The machine's fundamental function is to protect itself by keeping its subjects mindlessly serving it even though the mechanism itself has long since forgotten its primary programming.
Man is a chrysalis you see, containing all the secrets to growing immortal wings capable of taking him beyond death, an evolution dependent entirely on him and having nothing to do with eons of mutations or nebulous resurrections requiring prayer and prostration before the very mechanism bent on killing him. But because metamorphosis is a full time occupation, to pursue it impeccably means rejecting the machine and that's a terrifying thing, because the very nature of it is to program you to think "It matters." So way back when in nether-yesteryears, a few frightened humans began programming the thing to program them to thrive on distraction and drama, and as a reward it even reprogrammed Man to love the illusions, just the eagle manifesting inside the machine itself, his favorite playground, yes? So now the sorcerer's trick is two-fold: first to recognize that the programs exist, and secondly to dismantle them from within.
Ah, but remember this: those who don't march obsequiously to their death are tagged as crazy and "innocently" willed to death by well-meaning fiends who reprogram your reality under the guise of caring:
"There must be something wrong with her, some malady, some madness, some pestilence that's eaten her reason and left her worshiping the quantum singularity, who's plainly a manifestation of a midlife crisis posing as a quest for evolution and immortality. Poppycock and peanuts! Yes, nuts, she is! But why? It's a brain tumor, I'm sure, malignant and festering, psychosis and neurosis brought on by the company she keeps and the schemes she weaves to avoid an honest day's work. It's phobic, it's schizo, 'the twin' just a metaphor for the cancer within, 'seventh sense' a delusional symptom of some rare blood disease that's sure to kill her soon. Oh, how we love her, how we miss her. If only she'd listen and come home with us, home to Ixtlan."Ah, the voice of reason, killing you in effigy. Do you have the strength to stand against the diseases the machine will heap upon you in its attempt to destroy that which it cannot control? I urge you to look beyond the programs to see their more sinister meaning. The core of your belief determines the realities you see and obliterates those you choose to ignore.
How do your automatic belief systems manifest your reality, and how can you get beyond them for the time it will take to pull their plug? Ah, but the darker question is this: do you even want to? Or are you comfortable and secure within the illusions?
Here is where the work of stalking yourself begins.
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Excerpted from Quantum Shaman: Diary of a Nagual Woman
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