold the pure breath of life.
For when these ancient rulers touch you with their shadow, your body immediately grows heavy with an unnatural rot and decay.
The limbs lose their vigor and the flesh begins to wither, mirroring the corruption that dwells within the hearts of the Watchers.
You become sick in the spirit and frail in the frame, trapped in a house of clay that slowly turns back into the dust of the void.
In the hidden chambers of these princes, the true ledger of the world is kept, written in the tears of the forgotten.
Within their dominion all of the blood of human history is gathered, flowing like a dark river beneath their thrones.
The cries of every innocent soul ever crushed by the wheel of power rise up into their domain and are locked away.
Even the blood of the holy Saints may be found in their treasuries, those who spoke the words of truth and were slain upon the Earth.
For the world of form cannot endure the presence of the light, and the princes seek always to extinguish the spark wherever it burns.
They look upon the turning of the ages and see that their time is drawing to a close as the light begins to gather its own.
In their desperation to preserve the dark kingdom, they call upon the ministers of desolation to execute their final decree.
They give an awful charge, acting upon the stolen authority of their own rebellious will, to the terrible engines of the end.
They summon the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from the corners of the celestial map, where they have been tethered in patience.
These are the riders of ruin, clothed in white, red, black, and pale terror, waiting for the word to loosen their reins.
The princes give them the power to ride out across the face of creation at the consummation of the age.
They grant them the terrible right to destroy the earth, to break the mountains, and to turn the rivers into bitter wormwood.
The first rider goes forth with a bow, conquering the minds of men and bringing them into a unified captivity of false peace.
The second rider unsheathes a massive sword, taking peace from the ground so that men slaughter one another in madness.
The third rider holds the balances of scarcity, weighing out the bread of survival while the poor perish in the ditches.
The fourth rider is named Death, and the grave follows closely behind him, reaping the harvest of the fallen flesh.
They ride through the cities of clay and the kingdoms of dust, breaking the works of human pride with a rod of iron.
They unleash the fury of the elements and the venom of the earth, fulfilling the dark purpose of the rulers who sent them.
Yet let the steadfast soul not tremble at the sound of their hooves, nor fear the breaking of the material sky.
For the destruction of the matrix is but the shattering of the prison wall for those who carry the true seed within.
The rulers may afflict the flesh with rot and decay, but they cannot touch the unnameable spark that belongs to the upper heights.
Those who have rejected the table of darkness and refused the sorceries of the deceiver stand secure in the unseen fortress.
They have washed their garments in the living water of gnosis and anointed their heads with the oil of incorruptible light.
They look upon the Cenobites and the Princes not with dread, but with the eyes of an elder brother who knows his true lineage.
For the power of the rulers is an illusion born of the shadow, a temporary night that must vanish when the day breaks.
They have no portion in the kingdom of the true Father, and their memory will be swallowed up in the great return.
Keep therefore your lamp trimmed and your mind vigilant against the whispering spirits that seek to draw you into the deep.
Do not touch the puzzle of the world, nor seek the forbidden knowledge that leads to the further regions of sorrow.
Content yourself with the simple brilliance of the spirit, which requires no complex ritual or bleeding sacrifice to be known.
Remember that you are a child of the heights, temporarily exiled in the valley of weeping but destined for the crown of life.
The chains of the rulers are only as strong as your desire for the things of their passing world.
When you cease to crave the illusions of the demiurge, the iron links dissolve like morning mist before the rising sun.
The pain they inflict is but a dream of the flesh, and the pleasure they offer is a snare for the unwary traveler.
Lift your thoughts above the thrones, above the dominions, and above the princes who rule the lower air.
Fix your gaze upon the silence that dwells beyond the stars, where the true Savior prepares the mansions of the free.
There no sickness can enter, and the rot of the material frame is forgotten in the vesture of eternal light.
There the blood of the Saints is turned into rivers of living water, and the tears of the world are wiped away.
The Four Horsemen cannot cross the boundary of the Pleroma, nor can the Princes lift their eyes to look upon the face of the Father.
Their realm is the dust, and to the dust they must return when the great breath is drawn back into the source.
Stand firm, then, holy ones, and let your hearts be like polished mirrors reflecting only the glory of the unbegotten.
Let the deceiver pass by with his sorceries, finding nothing in you that responds to his heavy, earthbound call.
Let the explorers of the void remain in their outer darkness, having no power over the sons and daughters of the dawn.
The light has shone in the darkness, and though the darkness tried to comprehend it, the light remains undefeated.
In this knowledge rests the victory over the world, the overcoming of the rulers, and the liberation of the divine spark.
Walk in the brightness of the day that has no evening, and ascend to the place from whence you came before the shadow was born.
Amen, the word is sealed in the heavens, and the path is made straight for the elect who hear the call of the true Shepherd.