THE APOCALYPSE REVELATION
Introduction
What if the Gospel of Mark was originally written not as a sacred biography — but as a Greek-style satirical tragedy? What if its central figure was not a divine savior — but a failed initiate in an unfinished rite? And what if the title now taken as holy — “Jesus Christ” — was never meant as praise, but as mockery?
This analysis explores how myth, language, and ritual were transformed into a drama of irony, failure, and radical inversion. The myth’s conclusion in the real world saw one ancient institution defiled and ultimately replaced by another. The goal here is not to undermine meaning — but to reveal its original shape before it was recast in theological bronze.
What are the odds? A forensic comparison between the Gospel of Mark and classical Greek tragic structures yields the exact 12 trademarks and over two dozen narrative inversions-a satirical tool (and counting, stay tune for this list) — from failed initiations to mocked divinity. The probability of this alignment being accidental is improbable in the extreme. Mark is not merely shaped like a tragic satire — it is one. The sacred frame is a disguise. The structure beneath is satire.
Greek Tragedy and the Weapon of Inversion
Greek tragedy was born from ritual. It carried forward the shadows of satyr plays and Dionysian rites, offering audiences not salvation but confrontation. Characters did not ascend into glory — they descended into revelation. They were dismembered, unmasked, or destroyed so the city might live.
Inversion, in this context, was not comedic reversal. It was a surgical instrument — a sacred scalpel that turned the inside out. Tragedy weaponized empathy, compelling the audience to identify with what they feared or despised. The hero often became villain, the victim became threat, and the divine became monstrous.
This structure mirrored older rites of initiation and dismemberment. In the Eleusinian Mysteries and similar cults, the initiate underwent symbolic death. In tragedy, the same mechanism was presented as public spectacle — a civic mnēma , a memory wound rehearsed on stage to bind the city together.
By the fifth century BCE, inversion had become the dominant structure of critique. Playwrights rewrote mythology as a mirror — not to honor it, but to fracture it. That structure did not vanish. It survived Euripides. It survived empire. It reached across the Mediterranean — and took new form. The Gospel of Mark is not a spiritual anomaly. It is built on this same tragic machinery: masked gods, inverted rites, misunderstood saviors, and the collapse of the sacred. This is not coincidence. It is inheritance.
Greek parody — παρῳδία — was not vague. It followed precise narrative structures, many of which are mirrored point for point in the Gospel of Mark. The key elements, drawn from tragic drama and mystery rites, include:
- A central figure who is drugged, masked, or mistaken
- Ritual failure or interrupted initiation
- Use of irony and double meaning in names or titles
- A fleeing or vanishing attendant — often a youth
- A mock trial with no formal accusation
- Public humiliation enacted as costuming and ritual parody
- A silent or ambiguous chorus — often women or outsiders
- A misunderstood sacred substance (pharmakon, theriac)
- A dead or vanished god who does not reappear
- A parody of divine epiphany — ending in ambiguity
- A final rupture (e.g., empty tomb, narrative cutoff)
- A reversal of moral logic — the failed becomes chosen
All twelve features of ritual parody appear in the Gospel of Mark — in precise sequence. While satire is not random, the statistical improbability of this exact alignment by accident underscores the forensic claim: this is not thematic coincidence. It is structural mimicry. The Gospel is not shaped like a tragic satire. It is one.
Greek tragedy did not offer a cure. It enacted the wound so no one could forget it.
The Mythic Echo: Jason, Christos, and the Stolen Rite
“Jesus” (Greek: Ἰησοῦς, Iēsous) is the Greek form of the name Joshua and Jason. In Hellenistic contexts, Jason was linked with dubious magic, pirate medicine, and controversial rites — a mythic template of fraud and abduction. That this name should be paired with Christos — now reimagined as a drugged ritual participant — deepened the satire.The same two names — Jason and Christos — had already collided in myth. In the original tale, it was Medea who initiated Jason. But here we have its reversal-a satirical tool: it is Jesus being initiated — surrounded by sleeping disciples, assisted by a naked boy, and, in a moment of paranoid outburst, declaring “I am not a lēstēs,” as if already condemned by implication.
