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In my head, the abstract painting attributed to Fulcanelli is not an object on a wall but a condition that assembles itself whenever thought begins to stack. It appears as a city made of interruptions: vertical slabs of attention, corridors of unfinished sentences, districts built from sounds that never quite became words. Nothing in it is stable, yet everything holds.
Through the Phonetic Cabala, the city is pronounced rather than seen. Each block is a phoneme hardened into habit, each gridline a rule learned so long ago it now feels natural. When my mind moves across the image, it does not read it smoothly; it hesitates, doubles back, skips. That hesitation is the key. Meaning emerges not from clarity but from misalignment—where sound and sense refuse to coincide.
These are the Cities of Siddhas as they exist in my head: not mythic sages dwelling on mountaintops, but localized zones of perception where certain capacities temporarily reside. Focus lives in one tower. Detachment in another. A sudden, precise intuition occupies a narrow bridge between two darker blocks. The siddhis are not powers I wield; they are rooms I sometimes enter by accident.
The city is crowded but silent. No figure walks its streets, yet it is densely inhabited by states of mind. Some districts are overbuilt—too many thoughts stacked without breath—while others are voids, necessary absences where nothing should be added. When I linger too long in one zone, it begins to collapse into noise. When I pass lightly, structure holds.
In this inner Fulcanellian city, ascent is not spiritual elevation but compression: how much meaning can be contained without spilling into explanation. The monochrome quality mirrors my own interior weather—ideas stripped of color so only proportion and rhythm remain. What persists is not revelation but tuning.
The painting in my head does not teach me secrets. It reminds me that thought itself is architectural, and that the siddhis appear only when the city is allowed to stand without being named.