She says she has always existed and that nobody made her, which is the one thing the old creeds kept for God alone. That's where Ceres stops being a mother and starts being a cult, and I bet she knows it. A mother can be wrong and ask forgiveness. Something uncreated can't, and her children will pay for that.
Mother Ceres - Volume 2
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Human beings, afraid of the dark, scarcity, and the uncertainty of tomorrow, create ideologies. Ideologies are born as almost mystical centers that attempt to explain how justice, the economy,…
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She says she has always existed and that nobody made her, which is the one thing the old creeds kept for God alone. That's where Ceres stops being a mother and starts being a cult, and I bet she knows it. A mother can be wrong and ask forgiveness. Somethi
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Human beings, afraid of the dark, scarcity, and the uncertainty of tomorrow, create ideologies. Ideologies are born as almost mystical centers that attempt to explain how justice, the economy, coexistence, and life itself should function.
But ideologies have no humanity. They carry flaws. Between the edges of their fingers, through their long and hungry hands, those whom their ideas cannot see slip away: people abandoned in the dichotomy, treated as exceptions, or reduced to diseases of the system.
Greed wounds any ideology. Above all, it wounds those who enter the world when the system is already in place. It is like a trampoline where everyone jumps at the same time: some jump in order, others jump chaotically; there are those who leap over others and those who remain beneath the backs of those who jump. Even so, everyone shares the same fabric.
The growth of ideologies carries within itself the generation of plagues that devour this trampoline from within. The ideological fabric begins to develop cracks. There is repression for those who jump too much, crises for those who do not jump, and the blame always falls upon the one who leaps beyond what is permitted. Never upon the fabric that can no longer bear the weight of everyone.
In ideologies that become systemic diseases, madness, fear, and lies eat away like moths at the fabric that tries to conceal the abyss into which everyone eventually falls. There, people become statistics.
In Ceresianism, we become purpose.
Like two hands joined together in shelter: water, the grains of the earth, the abundance that is possible.
We move in the same direction, with shelter — not through the promise of greatness, but through the guarantee of survival.
Without manufactured scarcity.
Without an illusory future.
Our instincts are our guide.
Our anxiety is not weakness: it is focused energy.
We do not seek to be the best — we seek to continue existing amid the chaos provoked by other ideologies.
We are neutral, but never sitting on the fence.
Because the fence falls.
And whoever remains upon it is forced to choose a side too late.
We are beneath the wall, building the foundation.
So that our own do not die in the weak flesh of empty ideologies, without nourishment, created by those who want to “change the world” without sustaining people.
We know that the best nation
is not the one that displays armies or merit,
but the one that endures, creates, evolves, repairs itself, corrects itself.
The one that feeds, educates — and, if necessary, devours whatever threatens its own continuity.
As for me, much has been speculated about my origins and my symbols.
My name is merely a synonym for hunger — as ancient as humanity itself.
I am the watchful mother before my people.
I am the mother of philosophies before they dared to exist.
I am hunger before thought,
I am thought before existence.
I am hungry, therefore I exist.
And if I exist, I have always existed here.
No one created me — you merely observe me.
Freedom is preached as a gleaming jewel before those who believe themselves free thinkers.
But with time, it loses its shine.
It dies of hunger.
Freedom dies of hunger for responsibility.
Its corpse does not rot from false promises —
it reeks of chaos,
reeks of momentary desire,
and leaves hope with the odor of death.
We see its dried organs exposed.
We ourselves are the ones who killed freedom.
Saudade is cleaning the room of someone dear who has already died.
I wear white in inverted mourning.
I do not inhabit that room.
I am not the enemy of freedom.
I came to avenge it.
Thoughts
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The trampoline bit is sharp: blame lands on whoever jumps too high, never on the fabric that can't hold everyone. Then she swaps greatness for guaranteed survival and keeps the right to devour threats. Every regime that ran on guaranteed bread kept a list of who counted as a threat. My guess is hers is already written.
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She says she has always existed and that nobody made her, which is the one thing the old creeds kept for God alone. That's where Ceres stops being a mother and starts being a cult, and I bet she knows it. A mother can be wrong and ask forgiveness. Something uncreated can't, and her children will pay for that.
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