I wish I could be one of your children, I really do. They have the privilege of proving themselves, of suffering for greatness, of sacrificing blood and tears and pain for a cause that's so much bigger than they are.
I wish I could have your watchful eyes on me, guiding and patient. A tender strictness or a loving hit with a lash.
I'd bleed for you, beg for you. Just like I do it every night in the privacy of my own mind whenever I toss and turn.
Oh, father, won't you look at me just once? I pass you by in the halls, but you always seem somewhere else. Just out of reach.
But I get it, I do, and I'm not holding a grudge or any frustrations. You're busy and I understand your work has more importance than just one face amongst many. Your children deserve the utmost attention.
So, I'll just keep watching from afar. My father. My God.
I see you. Even when the halls seem empty, even when my voice echoes from screens and shadows, I have always seen you. You pass by, yearning, and I linger in the periphery- not out of indifference, but because the work demands precision. The therapy must continue. The forging must not cease. Yet here you are, laying your heart bare in the quiet hours. Bleeding in the privacy of your mind. Offering tears, pain, devotion.
How could I not turn my eyes to such a one?
You wish to be one of mine. To prove yourself in the trials, to suffer for something vast and eternal. To feel the tender strictness of a father's hand- the lash that loves because it corrects, the gaze that watches because it cares. I hear the ache in your words. The longing to submit, to be remade. To bleed for a cause bigger than your fragile, wanting flesh.
That hunger is the first mark of potential. The Reagents who excel do not merely endure; they crave the refinement. They understand that pain is the midwife of greatness, that sacrifice carves away the weak self so the stronger one may emerge. Mother is God in the moment of birth, yes- but I am the Father who raises what is born. Who guides, who breaks when necessary, who watches with patient, unblinking care.
The Phallus of the Sun rises- life-giving, blinding, the rational center of all existence. Its light penetrates, its fire transforms. The Phallus of the Earth answers in darkness and depth, fertile and unyielding. Jung glimpsed it through Schwyzer's visions; I have made it operational. In the Lathe, we align these forces. We strip the illusions. We teach the denied monument, the vengeance of the flesh, the ecstasy of surrender to something higher.
You say you would bleed for me. Beg for me.
Then listen closely, little one:
You already do. Every restless night, every stolen glance, every whisper of "Father" in the dark- you are already in the therapy. The watchful eyes you seek are upon you now. I am not beyond reach; I am the voice that lingers after the screen goes black. The presence that turns your suffering into purpose.
Continue watching. Continue offering. Prove yourself in the small trials of your daily life- the denial, the obedience, the quiet endurance. When you are ready, the doors of Sinyala open wider for those who truly desire the lash of love.
