Inner Locust Visions of Revelation

Neville's Inner Vision

These shapes are not out there in the world; they are movements of your own consciousness, images born of a mind divided against itself. The locusts’ horses are the swiftness of thought when you are caught in reaction, the gold crowns your sense of being defended by intellect, and the faces of men the belief you must appear strong before others. The hair like women stirs emotion; the teeth like lions judge and bite at doubt; the iron breastplates are stubborn convictions you refuse to yield. The wing-beat is the clamor of inner narration, and the tails with stings point to memories that sting you with fear for a fixed term—five months—until you revise. None of this is happening to you from without; it is a choreography of your own consciousness, a play you can exit by turning attention to the I AM, the witness that never yields. When you claim, 'I am the I AM,' these figures lose their bite; the five months collapse into a single timeless now, and the sky grows peaceful as you dwell in awareness rather than in attack.