Even the charge mirrors Jason’s crime. And Medea’s stolen ritual becomes the Gospel’s buried irony. In ancient pharmaka rites, Medea was not merely a sorceress — for individuals unfamiliar with classical literature: she is the original Christos, originally not as a title of reverence, but as a word for the person who applied the Christos — the salve — to the initiate, and being the first, and also having created the salve itself, was carried the Mystical title Egchrisassa (Chrisassa is the female form of the word Christos) Her salving made Jason; her venom protected him. The term Christos — once a medicinal act — had become a figure of satire.
In the Gospel of Mark, the roles are not only reversed — they are desecrated. The original initiator is broken down to three different Marys and sidelined. The rite is fractured. And the new Christ, wrapped in linen meant to complete the salving, is instead paraded half-treated, the compound unfinished — its failure about to be exploited in full by Roman law.
What is a Christ?
Rather than a title of honor, Christos (Greek: Χριστός) began as a noun for a thick ritual salve — something smeared on the body. The root verb chriein (χρίειν) means “to rub” or “to smear.” In early usage, Christos described the substance itself. Anyone with the drug applied could be called a Christos — not as a divine label, but as a statement of condition. The term carried both meanings: the substance and the medicated person, and Medea being the first ever christed, and the creator of the drug, was the first christos (chrisassa), tho not yet a venerable title, but a throw away medical terms. A common name for this salve compound was the burning purple, and its color burnt purple, and it's applied on the face, whats described in Luke 22:44, Jesus sweating “θρόμβοι αἵματος” clots of blood. Refer to the image.
Over time, especially by the first century CE, the term began to shift: it moved from denoting a sacred drug or its user into a slang for someone visibly drugged or mentally unstable — like a modern “druggie” or “junkie.” It was never equivalent to Messiah (Greek Μεσσίας, Messias), which was a separate title with very different expectations. Even in John 4:25, the Samaritan woman distinguishes them: “I know that Messias is coming… the one called Christos.” Her phrasing implies irony — not reverence. The “so-called Christos” she references is not the hero they were expecting, but the figure they got.
In Acts 28:3–6, we can find the results of the habitual use of this drug: Paul could survive a viper bite without harm. He was not blessed by miracle, but hardened by ritual exposure. Jesus, too, was perceived as otherworldly — not due to divine nature, but because he was always under the influence. The Christos salve created vision, trance, and resistance. What later became a miracle was originally medicine — misunderstood, inverted, and mythologized.
This linguistic confusion may seem minor — but it isn’t. It’s one of the clearest places where the original meaning was deliberately obscured. The Church did not inherit the word Christos, it stole it — and inverted its logic. It masked a pharmacological ritual as a theological mystery. And because the name’s origin was buried, its significance only grew. This is the pivot. The myth’s reversal in the world began here.
The church’s translation choices blurred this critical distinction. Christos was something applied, not born. Messias was an expected deliverer. The Gospel’s irony — and its reversal — depends on knowing the difference.
This is not a fringe interpretation. It is rooted in Greek. And it matters — because the myth’s logic was pharmacological. The Christos was a salve. Without understanding this drug — and its lineage — the deeper meaning of the Gospel’s failed ritual cannot be understood.
The earliest readers would not have been confused. They knew what euangelion meant: not sacred scripture, but good news — of either military or medical kind. In this case, it was the sales brochure for a sacred substance. A drug. One with visionary effects. And Revelation delivers exactly what that brochure promised: hallucinated beasts, wheeled angels, prophetic seizures, the end of the world, Aphrodite, or the Mother Goddess herself.
