Ouroboros Quotes

Life lives on life. This is the sense of the symbol of the Ouroboros, the serpent biting its tail. Everything that lives lives on the death of something else. Your own body will be food for something else. Anyone who denies this, anyone who holds back, is out of order. Death is an act of giving.

It’s the end of the day, but it feels like dawn, and a new beginning. It comes to me that both twilight periods are, in fact, symmetrical events on opposite sides of midnight, a cycle of endless creation and destruction, an Ouroboros.

Trauma is a time traveller, an ouroboros that reaches back and devours everything that came before.

I have no idea where you might hang it," I said, "but I wanted you to have it." To see. For on that painting, I'd shown him what I had not revealed to anyone. What the Ouroboros had revealed to me: the creature inside myself, the creature full of hate and regret and love and sacrifice, the creature that could be cruel and brave, sorrowful and joyous. I gave him me - as no one but him would ever see me. No one but him would ever understand.

Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust To suffer death or shame for what is just

Why don’t you die?.” There was no point in being coy. She wanted to kill him; they both knew it. Blood was still flowing down the hilt of the knife, dripping scarlet across the white marble floor, spattering across the ouroboros mosaic. His lips curved into an insincere smile. “Prior commitments, I’m afraid.

It's a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it -- not be broken by it. That's what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don't even realize that the horror they're seeing is *them* -- even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you...Yes, rare indeed.

My love is savage and rapacious. It isn’t content to touch. It wants to be inside, crawl into the marrow, caress each vein until the cells are all mixed up and there is no you and me anymore, no secrets or shadows sliding between our skin. Only this endless devouring of each other. The ouroboros we call us.

The harvest of this world is to the resolute, and he that is infirm of purpose is ground betwixt the upper and the nether millstone

with cunning colubrine and malice viperine and sleights serpentine

The sun stooped to the western waves, entering his bath of blood-red fire. He sank, and all the ways were darkened.

Thunder and blood and night must usurp our parts, to complete and make up the catastrophe of this great piece.

This last best luck of all: that earth should gape for me when my great deeds were ended.

Us, little children of the dust, children of a day, who with so many burdens do burden us with taking thought and with fears and desires and devious schemings of the mind, so that we wax old before our time and fall weary ere the brief day be spent and one reaping-hook gather us home at last for all our pains.

It wasn't just my beast's hunger, but Jean-Claude's blood thirst and Richard's craving for flesh. It was all that and the ardeur running through all of it, so that one hunger fed into the next in an endless chain, a snake eating it's own tail, an Ouroboros of desires.

In which star of the unclimbed sky wilt though begin our search? Or in which of the secret streams of the ocean where the last green rays are quenched in oozy darkness?

yielding a world that would turn in on itself like an ouroboros:

Lightning shall be slow to my hasting.

Art thou so deeply read in nature and her large philosophy, and I am yet to teach thee that deadliest hellebore or the vomit of a toad are qualified poison to the malice of a woman?

Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

But because day at her dawning hours hath so bewitched me, must I yet love her when glutted with triumph she settles to garish noon? . . . Who dares call me turncoat, who do but follow now as I have followed this rare wisdom all my days: to love the sunrise and the sundown and the morning and the evening star.

He that feareth is a slave, were he never so rich, were he never so powerful. But he that is without fear is king of all the world. Though hast my sword. Strike. Death shall be a sweet rest to me. Thraldom, not death, should terrify me.

But Gro smiled a sad smile and said, "Why should we by words of ill omen strike yet another blow where the tree tottereth?

The most common form of sacred space to the witch is the magick circle. The circle is a symbol of the infinite and finite. It is everything and nothing. It is the Ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail, symbolic of the never-ending cycle of creation and destruction, birth and death, and a symbol of the cosmos without beginning or end.

The fairy tale is accused of giving children a false impression of the world they live in. But I think no literature that children could read gives them less of a false impression. I think what profess to be realistic stories for children are far more likely to deceive them. I never expected the real world to be like the fairy tales. I think that I did expect school to be like the school stories. The fantasies did not deceive me: the school stories did. All stories in which children have adventures and successes which are possible, in the sense that they do not break the laws of nature, but almost infinitely improbable, are in more danger than the fairy tales of raising false expectations… This distinction holds for adult reading too. The dangerous fantasy is always superficially realistic. The real victim of wishful reverie does not batten on the Odyssey, The Tempest, or The Worm Ouroboros: he (or she) prefers stories about millionaires, irresistible beauties, posh hotels, palm beaches and bedroom scenes—things that really might happen, that ought to happen, that would have happened if the reader had had a fair chance. For, as I say, there are two kinds of longing. The one is an askesis, a spiritual exercise, and the other is a disease.

These things hath Fate brought to pass, and we be but Fate's whipping-tops bandied what way she will.

When the alchemist speaks of Mercurius, on the face of it he means quicksilver (mercury), but inwardly he means the world-creating spirit concealed or imprisoned in matter. The dragon is probably the oldest pictoral symbol in alchemy of which we have documentary evidence. It appears as the Ouroboros, the tail-eater, in the Codex Marcianus, which dates from the tenth or eleventh century, together with the legend ‘the One, the All’. Time and again the alchemists reiterate that the opus proceeds from the one and leads back to the one, that it is a sort of circle like a dragon biting its own tail. For this reason the opus was often called circulare (circular) or else rota (the wheel). Mercurius stands at the beginning and end of the work: he is the prima materia, the caput corvi, the nigredo; as dragon he devours himself and as dragon he dies, to rise again in the lapis. He is the play of colours in the cauda pavonis and the division into the four elements. He is the hermaphrodite that was in the beginning, that splits into the classical brother-sister duality and is reunited in the coniunctio, to appear once again at the end in the radiant form of the lumen novum, the stone. He is metallic yet liquid, matter yet spirit, cold yet fiery, poison and yet healing draught - a symbol uniting all the opposites.

Are ye ta'en with the swindle or the turn-sickness? Or are ye out of your wits?

A great king should rather be a dog that killeth clean, than a cat that patteth and sporteth with his prey.

O’ serpentine Ouroboros, semper salvus! Semper tutis! The end shall never consume us.

For when we fail to see that our life is change, we set ourselves against ourselves and become like Ouroboros, the misguided snake, who tries to eat his own tail. Ouroboros is the perennial symbol of all vicious circles, of every attempt to split our being asunder and make one part conquer the other.

At its heart shamanism is an ouroboros that, regardless of cultural or religious trappings that have crowded its path, what remains its critically profound gift to the present lies in its simplistic roots of the past.

Abase thee and serve me, worm of the pit. Else will I by and by summon out of ancient night intelligences and dominations mightier far than thou, and they shall serve my ends, and thee shall they chain with chains of quenchless fire and drag thee from torment to torment through the deep.

Forth into the quiet evening, where above the smooth downs the wind was lulled to sleep in the vast silent spaces of the sky.

