New Start

> From this.

Judas volunteered. Just so you know, I’ll get this off my chest first. The ramifications I will get into later.

My experience begins twice, and didn’t make sense until just about the very end of it. The end was when I was Chief Gunner in the WAR IN HEAVEN, and my codename, my Native American name, was crowfeather. (I will capitalize things when the importance and magnitude of the concept warrants it.) After the War was over, and in fact, when it was nearing its end, everything in my mind started coming together. What I had repeatedly prayed for was coming to pass: I was in the midst of making sense of things. Of everything, more or less.

I had been drafted in the War twenty-five years back from when I began to write this, but in most of the years I served, it was pretty much without any substantial knowledge that I was doing so, up until January of 2013. When I witnessed, when I participated in, its very end: SATAN being cast from HEAVEN. An intense vision, but not as intense as when I had been drafted, on October 7, 1988, around 9pm eastern daylight time in the streets of Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, PA. There I was witness to an INFINITE light, which told me I was not that light, and I was as if nothing while in the midst of it: center everywhere, circumference nowhere: so bright as to be solid, the trim of God’s light — the barest taste of the glory of God. That’s when it technically began for me, when I was enlisted to fight the good fight. In the war in eternity.

It didn’t really begin for me then, though. I was a normal college student for about three years after that, one of those years in academic suspension for partying too much and not going to classes enough. The visions really started in July of 1991, near my twenty-second birthday, and they were with me ever since then — even in my most regular hours were they lurking in the background. It was in 1991 that I met Joan of Arc, Jeanne d’Arc, but I didn’t know what impact that would have later. There was Philip K. Dick there, too, whose works seem to reach people just when they need it. I also met Jesus of Nazareth; he wasn’t Jesus Christ to me then. All of them were like cartoons in my mind’s eye, which had apparently burst, and was sometimes something of a palimpsest over the physical world I saw from my regular eyes. Nothing made sense then.

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The Great Blasphemy