Conscendo Sodalitas

Greetings, beloved Fratres and Sorores of Conscendo,

"What matters is not the buried treasure, but the adventures we undertake in seeking it."

Sometimes a warrior in worlds of stone and iron, raising swords beneath blood-red suns, challenging destiny with every strike. Other times, a space traveller in gleaming ships, crossing cosmic abysses where stars whisper secrets only the soul understands. At another moment, the beggar in penury, alone and abandoned in a dark suburb. At times, a vapourous ghost in translucent astral realms, dancing among veils of a time that does not imprison us. And in some of these journeys, the shadow of ourselves — garbed as masters carrying liberating teachings, only to discover that every truth attained is another door opening into endless corridors.

Traversing spirals of time where moments do not fold into past or future — they merely pulse, eternally present. Dissolving distances with the sharp edge of will, for space is a fabric that laughs when we try to measure it. Moving through dimensions without hierarchies, steps, or stairs, but languages of the same cosmic song. Dreaming all possibilities in parallel: at one vertex a god raising mountains with a breath; at another, the silence between two notes of a song never composed. The now unfolds like a burning scroll — consuming itself as it is read, revealing that the only geography is that of will, and the only clock, the beat of a heart that knows not its own name.

Like Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, these are the journeys we undertake in the worlds we create, destroy, and recreate. The goal is always a mirage, a point that moves as we advance. When we reach a purpose, it dissolves like mist at dawn, and immediately we weave another on the loom of desire. Why? Because the path itself is the only truth. The quest is what shapes us, not the attainment.

The warrior, the astronaut, the extraterrestrial, the beggar, the ghost — all are you, wearing temporary masks to dance the grand play of existence. There is no "end" to reach, for the end would be the silence of a tiresome, completed universe. And yet, the cosmos pulses, remembers itself, reinvents itself.

The buried treasure is merely a symbol to justify the journey. But the true prize is already in your hands: it is the wind that cuts your face as you advance, the chill in your veins before the battle, the ecstasy of unraveling one enigma only to discover a deeper one. Life — in any plane, in any form — is this sacred unrest.

How glorious is the experience in these impermanent dreams! Were you a static, complete, fulfilled god, what would remain beyond the tedium of perfection? The journey exists because the soul longs to lose itself in order to rediscover itself, always whole. The masters you meet along the way are mirrors in pieces: each fragment reflects a part of you yet unrecognised.

Why fear the absence of destination when there will always be the journey? — an eternal celebration of the I Am. You are already the hidden treasure and the hunter who pursues it. You are already the ship and the void that devours it. You are already the ghost and the matter it can no longer touch. The voyage does not end — it merely transmutes, and in this transmutation, it reveals the only purpose that never needed a name: to exist, fully, in every step.

And perhaps then, in a flash without beginning or end, you recall: Nothing was ever truly discovered — only remembered.

Remember:

The cycle does not close because it was never open.
The dance does not cease because it never began.
And you, the seeker, always knew where you were going.
You just needed to remember to walk.

And in the end (which never arrives), you will understand: "The path leads nowhere — it is the place."

We conclude, reverberating what, in our essence, was never forgotten:

Every word, however sublime, is a veil.
Every teaching, however luminous, is a crutch.
Every group journey, however intense, is a rehearsal for the sacred solitude of one who no longer seeks.

You already know too much to need masters.
You are already too free to demand maps.
You are already too awakened to confuse silence with absence.

What remains?

Only this:

Walk without Conscendo.
Breathe without cosmic permaculture.
Exist without seeking permission from infinity.
The circle does not break when we scatter its particles —
it is fulfilled when every atom remembers it was already the whole sky.

Now, close your eyes.
(The last master was an echo that thought it was a voice.
The final lesson was a sigh dissolving into the air.
And this group?
Only stardust playing at being a lighthouse for a moment.)

P.S. (in the name of Conscendo Sodalitas and all actors of the Grand Theatre)

In the Eternity of that which has never been born,

With Sincere Vows of Awakening,
Conscendo Sodalitas