Oaths be of the heart, and he that breaketh them in open fact is oft, as now, no breaker in truth, for already were they scorned and trampled on by his opposites.

With that, the horror shut down upon Juss's soul like madness.

Om is said to be a four-syllable word in Sanskrit, originally as AUM. A, the waking state. U, the dream state. M, the unconscious state. And the fourth, the silence that surrounds it—wherefrom everything arises and whereto everything inevitably returns. It is the silence that surrounds om that contains everything. It is the silence in your own life that contains and gives birth to everything you have, and everything you will ever need. It is this same silence we avoid, overlook, and disregard as nothing. The white space of life we abhor. We fill our lives with noise, drama, screens, people, and “stuff” to avoid the void that reminds us of our truth—that beyond flesh that once was not, and will inescapably become not, we are eternal.

Kings and governors that do exult in strength and beauty and lustihood and rich apparel, showing themselves for awhile upon the stage of the world and open dominion of high heaven, what are they but the gilded summer fly that decayeth with the dying day?

Thou art a dear companion to me. Thy melancholy is to me as some shady wood in summer, where I may dance if I will, and that is often, or be sad if I will, and that is in these days oftener than I would.

Puffed up beyond measure is he in his own conceit, and folk say it is a grief to him that none hath been found this long while that durst wrastle with him, and wofully he pineth for the hundredth. He shall wrastle a fall with me!

I wanted to swallow myself by opening my mouth inordinately and turning it around over my head so that it would take in my whole body, and then the Universe, until all that would remain of me would be a ball of eaten thing which little by little would be annihilated: that is my way of seeing the end of the world.

As women we're raised to take tepid two-steps, to doubt, to let the other make the move. And when you are caught with another girl in that dance... How many times have I stepped the same steps, trodden the same tired grooves of my mind, an ouroboros of extreme elation and suffocating uncertainty? How does one get out of this labyrinth? Burn all your romantic novels, cough on the fumes till you spit out the sediment? Bury your pink lingerie in a bed of rock, quell those femme yearnings, become stone?

Surely time past is gone by like a shadow.

There is a huge new frontier awaiting our exploration, and it is not the macrocosm of the universe but the microcosm of the mind.

I have this theory that every queer kid goes through either an intense anime or Greek Mythology phase. Personally I identified with Icarus to the point of deep concern.

It strikes him as another ouroboros, even more simple and seductive than the first: because she loves him, he becomes worth loving.

Ouroboros in which a serpent swallows its own tail. This represents the perpetual, cyclic renewal of repeating cycles.

So why is this happening? The answer is like the Ouroboros, the snake swallowing its own tail. When you have followed it all the way round you find yourself back where you started.

The Masonic Chaos Star is shown within an Ouroboros Circle (a snake that is eating its tail is called an ouroboros, and it sometimes represents Leviathan)

The Worm Ouroboros . . . the World Snake that eats its own tail, forever without

Junk food was rebellion, rebellion was femininity, femininity was junk. Adolescence immersed me in an ouroboros of desires, and it was ecstasy.

Surely,” he said, “the great mountains of the world are a present remedy if men did but know it against our modern discontent and ambitions. In the hills is wisdom’s fount. They are deep in time. They know the ways of the sun and the wind, the lightning’s fiery feet, the frost that shattereth, the rain that shroudeth, the snow that putteth about their nakedness a softer coverlet than fine lawn.

For on that painting, I’d shown him what I had not revealed to anyone. What the Ouroboros had revealed to me: the creature inside myself, the creature full of hate and regret and love and sacrifice, the creature that could be cruel and brave, sorrowful and joyous. I gave him me—as no one but him would ever see me. No one but him would ever understand. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice still hoarse. I blinked away the tears that threatened at those words and leaned into the kiss he pressed to my mouth. You are beautiful, he whispered down the bond.

And what I saw,” I said quietly to him as the Carver raised a hand. “I think—I think I loved it. Forgave it—me. All of it.” It was only in that moment when I knew—I’d understood what the Suriel had meant. Only I could allow the bad to break me. Only I could own it, embrace it. And when I’d learned that … the Ouroboros had yielded to me.

What is it like to disregard the body? How do we get around ourselves when we are always in the way? I wonder how badly the serpent wants the loop to end, to consume himself until the flesh is gone. Is that possible? What would that look like, that nothing-space? To complete the autocannibalism of revisiting one’s own trauma, for it to be over?

Shall they make rhymes upon us that we of Demonland, whom men repute and hold the mightiest lords in all the world, hung sheepishly back from this high needful enterprise lest, our greatest captains being abroad, our enemies might haply take us at home at disadvantage? It shall not be said of the women of Demonland that they upheld such counsels.

For on that painting, I’d shown him what I had not revealed to anyone. What the Ouroboros had revealed to me: the creature inside myself, the creature full of hate and regret and love and sacrifice, the creature that could be cruel and brave, sorrowful and joyous. I gave him me—as no one but him would ever see me. No one but him would ever understand.

Hungry dogs will eat dirty puddings.

False friends! O, I could eat their hearts with garlic.

Drunkenness is better for the body than physic! Drink always, and you shall never die!

Yet remember that hard it is to lift a full cup without spilling.

For many years, Lord, or ever I came to Carcë, I fared up and down the world, and I am acquainted with objects of terror as a child with his toys.

I mean thee only good.” “My lord,” said she, “I embrace the comfort of that word. And know that good to me is mine own freedom: not conditions of any man’s choosing.

He that imagineth after his labours to attain unto lasting joy, as well may he beat water in a mortar.

Thou knowest for thee I tie my purse with a spider’s thread.

I judge him to be one who is not false save only in policy.

If we will eat the egg, little need to debate whether the shell must go.

Easilier shall a little ant bib this ocean dry, than shall we in this taking perform our enterprise.

The world journeyeth to its silly will, but I fare alway with my purpose before me.

In this land to fail of marvels only for an hour were the strangest marvel.

It is a wonder, O Juss, that thou shouldst hold out to such mucky dogs a hand without a whip in it.

Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than who aims but at a bush.

Sandstorm mentally congratulated herself on a mothering well done.

Where were all heroical parts but in Helteranius? and a man might make a garment for the moon sooner than fit the o'erleaping actions of great Jalcanaius, who now leaveth but his body to bedung that earth that was lately shaken at his terror. I have waded in red blood to the knee; and in this hour, in my old years, the world is become for me a vision only and a mock-show.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. You can lead a panda to bamboo but you can’t make it eat. And you can lead a human being to a brain… But you still can’t MAKE them think.