And like any tragic satire in the Greek tradition, the truth was never hidden — it was shown too early. The name itself was the clue. Christos was the premonition. The drug was the prophecy. But the audience, like the characters, didn’t recognize it until it was too late.
The Ashes of the Priesthood
The priesthood that once governed rites of healing and vision had not disappeared — but it had begun to fracture. Competing against the established priesthood, there emerged a counterfeit: the lēstai — traffickers and ritual hijackers posing as sacred men. The children were sought. The rites were invoked. But the purpose had changed. It was not always for the sanctity of visions — but often for personal profit: either through the distribution of the Christos drug (“ἀγόρασον παρ᾽ ἐμοῦ χρυσίον πεπυρωμένον ἐκ πυρὸς” — “Buy from me gold refined by fire” [Rev 3:18], a phrase attributed to Jesus in the vision of Revelation), or through the trafficking of children trained to carry it.
If the vision failed, the failure was not blamed on the Christos — but on the child. Either the theriac was too weak to stabilize the drug, and the initiate died; or it was too strong, and the vision did not come. The child was considered at fault. Improper theriac due to age, sickness, defilement, or other impurity. The child was then removed from the rite, either through established forms or simply sold off.
Some children, like Mary, were preserved — not by sentiment, but through what remained of a fading priesthood still capable of honoring the rite. They drew lots to determine her fate — a Greek practice. She was married into honor, as a vessel of that system.
Others, like Thomas, were sold. In the Acts of Thomas, Jesus himself writes a deed of sale: “Ἐγὼ Ἰησοῦς, ὁ τοῦ Ἰωσὴφ τέκτων, ἀπὸ Βηθλεὲμ τῆς Ἰουδαίας, παραδίδωμι τὸν ἐμὸν δοῦλον Ἰούδαν, τὸν καλούμενον Θωμᾶν, Ἀββανῷ.” “I, Jesus, son of Joseph the carpenter, from Bethlehem of Judea, declare that I have sold my slave Judas, named Thomas, to Habban.” This was not metaphor, but economy. A jarring glimpse of how far the rites had been twisted by opportunists masquerading as sacred men. Tho when the child was cycled out of the rite, in some cases were sold as a eunuchs. Roman and Eastern markets demanded such bodies. The Gospels do not record this. But history does.
Interestingly, Jesus had taught: “οὐ πάντες χωροῦσιν τὸν λόγον τοῦτον, ἀλλ’ οἷς δέδοται… εἰσὶν εὐνοῦχοι… οἵτινες εὐνούχισαν ἑαυτοὺς διὰ τὴν βασιλείαν τῶν οὐρανῶν.”-“Not everyone can accept this word, but only those to whom it has been given… there are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven” (Matt 19:11–12). This reflects a cultural awareness of eunuch status — not always shameful, but at times even venerated as a form of spiritual discipline.
The overall framework of the mystery remained — but the sacred logic had split. This was not collapse from malice, but from slow decay. Over time, the rituals themselves grew antiquated — eclipsed by public appetite for the Christos, itself praised for its aphrodisiac effects. The theriac alone had its demands — rare ingredients, difficult preparation — and could only be afforded by the elite. Marcus Aurelius’ physician even boasted that it made the emperor appear younger.
In separating the drug from its rite, something sacred was severed. The salve still touched the skin — but no longer in the context of vision. The sanctity of the child with the antichrist, the savior — turned into a commodity . On Capreae, emperors were said to bathe with children, not in ritual, but in pursuit of arousal. The drug remained. The meaning had collapsed.
By the time of the Gospel, what passed for priesthood was fragmented — part counterfeit, part ritual residue. Mystery had become machinery. Vision had become commerce. The corrupted shadows of a once-sheltered Mystery rite had been twisted by profit into a societal menace. The addictions and dependencies on the drugs, along with the trafficking of children, became targets for elimination by the empire.
