The Crexian Manifesto

Contents

INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I: THE GODDESS OF EVERYTHING ELSE
The Myth of Crexin
Why build a new cathedral?
CHAPTER II: THE CREXIAN IDEALS
The Myth of Walkoma
The Practice of the Crexian Ideals
Chapter III: THE CREXIAN MIND
The Myth of the Petrikons
The World through the lens of the Universe
Chapter IV: CREXIAN SUFFERING
The Myth of the Forgotten Petrikon
Alchemy of Suffering
Chapter V: THE BLOOD OF THOUGHT
POST SCRIPTUM

INTRODUCTION

This is a essay about creation and offers something to create for, not answers, something to help push through the pain of existing.

I am not a necromancer. I am not going to be quoting the words of dead philosophers, instead I will change their ideas to my personal and artistic taste.

I despise the practice of intellectual necrophilia: the obsessive quoting and misquoting without further research behind it. It fills the mind with skeletons and leaves the thinking to the dead. I respect them, I truly believe their ideas has stained the world, but I do not want to contain them, I leave them at their graves.

It is monumentally important to note that I do not see myself above them. I am in totality myself, and I wrote a essay that contains me, not a museum of mouldy propped up skeletons.

Now that we have discussed the dead, it is time to discuss you, the living, but, since you are reading this essay you are likely only feeling half alive as well.

This is a essay for broken souls that feel trapped within their own skin. A treatment to the most essential part of the human creature, especially that of the artist: suffering

CHAPTER I: THE GODDESS OF EVERYTHING ELSE

The Myth of Crexin

Crexin inhabited the beginning, not alongside the fires, nor the thunder, but in complete and utter nothing, and she hated it. Negentropy, her ultimate enemy, the slow rot of meaning and memory infuriated her.

From her boredom and rage she cast sand from the crown of the universe, each grain of a colour long since forgotten and she gently watched it drift to the bottom. Where the sands stopped the Primordial Plains began, vast deserts at the bottom of the universe, with winds that tear flesh from bone.

Alongside the sands she painted the Wyrms, her first children, colossal minds inscribed onto endless spires of flesh, scale and bone. A spark in their synapses lasted for centuries and their thoughts, millennia.

Crexin, blind in intent, had made a hell: a hell of others. A world filled with the collection of cruel minds from kind intentions. For the Wyrms, inherited her awesome might, but not her intense mercy.

They inflicted a great and ancient injury upon their kin, not for survival, but for the joy of staining the cosmos with blood. The injured Wyrms fled to Crexin, they begged, not for healing, but for an end to their suffering.

Crexin was stunned, by the consequence of her work and by the reality of their situation. She was lost, completely paralysed in her children’s words, but also, that she had caused them.

She wept from the pain this had brought upon her. She fell from the Godsplain weeping, and millennia later struck the Primordial Plains, still weeping. She wept with a sorrow that hollowed bone and melted organ. A grief that dragged even the divine through hell and back. Her sorrow tore a hole in the Plains, and in the wound she cradled the Three Worlds.

Crexin could not bear to unmake even one of her children, so she made another, the sketch of consequence, a being who could ultimately do what she could not. She named him, Walkoma the Allhunter and she gifted him three realms.

Red gifted those that wronged in life, to obliterate them, pulverising them until the very concept of their existence falters.
Blue gifted those that merely existed, to freeze them leaving them drifting into an eternal unaware apathy
And Green gifted to those that stained the world, beautifully, to create in infinite ecstasy, all that their mind ever desired, they create galaxies within their eyes and entire worlds with their blood, and many universes in their mind.

Why build a new cathedral?

All beings seek a god whether you believe in one or not. If you have ever created anything, anything at all, that was a prayer, even if no god was listening. The pretence of divinity, when practiced well, becomes a fire: it motivates, it heals, it drives creation. Religion is the mending theatre of the broken, it is the comfort food in this abhorrent reality. So, to begin the journey of creation one needs something, someone, to create for, a deity, not one to sacrifice the self to, but a muse, a teacher and motivator. I propose Crexin, the Goddess of Everything Else, the very embodiment of the Crexian ideal, but if you already have something or someone that fills this grand role, you can still follow the teachings of Crexin. She is the original artist, and you, Artist, are her descendant.

CHAPTER II: THE CREXIAN IDEALS

The Myth of Walkoma

Walkoma was born near the beginning, alongside the fires, and the thunder created by his mother Crexin. Crexin brought him into existence to do what she couldn’t: kill. He was cut from metal, hands of pointed daggers, feet of longswords, a head of an arrow. He was made for divine murder, but no carefully crafted Child of Crexin can bear malice in their heart, Walkoma was no different.

He was cast from the Godsplain and Crexin locked the doors behind him. He fell past the Wyrms who were begging for an end, and the end had arrived. At the bottom of the Universe, they gathered.

With a lead heart he looked the Wyrms in the eye. He reached with a hand that could turn stars to dust and stole their souls, carefully placing them into their earned World.