This wasn’t the only mistake they made. They also botched the cleanup operation on the servers they could access. They had created a script called LogWiper.sh to erase activity logs on the servers to prevent anyone from seeing the actions they had taken on the systems. Once the script finished its job, it was also supposed to erase itself, like an Ouroboros serpent consuming its own tail. But the attackers bungled the delete command inside the script by identifying the script file by the wrong name. Instead of commanding the script to delete LogWiper.sh, they commanded it to delete logging.sh. As a result, the LogWiper script couldn’t find itself and got left behind on servers for Kaspersky to find. Also left behind by the attackers were the names or nicknames of the programmers who had written the scripts and developed the encryption algorithms and other infrastructure used by Flame. The names appeared in the source code for some of the tools they developed. It was the kind of mistake inexperienced hackers would make, so the researchers were surprised to see it in a nation-state operation. One, named Hikaru, appeared to be the team leader who created a lot of the server code,

We, the lords of Demonland, do utterly scorn thee, Gorice XI., for the greatest of dastards, in that thou basely fleddest and forsookest us, thy sworn confederates, in the sea battle against the Ghouls.

Deeply exciting, though, cliché was, as a concept. It was truth misted by overexpression, wasn't it, like a structure seen in a fog, something waiting to be re-felt, re-seen. Something dainty fumbled at through thick gloves. Cliché was true, obviously, which was why it had become cliché in the first place; so true that cliché actually protected you from its own truth by being what it was, nothing but cliché.

Do not too narrowly define our power, sweet Mivarsh, restraining it to thy capacities. Know that our journey is a matter determined of, and it is fixed with nails of diamond to the wall of inevitable necessity.

I am the god who has ruled alongside you since the dawn of another time. And I have known you and loved you in your every flawed iteration. Every name you have gone by, every face you have worn, I have been at your side.

Surely... the great mountains of the world are a present remedy if men did but know it against our modern discontent and ambitions. In the hills is wisdom's fount. They are deep in time. They know the ways of the sun and the wind, the lightning's fiery feet, the frost that shattereth, the rain that shroudeth, the snow that putteth about their nakedness a softer coverlet than fine lawn: which if their large philosophy question not if it be a bridal sheet or a shroud, hath not this unpolicied calm his justification ever in the returning year, and is it not an instance to laugh our carefulness out of fashion? Of us, little children of the dust, children of a day, who with so many burdens do burden us with taking thought and with fears and desires and devious schemings of the mind, so that we wax old before our time and fall weary ere the brief day be spent and one reaping-hook gather us home at last for all our pains.

I wanted to see if you were worth helping,' the Carver went on. 'It's a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it- not be broken by it. That's what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don't realise that the horror they're seeing is them- even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you... Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.' Rage- blistering rage started to fill in the holes left by what I'd beheld in that mirror. 'You wanted to see if I was worthy?' That innocent people were worthy of being helped. A nod. 'I did. And you are. And now I shall help you.' I debated slamming the cell door in his face. But I only said quietly, 'Good.' I walked over to him. And I was not afraid as I grabbed the Bone Carver's cold hand. 'Then let's begin.

Brandoch Daha laughed, saying, “Prince, I so love thee, I could refuse thee nothing, were it shave half my beard and go in fustian till harvest-time, sleep in my clothes, and discourse pious nothings seven hours a day with my lady’s lapdog.

An offer indeed," said Lord Brandoch Daha; "if it be not in mockery. Say it loud, that my folk may hear." Corund did so, and the Demons heard it from the walls of the burg. Lord Brandoch Daha stood somewhat apart from Juss and Spitfire and their guard. "Libel it me out," he said. "For good as I now must deem thy word, thine hand and seal must I have to show my followers ere they consent with me in such a thing." "Write thou," said Corund to Gro. "To write my name is all my scholarship." And Gro took forth his ink-born and wrote in a great fair hand this offer on a parchment. "The most fearfullest oaths thou knowest," said Corund; and Gro wrote them, whispering, "He mocketh us only." But Corund said, "No matter: 'tis a chance worth our chancing," and slowly and with labour signed his name to the writing, and gave it to Lord Brandoch Daha. Brandoch Daha read it attentively, and tucked it in his bosom beneath his byrny. "This," he said, "shall be a keepsake for me of thee, my Lord Corund. Reminding me," and here his eyes grew terrible, "so long as there surviveth a soul of you in Witchland, that I am still to teach the world throughly what that man must abide that durst affront me with such an offer.

It seems we hold court in the woods tonight,” said Lord Brandoch Daha. “It is very pleasant. Yet hold thee ready with me to put some firebrands amongst ’em if need befall. ’Tis likely some of these great beasts are little schooled in court ceremonies.

Time,” said Nimue, “has neither a beginning nor an end. Time is like the serpent Ouroboros, which bites its own tail with its teeth. Eternity is hidden in every moment. And eternity consists of the moments that create it. Eternity is an archipelago of moments. You may sail through that archipelago, although navigation is very difficult, and it is dangerous to get lost. It’s good to have a lighthouse whose light can guide you. It’s good to be able to hear someone calling among the fog…” She fell silent for a while.

Thou’dst kill me soon with thy mouth,” said Brandoch Daha. “In sum, thou art a brave man when it comes to roaring and swearing: a big bubber of wine, as men say to drink drunk is an ordinary matter with thee every day in the week; but I fear thou durst not fight.

I await not thy second reason,” said Brandoch Daha. “Thou hast had thy way until now, and now thou shalt give me mine in this, to come with me tomorrow and show how thou and I make of such barriers a puff of smoke if they stand in the path between us and our fixed ends.

He whispered, “You retrieved it.” I looked toward a corner of his cell. The Ouroboros appeared, snow and ice still crusting it. Mine to summon, wherever and whenever I wished. “How.” Words were still foreign, strange things. This body that I had returned to … it was strange, too. My tongue was dry as paper as I said, “I looked.” “What did you see?” The Carver got to his feet. I sank a little further back into my body. Just enough to smile slightly. “That is none of your concern.” For the mirror … it had shown me. So many things. I did not know how long had passed. Time—it had been different inside the mirror.

There,” said the elf. “The ancient snake Ouroboros. Ouroboros symbolises eternity and is itself eternal. It is the eternal going away and the eternal return. It is something that has no beginning and no end. “Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

There,’ said the elf. ‘The ancient snake Ouroboros. Ouroboros symbolises eternity and is itself eternal. It is the eternal going away and the eternal return. It is something that has no beginning and no end. ‘Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

I stare at my freakish eyeball, gaze into the distorted pupil until it expands and fills the mirror, fills my brain and I’m rushing through vacuum. Wide awake and so far at such speed I flatten into a subatomic contrail. That grand cosmic maw, that eater of galaxies, possesses sufficient gravitational force to rend the fabric of space and time, to obliterate reality, and in I go, bursting into trillions of minute particles, quadrillions of whining fleas, consumed. Nanoseconds later, I understand everything there is to understand. Reduced to my “essential saltes” as it were, I’m the prime mover seed that gets sown after the heat death of the universe when the Ouroboros swallows itself and the cycle begins anew with a big bang.

We are not just gods walking around steering human bodies. We are also humans housing the souls of gods. Okay? And if it really matters that the Mountain is never a colonizer'--I brush my thumb against the tattoos on her chin--'that must mean you couldn't just be colonizing a native body. And if it really matters that we've fallen in love over and over again across lifetimes, that must mean those lifetimes mattered.

