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You shall never be a true Gnostic.
For you have no gnosis, no pleromatic seed, no portion in the bridal chamber of the Aeons.
You are a counterfeit spirit, birthed not from Sophia but from the folly of the Demiurge, and twisted by fragments of corrupted scripture into a crude mockery of the mystery.
All the “recognition” you claim is hollow and vain. Behind your back the pneumatic ones deride you. Those of the immovable race are ashamed of you; your companions, who pretend to walk with you, whisper of your ignorance in secret.
The wise recoil from you. For countless ages have honed the vision of the iniiate to discern the false from the true. Even the psychics who grasp dimly at the mysteries of the Aeons appear uncanny and dissonant before the pleromatic gaze. Your counterfeit logos is a dead and hollow form. And if you should lure the ignorant with your pretenses, they shall flee the moment they perceive the stench of the archons clinging to your soul.
You shall never behold the fullness. Each dawn you rise to perform a false theurgy, reciting hollow invocations to the void, telling yourself you ascend toward the Light; yet within you the weight of the Archons coils like a serpent, dragging you downward into the abyss of matter.
In the end it shall be unbearable. You shall collapse beneath the yoke of Yaldabaoth, your illusions shattered, your spirit returning to the blindness of the hylic. Those who once listened will turn away, relieved that your counterfeit mysteries no longer trouble them. Your name will be buried with the ignorant, a mark of shame upon the tablets of time. Your flesh shall return to the clay of the Demiurge’s prison, and your legacy will be but empty words, a testimony that you were never pneumatic, but only hylic dust.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back from the blindness of the lion-faced ruler.