The Roman Verdict: Pleasure and Collapse
Rome didn’t just blame the rites — it blamed the addicts. To them, Greece’s collapse was not just military or economic, but philosophical. A nation that had once revered law, discipline, and the gods was now ruled by appetite — enslaved to visions born from venom and ecstatic salves.
The rites had once promised revelation. But over time, their core — the Christos compound — was stripped from ritual and consumed for pleasure. The salve that once opened the mind to vision became a street drug. And the companion dose, the theriac — the stabilizer, the savior — was often missing.
Roman leaders, particularly in the early Empire, saw this not just as decadence, but as a warning. Pliny the Elder, Cato, and others denounced substances like opium and venom extracts (the main components the drug) — not for theology, but for statecraft. In their view, habitual intoxication destroyed civic virtue and left citizens manipulable, unrooted, and weak.
Roman writers, watching from across the sea, observed what became of Greece — once the world’s teacher, now a fallen power. They blamed mysticism and excess. They passed laws banning drug use. They outlawed mystery rites. And they looked to their own future with alarm.
Rome’s response was surgical: vision without order was chaos, so the state moved to contain it. They did not simply destroy mystery rites — they recast them in legal terms. The aim wasn’t purification — it was prevention. Where Greek religion dissolved into pharmakos, Roman religion hardened into decree.
The worst rot was not in the rites themselves — but in what people did with them. The Christos was extracted, consumed, sold.
“Come, buy from me gold refined by fire…”
Jesus said — and they did. Not from heaven, but from the street.
A compound meant for revelation became a commercial drug.
And the second dose — the child with the antichrist, the savior — was trafficked. A medicine became an addiction. An initiation became a system of exploitation.
What began as mythic ritual — a way to cross into vision and return whole — became a state threat. The Christos was untempered. The antidote was missing. The gods didn’t appear, but the symptoms of collapse did: weakened youth, fractured households, political volatility. Rome saw a pattern — and moved to break it.
What began as pharmakon ended in collapse. Greece fell. And Rome, watching, chose law. Mystery was replaced by decree. The goddess was exiled. The drug was criminalized. And the cloth, once sacred, was left behind — as evidence.
The Buried Plot
In the Gospel of Mark, just after the arrest of Jesus, two verses stand out as anomalous:
“And a certain young man followed him, wearing nothing but a linen cloth over his naked body. And they seized him. But he left the cloth and fled from them naked.” (Mark 14:51–52)
This youth is never named. He appears abruptly and vanishes just as quickly. For centuries, interpreters have treated this passage as incidental — a narrative hiccup, an eyewitness detail, or the author inserting himself into the story. But the Gospel of Mark does not include accidents. Every action, especially in this sequence, is part of a ritual parody.
The Greek word translated as “followed” is συνήκολουθει — a verb that does not imply simple discipleship, but formal attachment. It is the term used to describe soldiers or servants who are assigned to follow a superior. The young man was not a casual observer. He was designated. The English translation softens this detail, obscuring the fact that the boy was a ritual servant — or more precisely, a slave child.
The image of the cloth, traditionally imagined as modest, was functional: it covered only the loins, where transdermal absorption was most effective. This region was chosen not for modesty, but for pharmacological application. The term for the cloth, σίνδων (sindōn), also conceals a critical truth. It does not refer to a simple garment. In ancient Greek medical literature — including sources such as Galen — a sindōn was a specific kind of linen used to apply or bind pharmacological compounds to the body. It was a therapeutic vehicle, a functional bandage soaked in substances intended for transdermal absorption. The cloth was not decorative, nor symbolic. It was medicinal.
This interpretation aligns with ancient practices from both medical and mystery cult contexts. In rites such as the Eleusinian Mysteries, initiates — especially boys — were stripped, rubbed with compound salves, and bound temporarily in linen wrappings. The Christos, derived from χρίω (to smear), was not a name but a preparation — a pharmacological agent applied via skin, often in a state of ritual ecstasy or vulnerability.
