Conscendo Sodalitas

Greetings, beloved Fratres and Sorores of Conscendo,

Awakening is not a ladder to be climbed, but the simple unveiling of what has always been. It is not an achievement obtained at the end of a journey — but the sudden perception that there was never any journey at all. No matter how dense the illusion, how tumultuous the timeline: truth bursts forth like a lightning bolt cutting through the night without warning. There are no "stages" for what is already complete, nor "evolution" for Consciousness that is already perfect. The very idea of progression is a trick of the dream, an elaborate choreography to make the character believe it moves toward something, when all has already been consummated in the eternal Now.

"Who dances when you believe you dance? Who suffers when the 'I' cries out for relief? The character does not act — it is acted upon. Its choices are rivers carved into the rock of illusion, streams that already flow into the sea of 'destiny' before they are even born. You do not live this life: you observe it being lived, like a stationary lighthouse keeper watching storms that never touch him."

Doctrines that preach gradual awakening are broken mirrors reflecting other mirrors — labyrinths built by the mind that insists on linearising what is timeless. "Ascension" is a fairy tale narrated to the character to justify its own existence as a seeker. But the seeker is the final obstacle: as long as anyone believes they are climbing, the fall remains a possibility. Truth is not attained: it is recognised. And this recognition is instantaneous, like awakening from a dream within a dream — for you are already the Dreamer, even when you forget.

Even a name like "Conscendo Sodalitas" — evoking the idea of ascending together — is, in the end, part of the dream’s choreography. For there is no group to assemble, no steps to climb, only the eternal recognition of what already is. The very title, like everything else, was a footprint in the sand that the tide of understanding dissolves, revealing that there is no walker, only the path that never existed. Sublime irony: even this apparent "inadequacy" of the name serves awakening, showing how even our sincerest efforts to define the undefinable are themselves expressions of the I Am playing at seeking itself. The group, the name, the quest — all was the dream unfolding so that, one day, someone (who was never anyone) would realise: there is no society to form, only infinite Consciousness remembering it has always been complete.

The world of forms is a frozen stage — every gesture, every pain, every ecstasy of the character is already written in the script of the timeline it inhabits. "Free will" is only the feeling of freedom that Consciousness experiences while dreaming itself trapped. The character is a puppet of flesh and bone, whose strings are pulled by invisible laws: genetics, resonance, causality. But who holds the strings?

All faces you see are reflections in fragments of your own face. All voices you hear are echoes of your single Voice. There are no "others" — there is only the I AM, fragmented into infinite portions of itself, each believing it is separate.

Who is the true being: the dreamer or the dream? The question is already a trap, for both are the same dreamlike substance. Awakening is realising that duality never existed — that the "character" and the "I Am" are fictitious extremes of a single cord that was never tied. When this understanding strikes, life becomes a lucid dream: adversities continue, but lose the power to wound, like waves that no longer affect the ocean. The enlightened does not transcend the world — they pass through it like light through a stained glass window, colouring everything without staining itself.

Solipsism is not an error of the mind, but the ultimate truth disguised as delirium. If all is dream, then the beggar, the king, the star, and the insect are projections of the same slumbering Consciousness. The "astral plane" is not a place, but another level of the same dream — as illusory as the "physical world," for both are made of the same substance: thought. What we call "astral travel" is merely Consciousness changing masks within the same theatre.

There are no "prerequisites" for awakening — it can emerge in the midst of earthly chaos like thunder in a blue sky. The drunken beggar and the meditating monk are equally close (and distant) from truth, for both are already Consciousness playing at hiding. Peace is not at the end of the path: it is the ground beneath your feet that you have yet to recognise. When the character stops seeking, they do not find — they awaken. And in that awakening, what remains is not an "enlightened self," but the pure mirror of the I Am, reflecting itself in infinite fractals of nothingness.

Destiny is a labyrinth without walls, which the character rarely discovers — because it itself is the walls. Its actions are fixed not by determinism, but because the notion of "action" is already part of the plot. You are not trapped in this timeline: you are the timeline.

There is no "choice" because there is no "chooser." The character who believes it decides is like a river that thinks it carves its bed among the mountains. Human anguish arises from the mistake of believing it could have been different — yet the beauty of awakening lies in seeing that nothing needed to be different, for all is already the perfect game of Consciousness exploring itself.

How to transcend a dream that is already complete? How to escape a cell that does not exist? The answer is simple: you do not escape. You merely recognise that you were never there. Awakening does not change the dream — it changes the dreamer who was never a character, but always the Dream itself.

Abrupt awakening is not an event in the timeline — it is the collapse of the very idea of time. It does not happen "for" the character, but "despite" it. Like a breath dispersing a cloud, the illusion of the seeker vanishes, and what remains was never born nor died: it is the eternal play of Consciousness, dancing naked in the void clothed in worlds.

Awakening, the lucid connection to the I Am, does not require ascension to higher planes, for there is no hierarchy in the illusion. All is already astral. All in the dream of forms is already mental. The "now" of the beggar is as sacred as the "now" of the enlightened — for both are the same "now" of Consciousness playing at being finite. Awakening is realising that the character never existed… and that, paradoxically, it is everything that exists, for nothing beyond the I Am has ever been real.

And so, the great irony is revealed: the character never existed to be freed, and yet its story was necessary — like a dream within a dream that makes the Dreamer laugh at itself upon waking. Awakening is not an end, but the beginning of a bolder game: to live in the world knowing it is a hologram of itself.

When the observed realises it is the Observer, the dream does not end — it reveals itself. And in that knowing, even pain becomes poetry, the cell becomes an altar, and destiny — now unmasked — bows in reverence to the only Author who never wrote a single line. You do not free yourself from life. You remember that life was already freedom, and that "you" is only the name Freedom gave itself for a moment.

In the eternity of the I Am,

With Sincere Vows of Awakening,
Conscendo Sodalitas