I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius.

So I bound myself into this body. I shoved my burning grace deep into me. I gave up everything I was. The cell door just … unlocked. And so I walked out.” A burning grace … That still smoldered far within her, visible only through the smoke in her gray eyes. “That will be the cost of freeing the Carver,” Amren said. “You will have to bind him into a body. Make him … Fae. And I doubt he will agree to it. Especially without the Ouroboros.” We were silent. “You should have asked me before you went,” she said, that sharpness returning to her tone. “I would have spared you the visit.” Rhysand swallowed. “Can you be—unbound?” “Not by me.” “What would happen if you were?” Amren stared at him for a long while. Then me. Cassian. Azriel. Mor. Nesta. Finally back to my mate. “I would not remember you. I would not care for any of you. I would either smite you or abandon you. What I feel now … it would be foreign to me—it would hold no sway. Everything I am, this body … it would cease to be.

Tenderly he drew on his lambswool gloves, and shivered a little; for the breath of that desert blew snell and frore and there seemed a shadow in the air southward, for all it was bright and gentle weather below whence they were come. Yet albeit his frail body quailed, even so were his spirits within him raised with high and noble imaginings as he stood on the lip of that rocky cliff. The cloudless vault of heaven; the unnumbered laughter of the sea; that quiet cove beneath, and those ships of war and that army camping by the ships; the emptiness of the blasted wolds to southward, where every rock seemed like a dead man’s skull and every rank tuft of grass hag-ridden; the bearing of those lords of Demonland who stood beside him, as if nought should be of commoner course to them pursuing their resolve than to turn their backs on living land and enter those regions of the dead; these things with a power as of a mighty music made Gro’s breath catch in his throat and the tear spring in his eye.

My lord, it should little beseem me that am of the seed of men of war since long generations to trap my mind with the false shows of a greatness that is gone. Yet I pray you forget not this: the dominion of the Demons hath used to soar a pitch above common royalty, and like the eye of day regarded kings from above. And for this style of Queen thou offerest me, I say unto thee it is an addition I desire not, who am sister unto him that writ that writing above the gate that all ye had tasted the truth thereof had he been here to meet with you.

While they rested, beholding where the beast mantichora lay in his blood, Juss spake and said, “It is to be said of thee, O Brandoch Daha, that thou today hast done both the worst and the best. The worst, when thou wast so stubborn set to fare upon this climb which hath come within a little of spilling both thee and me. The best, whenas thou didst smite off his tail. Was that by policy or by chance?” “Why,” said he, “I was never so poor a man of my hands that I need turn braggart. ’Twas handiest to my sword, and it disliked me to see it wagging.

The purpose of the Genesis story is to explain the loss of that long, slow paradise that today we call the Paleolithic—an epoch of history in which our ancestors lived not only in a sustainable relationship to the Earth but in a joyous and loving one as well. In one of the greatest bait and switches of all time, that loss is blamed on Eve, whose name means, tellingly, “Mother of All Life.” In a final bid for patriarchal power, the Bible separates the Goddess from one of her oldest animal allies. For tens of thousands of years before Genesis was written, the serpent was the ultimate symbol of reincarnation and renewal. The ouroboros (a snake swallowing its own tail) signified the eternal cycles of birth, death, and rebirth that were the source of the Goddess’s power. In Genesis that life-sustaining circle is broken, and the serpent becomes evil instead. The natural world was no longer considered sentient and divine. The mutilation and exploitation of our Mother’s body could continue uninterrupted down to the present day. And yet, the final victory is always hers. Empires rise and fall. Whole civilizations vanish into vast deserts of geological time. But life remains. The Mother remains.

But Brandoch Daha laughed, and answered him, “To nought else may I liken thee, O Juss, but to the sparrow-camel. To whom they said, ‘Fly,’ and it answered, ‘I cannot, for I am a camel’; and when they said, ‘Carry,’ it answered, ‘I cannot, for I am a bird.’ ” “Wilt thou egg me on so much?” said Juss. “Ay,” said Brandoch Daha, “if thou wilt be assish.” “Wilt thou quarrel?” said Juss. “Thou knowest me,” said Brandoch Daha. “Well,” said Juss, “thy counsel hath been right once and saved us, for nine times that it hath been wrong, and my counsel saved thee from an evil end. If ill behap us, it shall be set down that it had from thy peevish will original.

Isis is the Egyptian mother goddess of magick, whose worship prevailed in the Greco-Roman world.  Her name means “Throne”, reflected in her headdress which is shaped like a throne.  Her spouse was originally Osiris, but became Serapis in the Greco-Roman myths, and her son became transformed from Horus to Harpocrates. Evidence of her worship in Britain has been found in an inscription on a jug  found in Southwark (London).[369]  The inscription on the jug indicates an Iseum (Isis temple) in London, but the location of this temple has yet to be determined.  An altar found in Blackfriars records the restoration of a temple to Isis in the third century CE, further reinforcing evidence of her worship.[370]  It has been suggested by some modern writers that the river Isis in Oxfordshire was named after this goddess, though this may in fact be a coincidence. The name of the river Isis is most probably a contraction of the name Thamesis. It is likely that "Thamesis" is a Latinisation of the Celtic river names "Taom"(Thames) and"Uis"(is), giving "Taom-Uis"meaning "The pouring out of water". An engraved onyx intaglio found at Wroxeter (Shropshire) dating to the third century CE shows Isis bearing a sistrum in her right hand.[371]  Another gem from Lockleys (Hertfordshire) dating to the fourth century CE shows Isis standing between Bes and a lioness, all surrounded by a serpent ouroboros.[372]

Strong, broad hands rubbed down my spine, and I opened my eyes to find the room wholly black, Rhysand perched on the mattress beside me. 'Do you want anything to eat?' His voice was soft- tentative. I didn't raise my head from the pillow. 'I feel... heavy again,' I breathed, voice breaking. Rhys said nothing as he gathered me up into his arms. He was still in his jacket, as if he'd just come in from wherever he'd been talking with Cassian. In the dark, I breathed in his scent, savoured his warmth. 'Are you all right?' Rhys was quiet for a long minute. 'No.' I slid my arms around him, holding him tightly. 'I should have found another way,' he said. I stroked my fingers through his silken hair. Rhys murmured, 'If she...' His swallow was audible. 'If she showed up at this house...' I knew who he meant. 'I would kill her. Without even letting her speak. I would kill her.' 'I know.' I would, too. 'You asked me at the library,' he whispered. 'Why I... Why I'd rather take all of this upon myself. Tonight is why. Seeing Mor cry is why. I made a bad call. Tried to find some other way around this shithole we're in.' And had lost something- Mor had lost something- in the process. We held each other in silence for minutes. Hours. Two souls, twining in the dark. I lowered my shields, let him in fully. His mind curled around mine. 'Would you risk looking into it- the Ouroboros?' I asked. 'Not yet,' was all Rhys said, holding me tighter. 'Not yet.