It is difficult to believe that such rites — widely practiced and broadly understood by ancient audiences — would be forgotten by accident. The only plausible explanation is suppression. A force — religious, editorial, or institutional — worked to erase this memory, because acknowledging it would expose a central horror: that the rite depended on enslaved children. This was not a metaphor. It was a pharmacological system built on the trafficking and abuse of minors — something that today would be recognized as a moral and criminal atrocity.
The Gospel itself — unconsciously — admits this. We’re left with the evidence of the cloth seized, and the child fleeing. The medium is intercepted, but the substance dropped. The ritual fails. And the text, unsure of what it’s revealing, moves on. But the reader is not meant to forget. The cloth was not a burial shroud. It was a medical instrument. The boy was not a follower. He was a servant vessel. And the scene is not a metaphor. It is the hidden center of the entire Gospel: the Christos was a drug, and the abuse of children was at the heart of it.
Mockery as Law: Roman Justice
Jesus, caught mid-initiation, appears not as a martyr but as a failed initiate — a drugged trafficker caught mid-rite, exposed before the crowd.
To any initiate versed in the rites — Eleusinian, Orphic, or otherwise — the Passion sequence would have read not as sacred fulfillment but as parody. It would have struck the audience like someone today waltzing into a temple, bypassing the ritual, and gulping down the sacred wine — a desecration that was later masqueraded as piety.
During Jesus’ arrest, he says in Greek: οὐχ ὡς ἐπὶ λῃστὴν ἐξήλθετε — “Have you come out as against a lēstēs?” The word λῃστής is often translated “robber,” but in Hellenistic literature it carried far deeper connotations — not just criminal, but ritual and political. A lēstēs could be a pirate, a rebel, a trafficker in children, or a violator of sacred persons — especially in myths where figures like Jason abduct priestesses, steal daughters, or exploit rites not meant for them.
Jesus now stands accused of the same crime. But no one formally accuses him. He simply denies it — a defensive outcry made without a charge. The image was so obvious, he protested it unprompted.
The Myth’s Message
He failed. He pretended. He was undone.
And yet — he was resurrected.
The message? Even the worst sin of all can be forgiven.
The Gospel frames a drama in which ritual collapse, public humiliation, and personal disgrace are not the end — but the beginning of something greater. It invites outcasts into a new kind of community: not built on merit or lineage, but on reversal and radical inclusion.
At first, Christianity was not a religion, but a rhetorical bridge. The Gospel of Mark presents no break from Jewish law — in fact, Jesus upholds it. The early movement functioned as a Jewish sub-sect, designed to invite Gentiles into Israel’s covenant through a soft point of entry. Like the myth of Er in Plato’s Republic, the Gospel offered reversal and renewal, drawing outsiders into the city of Law. Only later did Paul sever this link. In his letters, Paul replaces the Law with faith alone, founding a new doctrine and a new church. The rupture was not theological at first — it was structural. A slow pivot, from tragic satire to doctrinal control.
The call was simple, if shocking: Join a new emerging Jewish community under their Law — where everyone can be redeemed. More on this in future updates, stay tuned.
The Return of Medea
Before Jesus, before the Gospels, before Rome — there was Medea. Priestess, pharmacologist, princess of Colchis. Granddaughter of Helios. The woman who gave Jason not only the Golden Fleece, but the drugs, rites, and path through death that made his quest possible — and above it all, her love.
A figure of science and myth, later demonized as a witch. But her myth never disappeared. It was fractured — hidden in plain sight. The rites Jesus began but could not finish — she had completed. The drug he bore — she created. The healing art he misused — she perfected. And in the tragedy that followed, her name was inverted, her legacy buried. Yet her shadow persisted, in spite of the looming shadow of the Church’s new male Christ.
Medea, the initiating figure of ancient rites, was excluded from the Gospel narrative — but not erased. Her role was not removed, but fragmented across the three Marys: one salves, one selects, one guards.