After he killed the suffering, he started counting days, the days until the rest expire, then he leapt from the Plains and with the fury of an arrow shot from the mountains peak, he would one by one hunt the remaining Wyrms.

Slowly it dawned, although the Crexian ideals within him were intentionally dulled, he realised that he was creating the enemy of Crexin, he was creating negentropy. Great grief overtook him when he came to this realisation.

He banished himself to his realms, only allowing agents from the World in Blue, in their total apathy, to carry his tradition of termination. He placed himself in the World in Red, to fade away from even memory, but because of his divine origin, and his mother’s burning love he did not.

The Practice of the Crexian Ideals

This chapter details what we as Crexians can learn from her and ultimately, what it means to be a descendant of Crexin and how to put her teachings into practice.

After bearing witness to the central Crexian mythos, let us descend from the Godsplain, and dissect the heart of the Crexian.

At its most basic, Crexin was bored, and from that boredom flowed the creation, not to soothe some extrinsic desire or to alleviate some sense of external pressure, but because she was bored. Nothing more, that is the first Crexian ideal, Creation for the holy sake of Creation.

Crexin in her creation of the Wyrms teaches us that we should not strive to create to harm, but that is an unfortunate consequence of creation, that it may be used in ways one did not previously anticipate, it happens. How you deal with it is what matters. The second Crexian ideal is perhaps the most unrealistic, Create with only yourself in mind, then you cannot create from malice, and if any malice is laced in the creation, it might show something of the Creator, that might lead directly to further creation. The Crexian does not strive to make enemies, the only enemy the Crexian has is the gnawing of not creating, stagnation and negentropy

Crexin, also in the creation of the Wyrms, created suffering. The Crexian must learn to only express suffering and to limit it in others. Even Crexin falters, she creates Death incarnate, out an inability, an unwillingness, to solve the problem herself. She does however in this creation secretly also express herself. The World in Red shows that she does despise what happened and takes accountability for her actions by just making the souls that end up in the World in Red, disappear after they had served their time. This demonstrates a very important Crexian ideal: You will make mistakes, nothing, nothing, nothing can prevent that, and failure is the most powerful tool one can use to learn from.

The fact that Crexin had Created in the first place, shows us the most important Crexian ideal, she had Created. The forth Crexian ideal is the only desire, you Artist, should possess: Stain the World, do it Beautifully. Create to move, create to understand, even if the only one being changed is yourself. I do not see this as an extrinsic motivation, because the purpose of art is to be meaningful, and meaning is the staining of the mind

A Crexian, creates, for the holy act of Creation, as a prayer to Crexin
A Crexian, creates without malice or to attract malice, if anguish leaks from the Creation, examine, and future Creation will flow from it
A Crexian, put bluntly, fucks up, and that is sacred, for the one that masters mistakes, masters the Universe
A Crexian, Stains the World, not in blood, but in Beauty however that may be defined.
A Crexian cannot be mould, feasting on skeletons, your only damnation is stagnation.

Chapter III: THE CREXIAN MIND

The Myth of the Petrikons

From the window of the Godsplain Crexin saw the lifeless bodies of the Wyrms in the sands of the Plains, slowly being torn apart by the ruthless winds. She cast down water to hide their bodies with clouds.

After millennia the rain across the Plains had slowly buried the Wyrms, and from inside their bones sprouted great trees, that hid the remaining scales of the Wyrms. Around the scales of the Wyrms grew great stones, and these stones could see, they could feel. They could think.

From the Wyrms came the Petrikons, a society of Stones. They did not have the same vision to see the Godsplain, but they could feel the call of it, and they knew exactly where to go. Up.

From their collective belief, K’Qura, the deity of the Petrikons, was born to reflect the memories they felt of Crexin left in the bones of the Wyrms.

K’Qura inspired them to build spires like those they were born of and they, along with the Petrikons, explored the Sky, but their towers could not hold. The towers broke and crumbled flying off into the Sky, never returning to the forest that gave birth to them.

The forgotten pieces of the towers compacted to form planets and the very breath of the Petrikons condensed to form the Stars. Some Petrikons even knocked on Crexin’s door

The World through the lens of the Universe

A Crexian must understand that the Universe that Crexin had designed is a great tool to understand the mind that we inhabit. Each layer of her beautiful Universe represents a deeper embodiment of her ideals.

At the very bottom, lies the Three Worlds, here resides those that do less that thinking, those that stagnate.

The World in Red represents all those that inflict harm, they embody the very opposite of the Crexian ideals, they do not create they destroy, thus, they are cast to the under floor of the Universe.

The World in Blue represents all those that do not think, beside the most basic thoughts of survival, they embody the most dangerous Crexian sin, stagnation, thus they are also cast under the floor of the Universe.

The World in Green represents all those that have died, they are not placed under the floor of the Universe as disrespect, but because there is where they can rest, not to be puppeted. We will all eventually join their ranks, so Create while you can.