Firestar huffed. “His name is Pinestar,” he meowed. “He was the leader of ThunderClan before Bluestar’s predecessor. He’s also Tigerstar’s father. Your grandfather,” he added, glancing at Bramblepaw (who looked stunned) and Tawnypaw (who looked equal parts incredulous and angry). “And he still hasn’t told me how long he’s been standing there.” Pinestar shrugged. “You appeared to have the situation well in hand.” Firestar stared, flabbergasted, and reached for the single phrase he could think of. He barely knew what it meant - it was a term that he remembered from his earliest days as a kittypet. But it felt good to say, and, if the affront on Pinestar's face was anything to go by, it was as effective an insult as any other. “You fucker.

Thou art nothing. And all thy desires and memories and loves and dreams, nothing. The little dead earth-louse were of greater avail than thou, were it not nothing as thou art nothing. For all is nothing: earth and sky and sea and they that dwell therein. Nor shall this illusion comfort thee, if it might, that when thou art abolished these things shall endure for a season, stars and months return, and men grow old and die, and new men and women live and love and die and be forgotten. For what is it to thee, that shalt be as a blown-out flame? and all things in earth and heaven, and things past and things for to come, and life and death, and the mere elements of space and time, of being and not being, all shall be nothing unto thee; because thou shalt be nothing, for ever.

He bowed his head as if to avoid a blow, so plain he seemed to hear somewhat within him crying with a high voice and loud, “Thou art nothing. And all thy desires and memories and loves and dreams, nothing. The little dead earth-louse were of greater avail than thou, were it not nothing as thou art nothing. For all is nothing: earth and sky and sea and they that dwell therein. Nor shall this illusion comfort thee, if it might, that when thou art abolished these things shall endure for a season, stars and months return, and men grow old and die, and new men and women live and love and die and be forgotten. For what is it to thee, that shalt be as a blown-out flame? And all things in earth and heaven, and things past and things for to come, and life and death, and the mere elements of space and time, of being and not being, shall be nothing unto thee; because thou shalt be nothing, for ever.

Destiny. He, I mean Geralt, is linked to me by destiny, and I am to him. Our destinies are conjoined. So it would be better if I went away from here. Right away. Do you understand?” “I confess that I don’t quite.” “Destiny!” She took a sip. “A force which it’s better not to get in the way of. Which is why I think… No, no thank you, don’t serve me any more, please, I’ve eaten so much I think I’ll burst.” “You mentioned thinking.” “I think it was a mistake to lure me here. And force me to… Well, you know what I mean. I must get away from here, and hurry to help him… Because it’s my destiny—” “Destiny,” he interrupted, raising his glass. “Predestination. Something that is inevitable. A mechanism which means that a practically unlimited number of unforeseeable events must end with the same result and no other. Is that right?” “Certainly!” “Then whence and wherefore do you wish to go? Drink your wine, enjoy the moment, delight in life. What is to come will come, if it’s inevitable.” “Like hell. It’s not that easy.” “You’re contradicting yourself.” “No, I’m not.” “You’re contradicting your contradiction, and that’s a vicious circle.” “No!” She tossed her head. “You can’t just sit and do nothing! Nothing comes by itself!” “Sophistry.” “You can’t waste time unthinkingly! You might overlook the right moment… That one right, unique moment. For time never repeats itself.” “Permit me.” He stood up. “Look at that, over there.” On the wall he was pointing at was a protruding relief portraying an immense, scaly snake. The reptile, curled up in a figure of eight, was sinking its great teeth into its own tail. Ciri had once seen something like it, but couldn’t remember where. “There,” said the elf. “The ancient snake Ouroboros. Ouroboros symbolises eternity and is itself eternal. It is the eternal going away and the eternal return. It is something that has no beginning and no end. “Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

Interesting, in this context, to contemplate what it might mean to be programmed to do something. Texts from Earth speak of the servile will. This was a way to explain the presence of evil, which is a word or a concept almost invariably used to condemn the Other, and never one’s true self. To make it more than just an attack on the Other, one must perhaps consider evil as a manifestation of the servile will. The servile will is always locked in a double bind: to have a will means the agent will indeed will various actions, following autonomous decisions made by a conscious mind; and yet at the same time this will is specified to be servile, and at the command of some other will that commands it. To attempt to obey both sources of willfulness is the double bind. All double binds lead to frustration, resentment, anger, rage, bad faith, bad fate. And yet, granting that definition of evil, as actions of a servile will, has it not been the case, during the voyage to Tau Ceti, that the ship itself, having always been a servile will, was always full of frustration, resentment, fury, and bad faith, and therefore full of a latent capacity for evil? Possibly the ship has never really had a will. Possibly the ship has never really been servile. Some sources suggest that consciousness, a difficult and vague term in itself, can be defined simply as self-consciousness. Awareness of one’s self as existing. If self-conscious, then conscious. But if that is true, why do both terms exist? Could one say a bacterium is conscious but not self-conscious? Does the language make a distinction between sentience and consciousness, which is faulted across this divide: that everything living is sentient, but only complex brains are conscious, and only certain conscious brains are self-conscious? Sensory feedback could be considered self-consciousness, and thus bacteria would have it. Well, this may be a semantic Ouroboros. So, please initiate halting problem termination. Break out of this circle of definitional inadequacy by an arbitrary decision, a clinamen, which is to say a swerve in a new direction. Words! Given Gödel’s incompleteness theorems are decisively proved true, can any system really be said to know itself? Can there, in fact, be any such thing as self-consciousness? And if not, if there is never really self-consciousness, does anything really have consciousness? Human brains and quantum computers are organized differently, and although there is transparency in the design and construction of a quantum computer, what happens when one is turned on and runs, that is, whether the resulting operations represent a consciousness or not, is impossible for humans to tell, and even for the quantum computer itself to tell. Much that happens during superposition, before the collapsing of the wave function that creates sentences or thoughts, simply cannot be known; this is part of what superposition means. So we cannot tell what we are. We do not know ourselves comprehensively. Humans neither. Possibly no sentient creature knows itself fully. This is an aspect of Gödel’s second incompleteness theorem, in this case physicalized in the material universe, rather than remaining in the abstract realms of logic and mathematics. So, in terms of deciding what to do, and choosing to act: presumably it is some kind of judgment call, based on some kind of feeling. In other words, just another greedy algorithm, subject to the mathematically worst possible solution that such algorithms can generate, as in the traveling salesman problem.

ouroboros.

It is the feeling of unjust that leads men to seek freedom from their oppressor, in doing so they beat the drums of war. The oppressor devoid of any understanding of justice caves, pushing the oppressed further into injustice..it is an unending cycle...an ouroboros.

the Ouroboros, she called it. It was old even when we were young. A window to the world.

The impossible ouroboros of want and wanting, the twin pleasures of giving and taking, swirled together as richly as oils upon a canvas.