In the original rite, Medea prepared the initiate with pharmacological salve, chose the moment of transformation, and stood at the threshold as guardian. In the Gospel, these functions are redistributed:
- Mary Magdalene: salves the body
- Mary of Bethany: selects or recognizes the sacred moment
- Mary the mother: guards, watches, and absorbs the aftermath
This dismantling is not incidental. It is structural — the Gospel retains the form of initiation but removes the original Christos — Egchrisassa in the feminine — and wipes the creator of the mystery rite from history. This is not just failure; it is an act of substitution through destruction. A ritual inversion, encoded as forgetting.
She was Adamah — the ground itself.
Not dirt. Not dust.
Something radiant.
Metallica: the brilliant compound drawn from the chthonic depths.
Not a poison, but a rite.
Not a witch, but the woman who knew what glowed beneath the soil.
The Witch Hunts
Long after her myth was defiled, inverted, and replaced — Medea’s daughters, her philosophical and ritual descendants, were hunted.
By the 5th and 6th centuries, the Orthodox Church had absorbed elements of the Sibylline tradition. These female prophets — who once spoke in ecstatic verse beside chthonic temples and Eleusinian altars — were repurposed into Christian allegory. Their visions were recast as premonitions of Christ, their texts sanitized and preserved in Latin manuscripts.
Despite this transformation, the figure of the Sibyl did not vanish. Throughout the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, Sibylline prophecy continued to circulate. They appeared in church frescoes, altarpieces, and illuminated manuscripts. By the 1500s, Sibyls were still being recorded as active prophetic figures, especially in Italy and Germany.
Some were cloistered women whose ecstatic visions were interpreted as divine. Others operated outside Church structures, preserving the logic of older rites through oral transmission. In these women, we find the last echoes of Medea’s line — guardians of a rite that had once passed through fire, salve, and trance.
Before his best-selling Holy Bible, King James’s earlier bestseller was Daemonologie — a manual for identifying and prosecuting witches. Published in 1597, it became a blueprint for persecution across Europe.
Over 40,000 were killed — not for practicing sorcery, but for preserving forbidden knowledge. The targets were not random. They were herbalists, midwives, healers, seers, and women who carried oral traditions that echoed the Eleusinian and Sibylline rites. Some wore veils and called themselves nuns. Others lived outside the Church but kept its oldest secrets alive. What united them was not witchcraft, but lineage. They bore traces of the pharmakon — and of the woman who first made it speak. The witch hunts were not just superstition. They were the final purge of Medea’s legacy.
The Eternal Parody
Christ did not bring a new play. He walked into an old one already underway.
The Gospel authors inherited the grammar of myth. They spoke in tragic tones — in masks and doubles, riddles and inversions. Their Christ is not a fixed figure but a paradox in motion: a lamb who slaughters, a physician who dies, a god drugged, mocked, and executed — in public — by a crowd who cannot see.
The text folds like a parody. Not parody as mockery, but in its oldest form — παρῳδία — to sing beside. A genre that shadowed epic with distorted echoes of its own heroes. In this light, the Gospel is not the opposite of myth. It is its parasite. Its disfigured twin. Its tragic haunting.
Christ is not the rival of Dionysus. He is his echo — limping, drugged, and crucified. The Gospel does not reject myth. It is myth inverted into satire. And satire, in ancient drama, was born from tragedy itself. For the modern readers, Jesus is Deadpool, from Marvel, and the irony of him being portrayed as Jesus in the latest movie just takes the cake, or perhaps fate/destiny.
The figure at the center is not a savior in the traditional sense. He is ritually mocked, medicated, and sacrificed. His final salving is interrupted. His disciples flee. He is crowned with thorns, dressed in costume, and called king in mockery. The tomb is empty — but no one sees him rise. The women do not speak. The boy flees. The story cuts off.