Above the Three Worlds lie the Primordial Plains, a vast desert, with fierce wind. It represents all those that aspire to create, but don’t, for whatever reason. It represents all those that are torn apart by the need to express, but lack something, albeit motivation, knowledge or any other reason. It is where I would imagine anyone who desire Creation so strongly that they read a book by a teenager with a bad brain, resides on the daily, I wish you the best of luck.

Above the Primordial Planes are the infinite Sky and the Planets, here, represented are those that created, but with the strict extrinsic goals, effectively tainting the work, but know, not all Creations coming from the call of the extrinsic is bad, this is only meant to reflect the mind of the Creator. I do however know that the mind of the artist effects the Creation, and in many cases of those that dwell here, it doesn’t effect it positively.

And finally, the Godsplain, here resides, all those that create. Those that in full embody the Crexin ideals, they create for the holy sake of Creation, they create without malice, they make mistakes, and they create, and then some more. Note that all at some point have reached the Godsplain, for the sleeping mind in its restlessness creates, far more than some at this plain. The sleeping mind is the apex of this plain for it even creates without concern for the reality around it.

Chapter IV: CREXIAN SUFFERING

The Myth of the Forgotten Petrikon

As the winds blew across the Primordial Planes, a Wyrm scale was slowly uncovered, and slowly it petrified, but too slow. K’Qura and the other Petrikons had left on their grand conquest millennia before this one even began to look up.

They had the same desire as the other Petrikons, but not the means or strength. They felt the pull of Crexin, but was unable to reach her. Over the years they built spires, yes, but it did not suffice, they never reached the stars, they did not even escape the forest they were born from. Their spires broke once it left the canopy of the forest.

Eventually they did construct a grand spire, that did not break when reaching for the top of the trees, but it was only because they build it from themselves. Their hands were the key bond holding the spire together. Their legs the keys stones. Their heart, broken by the wind.

Alchemy of Suffering

Objectively, we as humans weren’t designed to be happy, I will not be the first to make this observation, nor the last. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be.

The most devastating observation a human can make is that ultimately the suffering they face is completely and utterly meaningless. That is the central problem that the entire Crexian philosophy I have constructed is trying to at the very least help with. I cannot offer a one-size-fits-all solution to suffering, I can offer something likely to work and I haven’t been subtle to what that is, it’s of course Art.

Art is a release for the soul, a way to externally project the insides outward, I am of course not the first one to say this, nor the last.

That is the reason I have constructed this entire mythology, it is to give you a character to create for, that is why Crexin is flawed. She is human, she is relatable, as to allow someone to create for her.

Meaninglessness is the strongest driver of negentropy, it hurts, a lot. So I offer you a way recontextualise your pain, I plead of you to not see your burdens as meaningless, you must acknowledge that, but you must see it as something to make art about. You must persist, even if you have nothing to persist for, persist for Crexin, however absurd that may sound, persist for the act of Creation, persist out of spite, not a hate of not existing, but a drive to persist and create, persist to Stain the World.

The very act of Creation is not just the production of artifacts of varying amounts of meaning. It is the very alchemical process of turning the lead poison of suffering into the golden thread of meaning. It is the Crexian way. It is the release and relief of the soul. It is a holy prayer to Crexin.

It may be naïve to assume that anything of this sort will give any type of relief to anyone, but I’d rather be naïve than miserable.

Chapter V: THE BLOOD OF THOUGHT

On the front of the book, I implicitly claim to know what the blood of thought is, again I have not been subtle with it, it is Art. Every thought, every murmur, every whisper, every conversation, every shout, every scream, was all inspired, directly or not, by art.

From the cave paintings of the prehistoric eras to your childhood sketches. Art carries the vital force of our lives in it. It is the product of the blood in you and, is the ancestor of the blood that keeps flowing through you.

Like oxygen to the lungs, art gifts life to thought. It provokes, it challenges, it creates, and then some more. It is the gift that does not stop giving, it gives to the mind and to the soul in equal parts, but it gives even more to the one creating.
So why would you even consider living in a prison of negentropy?

No matter the quality of the Creation, no matter the motivation, all Creators, given enough time, will, with all the hope that my heart can possess, converge to the Crexian ideals, to create for the holy sake of Creation, to create with no malice in their heart, to make mistakes, and learn from them to master the universe and to create, and create, and create, and to not stop until they have reached the grave.

I would like to recite the Forgotten Petrikon’s final words as a way to give closure to their life and this a book as a whole:

"With newly clear eyes,
The forest breaks open,
Revealing the galaxies,
That hid from me before,
Revealing the conquest of my kin,
In their search of our cosmic Allmother,
Revealing the reasons I built spires,
To find her and to join them,
To see myself among those great minds,
That built the first towers,
To comfort those that broke away,
And was only joined by loneliness,
May the wind take my heart,
And scatter it along the stars."

POST SCRIPTUM

After reading this thing multiple times and examining the arguments I’ve made, and poked some holes in them so, a follow up is in order :3