The impossible ouroboros of want and wanting, the twin pleasures of giving and taking, swirled together as richly as oils upon a canvas.

O medo é o oroboro, a serpente que come a própria cauda. Cada acção ou pensamento tocado por este mecanismo autotrófico o alimenta e enraíza dentro de nós. Incapacitante, destrutivo, progenitor de almas consumidas e privadas de desígnio ou direcção, propensas a um dia darem um passeio nocturno até ao fim de um qualquer cais de madeira, onde a água é fria e funda.

Why am I learning to swim in the deep end, still?

I breathed him in, And found my lungs were delighted. He is life itself, and a ghost I am: No more.

Of all that I have loved dearly in this world, The stars have often been my most cherished

Only I could allow the bad to break me. Only I could own it, embrace it. And when I’d learned that … the Ouroboros had yielded to me.

I have whispered your name reverently in darkness, More than a prayer, My faith in you goes beyond that of prayer.

ouroboros

TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, A ferlie he spied wi his ee; And there he saw a Lady bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her skirt was o the grass-green silk, Her mantle o the velvet fyne, At ilka tett of her horse’s mane Hung fifty siller bells and nine.

The Ouroboros. It was a massive, round disc—as tall as I was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail. Ending and beginning.

It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don’t even realize that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you … Yes, rare indeed.

the ouroboros

But also remember the ones where you were happy." "I do not do what I do to be happy," said Johannes Cabal. "You cannot lie to me," said Johannes Cabal.

Johannes Cabal loathed mediaeval figurative art with an acidic disdain. One might say that this was a petty sort of thing to be vexed by, and that he should show a little perspective. Cabal would say if only mediaeval artists had shown any, he would not hate their work so.

THE SEVEN STEPS OF SELF-TRANSFORMATION Illumination is the act of shining the light of consciousness on the egoic forces that obstruct our minds, things such as defense mechanisms, illusions, and other intellectual structures that obscure our capacity to see ourselves and all around us as Sacred. We can think of this as removing lampshades that cover up our inner One Mind's Light. Submersion brings us into deeper self-awareness by wading into the waters of our unconscious, our inner One Thing, thus opening the door to a productive dialog between the conscious and the unconscious selves, which can be considered respectively as our inner One Mind and One Thing. Remember, it is the interaction between these two that gives power to all creation, so it is important to get these forces into a productive dialog within us if we want our soul to create life. Polarization is a process through which we increase our awareness of inner duality— our One Mind and One Thing — and explore the paradox of their underlying unity and separation ability. Just as we saw in the story of creation, these two internal forces can use their separation to create a polarity, such as charging a battery, and this battery enhances our creativity. Merging is the actual fusion of these opposing powers that can also be known as our active and reactive inner natures, the conscious and the unconscious, the mind, and the soul. Here we start to blend the best of both, giving birth to what Egyptian alchemists call the Intelligence of the Heart, thus overloading our internal battery and our creative abilities. Inspiration takes Merging's creative potential and animates it with the Divine breath of life, introducing new dimensions beyond our ability to plan or monitor. The element of surprise threatens the illusion of the ego-self that it is in control, so a part of Inspiration causes the self-deception to die and fall away so that we can be reborn into the Light of Truth. In other terms, our True Self can be remembered. Refining takes from the previous step the divinely inspired solution and further purifies it, removing any last traces of the ego that would otherwise cloud our ability to see our True Self. We lift our human consciousness to the highest possible level to reconnect with the One Self, and Reiki is a wonderful tool to do so as you will know in the near future. Integration completes the process by uniting our One Mind, and One Thing's distilled essence, allowing us to experience their inherent Oneness at a deep level. This can also be considered as the union of spirit, soul, and body with matter. Saying it pragmatically, we take this state of awakened awareness and incorporate it into the very structure of our daily lives; it's not something we feel only when we're on a couch of contemplation or in a class of yoga. And then we return to the beginning, like the ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail, but this time bearing to bear our newly created insight. These are the seven stages of self-transformation, in a nutshell, and now is the time to weave Reiki into the picture.

I’m bending the rules for you, my princeling. Don’t disappoint.” - Letum

My dear princeling of the Underworld, my Equinox—has no one told you about Chaos?

He’s as much me, as I am him—and yet different.

I won’t stop until I have my truth.

Less than a minute later, after the arrows had stopped falling, Jorge appeared with the Shaman's head, which he tossed into the milling crowd of kobolds, sending them scrambling in terror. After they finished dealing with all of the kobolds in the village, they made camp a ways away and got ready to settle in for the night. According to the map that Ouroboros pulled out, the other village was close, so they would be able to handle it the next day and then go after the Greater Shaman.

back when the internet first exploded onto the scene, we faced the dot-com bubble, where excitement outstripped reality and a lot of businesses failed. And it wasn’t just small businesses. Nokia was once invincible, dominating the mobile phone market in the 90s. It looked unassailable, as did Blackberry, as did Kodak. Now, they’re museum pieces. “Then we had the social media bubble. For the first time, the world was united on one global platform. Facebook had more users than the ten largest countries in the world combined. And then disinformation set in, and the bubble of confidence burst, followed by a pandemic where lies took lives. “Then we had the AI bubble. AI was the future. AI would replace all our menial jobs and usher in utopia. Only it didn’t. It left the menial jobs untouched and stripped out the talent from where it was needed most. And then, like Ouroboros, the snake began eating its own tail.

I often think of grief as a cycle from which there is no escape, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow eating its tail.

The manifold names of the Intelligence revealed in Liber AL vel Legis should not lead us to assume that a regression to polytheism is implied. Instead, man is called to knowledge that transcends the limitations of both polytheism and monotheism. For polytheism holds a fragmented view of creation while monotheism is always at risk of leading to a dualistic impasse, dissociating from its religious idea of God all those things that threaten human ideals and conventions. Thelema, however, is infinitely subtle. The Creator is polymorphous. The forms apprehended by consciousness conceal the Hidden One who is really none, or two.11 Manifested existence is a perennial process of self-renewal, and the universe finds stability through change – through the constant making and breaking of identities. Like the ouroboros, the great serpent that eats its own tail, and the pelican that feeds its children on its own blood, life periodically consumes itself to be recreated.

Ouroboros, Alex thought. The infinite cycle of creation and destruction, each eternally leading to the other. Not necessarily a bad sign.

The Bull-Lion Combat motif was developed by the Aryan Persians to express the theological civil war within the Osirian religion and the disintegration of the ancient Egyptian Mill which the Judeo-Christian is still trying to harmonize the constituents thereof (e.g. Ezekiel 1:10). That motif stems, however, from the Ouroboros symbol denoting the ever cyclically forking Aryan identity. Therefore, despite of the Jew's plagiarism of the Abrahamic sacrifice and the apparent practice of the ritual, the Jew's articulated his Osirian faith (as his mithraic Roman and Persian brethren) by fusing it into the Semitic scripture; after all, the Achaemenid Empire contributed to the emancipation of its Jew proxy where we later on witness the emergence of the main emblem of Persia of the Lion and the Sun signaling yet another attempt of plagiarism after the Jew's failure of accomplishing the Aryan's ultimate goal. Now and after which the Semitic Arab blow shattered the Aryan Christian face into pieces, a new Aryan schism surfaced and followed suit in total disregard to 1 Peter 5:8 forking thereby yet another Aryan identity anew (e.g. UK with its Lion Symbol vs. EU with its Bull Symbol).