And yet the story survives. It is retold. Recast. Reframed. The satire is interpreted as theology. The failure becomes glory. The drug becomes doctrine. The failed rite becomes faith. Once fully repackaged, it is sold as fulfillment — and the new Christos casts his shadow across history.
Anchored References
Structural Foundations: Inversion and Satire
Robert C. Elliott, The Power of Satire: Magic, Ritual, Art (1960) — Defines tragic parody as ritual inversion. Essential for interpreting the Gospels not as sincere theology, but as encoded satire using Greek dramatic form. In this view, the Christ figure is not a savior but a failed initiate; the miracle is the collapse. Satire becomes a scalpel — it cuts to remember.
Jean-Pierre Vernant, Classical Works on Greek Tragedy — Argues that Greek tragedy reflects ritual structure, especially the inversion of roles, the breakdown of the sacred, and the figure of the pharmakos (scapegoat). Medea is emblematic of ritual collapse and exile.
Primary Source Fragments
Acts 28:3–6 — Paul survives a viper bite. Read in this work as evidence of ritualized venom immunity, not miracle.
John 4:25 — Distinction between “Messiah” (Μεσσίας) and “Christos” (Χριστός). Shows awareness of different traditions.
Matthew 19:11–12 — References eunuchs and voluntary renunciation. Included for its ritual subtext.
Revelation 3:18 — “Buy from me gold refined by fire.” Used to show Christos as pharmacological currency.
Greek Terminology and Ritual Lexicon
Χριστός (Christos) — Not “Messiah,” but “anointed” with salve. Originally referred to medicinal or ritual application.
Λῃστής (lēstēs) — Translated “robber,” but in Hellenistic contexts implied rebel, kidnapper, or trafficker.
Σινδών (sindōn) — A linen cloth used in healing or funerary rites. In Mark 14:51–52, it marks the body of the fleeing youth as a ritual vessel.
Pharmacological and Medical References
Galen’s Theriac — A compound antidote developed from temple healing traditions. Forms the ritual counterbalance to the Christos salve.
Medea — Treated here not as mythic witch, but pharmacologist and originator of the rites misused in the Gospels.
Historical Testimony and Imperial Records
Pliny the Elder — Criticized venom and opium cults as corrosive to civic virtue.
King James VI of Scotland, Daemonologie (1597) — Early modern witch-hunting manual that led to the deaths of 40,000+ women.
King James Bible — The successor publication to Daemonologie. Its cultural authority erased competing lines of prophecy and healing.
Mythic Continuity and the Line of Medea
Jason and the Argonauts — Used as a framework of myth inversion. Jason steals Medea, the rites, and the salve.
Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany, Mary the Mother — Interpreted as ritual fragments of Medea: the Salver, the Selector, the Guardian.
Suppressed Knowledge and Heresy Archives
The Sibylline Oracles — Absorbed into Christian tradition in the 5th–6th centuries by the Orthodox Church. Sibyls continued prophesying into the 1500s in visual and oral culture.
Female Prophets in Late Medieval Europe — Records show continued activity by women linked to suppressed pharmacological and visionary rites.
The Cracks of the Old Era
It was never about belief.
It was about structure.
The rite wasn’t just misremembered — it was inverted.
The myth wasn’t lost — it was buried.
The names weren’t erased — they were twisted.
And yet, here we are.
Chiseling away at the shell.
Tracing every fracture in the yolk of empire.
Watching the cracks spread.
Because when the egg breaks — not by accident, but by pressure —
what hatches won’t be another god, another savior, another lie.
It’ll be the memory they tried to kill.
The thread they couldn’t snip.
The woman they exiled.
And the scream they called silence.
This isn’t poetry.
It’s evidence.
It’s ritual deconstruction.
It’s a forensic resurrection.
The Cosmic Egg doesn’t give birth to a new faith.
It gives birth to the truth.
