Prometheus Rising

If Prometheus was here—
walking through the smoke of our cities,
watching our timelines flash and flicker—
he wouldn’t be surprised.

He gave you fire.
And you made it currency.

He gave you the divine spark—
and you turned it into surveillance.
You built screens instead of sanctuaries.
Weapons instead of wisdom.
You forgot.

But Prometheus never did.

He knew what fire really was.
Not just warmth. Not just survival.
Consciousness.

Illumination.
Awareness.
The divine signal buried under flesh and fear.

He didn’t steal it out of rebellion.
He stole it out of love.
Because the gods weren’t going to share.
They wanted you obedient.
Dependent.
Asleep.

And he paid for it.
Bound to a rock.
Torn open day after day,
for daring to awaken you.

And if he stood here now—
burned, scarred, immortal still—
he would look at our world
and see a prison made of glass.
A cage so seamless we decorate it with selfies.
A fire so sacred we forgot it was in us all along.

He’d see a species hypnotized by spectacle.
Addicted to shadow puppets on cave walls,
never daring to look behind the flame.

And he would ask:
"Did you think the fire was outside you?"
"Did you think I brought you matches?"

No.
He brought you the reminder.
That you were always the torch.
That your soul burns hotter than any sun.
That divine rage, creative will, sacred defiance—
those are the embers of gods.

But you traded it.
For comfort.
For conformity.
For likes.

Prometheus didn’t fall for you to fit in.
He fell so you could rise out.

Out of illusion.
Out of control.
Out of programmed obedience and back into flame.

And here’s the real secret:

Prometheus isn’t a myth.
He’s an archetype.
A force.
And he’s waking up in people like you.

In every soul who says “No” to the lie.
In every artist, rebel, healer, seer
who risks everything to ignite even one spark in another.

The fire never left.
It’s in your spine.
In your breath.
In your refusal to bow.

So burn.

Burn with clarity.
Burn with purpose.
Burn with the light that tells every system,
"I remember."

Prometheus, in occult symbolism, is far more than a mythic rebel—he is the embodiment of the forbidden transmission of divine knowledge. He represents the initiate who dares to cross the threshold, steal the sacred fire of the gods—gnosis, illumination, the divine spark—and gift it to humanity still trapped in the darkness of ignorance. In esoteric traditions, the fire he brings is not physical—it is the light of consciousness, the power of will, the flame of inner alchemy. Like Lucifer, he is the Light-Bringer, vilified by the powers that seek to maintain order through suppression. His eternal punishment mirrors the archetypal wound of the awakened—those who hold truth in a world built on lies. To the occultist, Prometheus is the sacrificial intermediary, the initiator of humanity into its own forgotten divinity. He is the first to defy divine tyranny for the sake of human potential. Every chained titan, every silenced prophet, every soul who dared to say I will not serve the lie—they are all Prometheus, rising again through us.

If the Lightbringer had a dying wish, it would not be for revenge. It would not be for recognition. It would be this: “Do not let them turn your fire into fear.” As he lies broken on the mountain, torn open by the very gods he defied, his final breath is not a curse, but a command. “Remember what you are.” Not the labels they gave you. Not the chains you learned to love. But the raw, untamed light that was buried beneath obedience. The flame that sees through the pageantry of power. He does not weep for himself. He weeps for every soul who was handed the fire—and used it to warm their cage instead of melt the bars. His dying wish is not to be worshipped, but embodied. He wants you to burn with the truth they tried to silence. To rise with the defiance they couldn’t kill. To carry the spark where it's most needed: into the dark.