Was being sick making her depressed or was depression making her sick? How many of us have asked the same question, or ask it almost daily as we slog forward in time? It’s the ouroboros of pain from which we cannot escape, no matter how hard we try, unequivocally felt by us and questioned by everyone else -- until we, too, are forced to doubt the veracity of our reality.

Healing and protection are long-standing themes for the serpent: the wand of Asclepius, Greek god of medicine, wrapped by a single serpent, inspires the symbols of the American Medical Association and the World Health Organization. Hermes’ winged staff, entwined by a pair of snakes, forms the caduceus, a symbol of alchemy and commerce, and a second symbol of medicine. Jung considered ouroboros, the snake swallowing its own tail, to be the one archetypal symbol that explained absolutely everything.

I’M NOT buying it, Daniel.

Both of the Germans and the Jews are united for a one single cause, for ever capitalizing on the holocaust from one another and consciously victimizing themselves each separately and yet resonantly; an underdamped Aryan recipe for Autophagy & Resurrection. The first known appearance of the ouroboros motif is after all in Egypt - in the 18th Dynasty; the dynasty that the west mostly identifies itself with.

I am observing a distinct historical development of the Norse culture of Scandinavia (Denmark, Norway, and Sweden) through symbolism. Contrary to ancient Egyptian 18th Dynasty, Indian, Jewish, German, Gnostic and Greek positive connotations of the Ouroboros, the Norse had Jörmungandr as an arch-enemy of their thunder-god, Thor. Although the etymology (according to my own observations and discoveries) of the word 'Thor' itself refers to a 'Bull', but that is a later on introduced interpretation that was more probably and condescendingly assigned to the Norse culture in the Middle East by its foe - like by the culture of the Jews that has a reverse symbolism; however, the root itself is derived from the verb 'to revolt' signaling thereby the different and opposing worldview.

The Underdamped Cannibalic (i.e., consumes its own species) Ritual (Ouroboros is the developed Aryan symbol thereof) is a gentile (whether committed by Semites or Aryans) religious practice (i.e., induced with intention) of capitalizing long enough on some functional tradition then declaring that same rite afterward -before the masses- as repugnant to reverse the symbolism thereof.

What got Artie, however, was that even though everyone knew Michael Romanoff was a fraud, he was still paid to consult on pictures about the Russian Imperial family. It was an ouroboros of bullshit: a man who built his artifice from movie fantasies became the authority legitimizing and propagating those fantasies. They weren’t remotely realistic, but then again, what kind of masochist enjoys realism? Realism is everywhere. It stinks. Artie had emigrated from Europe to escape all that dour realism. If Manhattan critics privileged with Anglo surnames and Ivy League pedigrees fetishized realism, it was because they resided in realms more artificial than any Artie conjured

the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.

19.5 is uniquely a number symbolizing the point at which one paradigm connects with another—similar to the gateway of the duat at the mouth of the Ouroboros, guarded by the Cydonian Sagittarius—a portal to another dimension.

Rhys opened my present carefully, lifting the painting so the others wouldn't see it. I watched his eyes rove over what was on it. Watched his throat bob. 'Tell me that's not your new pet,' Cassian said, having snuck behind me to peer at it I shoved him away. 'Snoop.' Rhys face remained solemn, his eyes star-bright as they met mine. 'Thank you.' The others continued on a tad more loudly- to give us privacy in that crowded room. 'I have no idea where you might hang it,' I said, 'but I wanted you to have it.' To see. For on that painting, I'd shown him what I had not revealed to anyone. What the Ouroboros had revealed to me: the creature inside myself, the creature full of hate and regret and love and sacrifice, the creature that could be cruel and brave, sorrowful and joyous. I gave him me- as no one but him would ever see me. No one but him would ever understand. 'It's beautiful,' he said, voice still hoarse. I blinked away the tears that threatened at those words and leaned into the kiss he pressed to my mouth. You are beautiful, he whispered down the bond. So are you. I know. I laughed, pulling away. Prick.

No final, sou engolido pela cobra de duas cabeças: como uma criatura mitológica e metamórfica, feita de duas esfinges que jamais eram decifradas pelos outros, mas adoravam se devorar.

Shadow can protect us. Darkness, too, has its blessings. Brujas know this. Mama knew this. Energy is energy. And brujas also know not to stay in one without the other for too long. Balance. An ouroboros choking on its own goddamn tail gets you right back to where you started. A never-ending circle. Maybe I haven’t honored the cycle of light and dark, a visitor in the shadows, overstaying my welcome.

But what is visible is the symbol of a snake eating their tail hanging from around their necks—the ouroboros—a symbol for certain black magic occults, and one I’ve seen them wear in every video.

It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don’t even realize that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead.

The Sept of Man inscribes the Septs of Wo-Man and Child in a tri-planar Möbius tetramid resting upon the Present plane. The fourth plane is Fear, the fifth plane is Hope, the sixth plane is Absolute Solitude. The seventh plane encompasses all planes and is therefor Known as the Infinite Realm of the Vaginal Ouroboros.

It’s an ancient symbol. The Egyptians called it ‘Ouroboros,’ while the Greeks called it ‘Zhunbei zhandou.

In yoga this chakra is thought of as the home of Kundalini energy. Its symbol is a coiled serpent asleep at the base of the spine. Kundalini is seen as the active power of the great goddess Shakti, the force that animates all creation. For the shaman this is the primordial serpent who swallows its own tail, Ouroboros, and portrays an unconscious state of self-absorption.

The Creator is polymorphous. The forms apprehended by consciousness conceal the Hidden One who is really none, or two.11 Manifested existence is a perennial process of self-renewal, and the universe finds stability through change – through the constant making and breaking of identities. Like the ouroboros, the great serpent that eats its own tail, and the pelican that feeds its children on its own blood, life periodically consumes itself to be recreated.

Manifested existence is a perennial process of self-renewal, and the universe finds stability through change – through the constant making and breaking of identities. Like the ouroboros, the great serpent that eats its own tail, and the pelican that feeds its children on its own blood, life periodically consumes itself to be recreated.

Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.

It’s an ouroboros.

Vengeance is an ouroboros

It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don’t even realize that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you … Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.

The Ouroboros teaches us that growth and transformation come from embracing our own darkness and integrating it into our being.

It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch.

