Anonymous asked:
The Hermit predates Crowley by a few hundred years. Yes, Crowley did found Thelema, but the Hermit as a figure in tarot cards goes back to the 1400's. (Don't get me started on the bad archaeology Crowley depended on. But it was the best at the time. So much of his reasoning is quite dated.) Look up Hermeticism for more insight to Page's reasoning and other esoteric symbols he used throughout his musical career. Good start!
I answered:

Hey thank you for sharing! :D

posted 2 months ago with 0
A little late-night rambling: The Glass Wall

Maybe one day she can get used to his ignorance of her existence, the thin chance of their paths crossing, the futility of her stares and the thick glass wall between her and him. But getting accustomed to the tidal wave of feelings that rushes over her with every little move he makes, that was the impossible part.

He has never spoken a word to her and yet for some incomprehensible reason, she is afraid of him. Perhaps not
of him, but of him noticing her, because mostly, getting noticed never served her any good before. So she just stares at him from a barely safe distance…her heart hardly finding time to rest between beats.

She sometimes feels that she would rather stay there, safely concealed behind the glass wall, away from the viscous risk of rejection and the hurtful crash of expectations…but some other times, those thin chances of something, or anything at all, joining them, are too tempting. Then comes reality, reducing those temptations to particles that can’t even do as much as scratch the wall.

Isn’t it odd, how such an everlasting fountain of feelings never was born except for him, the one person who oh-so-inconveniently does not know, let alone care?

Isn’t it a shame that those feelings have nowhere to go other than an eternally black void?

Isn’t it unfair, how he owns that fountain and she doesn’t even get a glimpse of a drop?

Perhaps if she was a tiny bit brighter among the night’s stars, or a tad less unsure of her own self, their paths would cross, and they would blend perfectly like watercolours on an artist’s painting, like the orange of sunset and the white of clouds, or like soft raindrops and hard cement..
And they would open the doors to each others’ souls, dig a little, then come up for rest, have a picnic and a talk of what they found..and maybe, in that too perfect world, he would play her a song, and sing her to a dance then lullaby her to a flawless sleep..
And she would feel life going through her. Her feelings finally finding a place to go. Her heart stripped off loneliness.

Then she would drop an infinite length, back to unmerciful reality.
Back to oddness, shame, and unfairness.
So there behind the glass wall she lingers, cradling her heart, the fountain keeping her suspended between the thin chances, the temptations, and the daydreams.

holierthanyou:

via  spacedementia28