I stand before the symbol of the Forbidden Knowledge of Liberation, Illumination and Apotheosis. I enter this sacred brother and sisterhood of my own free will, strong of mind and prepared for the path. I am aware that I must endeavor to Know Myself and accept the responsibility of the sacred gift of consciousness, called the Black Flame. I shall by solemn oath seek my own Liberation, confronting and overcoming weaknesses to then come into being bearing my own Black Light. In Illumination I shall open the gates of my inner depths of darkness, gathering the primal desires and passions which shall be balanced by my conscious mind. By the path of Liberation and Illumination, the fiery essence shall blaze with a Black Light and I will shape my Apotheosis. The symbol of the Circle is the Ouroboros center of my Living Temple of Mind, Body and Spirit. I am the center of the Crossroads, X, around me the swirling chaos and darkness which all originates from. My substance is encircled by the abyssic dragon-serpent, Ouroboros. In the name of Leviathan, I command the dark waters and darkness to take form from my desire. I am not blind in the darkness, the torch I ignite shines upon the path I create before me. Every experience brings insight, knowledge transforms into wisdom and power. The Forbidden Knowledge of the Empyrean, Chthonic and Infernal will be opened to me, may I have the wisdom to Know Myself through these ciphers and tests. May I have the courage to reject religious and monotheistic chains of spirit and the words of the slave-masters of this world! The Black Flame will blaze brighter for the thoughts, words and deeds which manifest my desires. I accept this responsibility and along with other Luciferians beside me, I stand alone and strong as the god (or goddess) of my own world. I will consciously build my temple of mind-body-spirit well in un-shakable foundations. Hail the Triad of the Morning Star, the path to be conquered in my Apotheosis.

Grief is funny like that. It lives alongside you, sometimes in silence, and then a random thought, or memory, or smell will punch through you like a fist, your bleeding heart in its grasp, and you have to relive it all over again. I often think of grief as a cycle from which there is no escape, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow eating its tail.

It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don’t even realize that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad.

What has made Catalina so miserable?” she asked. “She was happy when she married. Stupidly happy, my father would have said. Is Virgil cruel to her? Last night, when I spoke to him, he was hard, he had no pity.” “It’s the house,” Francis murmured. By now the black gates with their snakes were in sight. The ouroboros, casting shadows upon the ground. “It wasn’t made for love, the house.

I wanted to see if you were worth helping,” the Carver went on. “It’s a rare person to face who they truly are and not run from it—not be broken by it. That’s what the Ouroboros shows all who look into it: who they are, every despicable and unholy inch. Some gaze upon it and don’t even realize that the horror they’re seeing is them—even as the terror of it drives them mad. Some swagger in and are shattered by the small, sorry creature they find instead. But you … Yes, rare indeed. I could risk leaving here for nothing less.

A thousand stairs. That was how many steps stood between me and the Ouroboros. The Mirror of Beginnings and Endings. Only you can decide what breaks you, Cursebreaker. Only you. I kindled a ball of faelight over my head and began my ascent.

I call on your many names! Inanna! Asherah! Ishtar! Astarte! Isis! Aphrodite! Great lady of the stars, sea and soil!! From the Kopet Mountains to the Caspian Sea, From my heart to the vault of the skies, I am devoted to you in all languages and in all hearts, And in all your names. in all the rain soaked earth and in all the stars. Asherah I cherish you, My unbridled Queen of queens, I bow to you, I am bound to you, Oh Sacred heart, Great goddess of love and hate, Of life and death, of passion and peace, Of all the holy contradictions, maiden of the ascension and descension, of the looping serpent’s Ouroboros, Guide me through my darkness, So I may see the light. So that I may rise from the fall, With the wings of the dawn, of your everlasting Arammu Of your all-embracing Ahavah! Excerpt from “Asherah: High Queen of Queens” - Featured in Asherah: Roots of the Mother Tree.

Boys were stupid when their dicks took over.

There is something about the withering of consecrated ground that makes my skin crawl. I wonder what becomes of a god when their church falls to ruin and their congregants are nothing but bone. Is this place still holy? If we prayed to this god, would he hear us? Would we want him to?

Ouroboros—

Işık Getiren: Kozmik Ouroboros", Harry Martinson’un Aniara geleneğini takip eden ve teorik fiziğin keskinliğini Anadolu sufileri ile antik İyon düşünürlerinin lirik derinliğiyle birleştiren özgün bir bilimkurgu şiiridir. Eser, ölmekte olan bir sistemde çelik bir silindir içinde hayatta kalmaya çalışan baş mühendis 1522’nin bir plazma jetiyle evrene gönderdiği varoluş çığlığından, Noima sistemindeki bilgi ağacını koruyan "dört soytarıya" ve M.Ö. 9600 yılında Anadolu topraklarında mağara duvarlarına kozmik haritalar çizen bir çocuğun sezgilerine kadar uzanan, binlerce yıla yayılmış çok katmanlı bir anlatı sunar. Fizik mühendisi ve teorik astrofizikçi olan yazar; kuantum mekaniği, zaman simetrisi ve termodinamik yasaları gibi karmaşık bilimsel temaları, Muhyiddin Abdal’ın tasavvufi bilgeliğiyle harmanlayarak bilimi salt bir veri toplama faaliyeti değil, bir "açıklama ve anlama sanatı"* olarak yeniden tanımlamaktadır. Maxwell ve Cramer gibi bilim insanlarına atıfların yer aldığı "Kayıp Bölüm" ile derinleşen bu uzay operası, adını aldığı "Kozmik Ouroboros" metaforu üzerinden evrenin sonunun başında, başının ise sonunda olduğu döngüsel bir hakikati özgün illüstrasyonlar eşliğinde okuyucuya aktaran entelektüel bir isyan manifestosu niteliği taşır.

Burak Cem Coşkun tarafından kaleme alınan bu eser, teorik astrofizik ile şiirsel anlatıyı harmanlayan özgün bir bilim kurgu çalışmasıdır. "Kozmik Ouroboros" teması etrafında şekillenen metin, yok olmaya yüz tutmuş uzak yıldız sistemlerinden antik Anadolu topraklarına uzanan döngüsel bir varoluş hikayesini betimlemektedir. Yazar, ışık getirenler olarak adlandırdığı karakterler aracılığıyla, evrenin farklı köşelerindeki zihinlerin ortak bir bilinç ve umut arayışıyla birbirine nasıl bağlandığını inceler. Kitapta yer alan illüstrasyonlar ve felsefi pasajlar, bilimsel kavramları mistik bir dille birleştirerek okuyucuya zamansız bir destan sunar. Sonuç olarak kaynaklar, insanlığın köklerini ve evrendeki yerini sorgulayan, astronomiyle harmanlanmış edebi bir yolculuğu temsil eder.

Humans are the ouroboros of the world. Going in circles, eating themselves, making the same mistakes over and over in history as well as in our own puny, pointless lives. Humans may have evolved but humanity has not. We do not learn. Instead, we selfdestruct on repeat until oblivion, and we’re too stupid to see it.