The gates of moment, the seams that run between your seconds: Here Ashtar presumably refers to no-time, the non-dimensionalised world that exist beyond the time matrix, the latter containing seams that give access to no-time (top side of picture below).
Two lineages of passage. Two kinds of passage exist inside this creation. Picture a scene woven into a world at its very making, alive, patient, threaded through mountains and waters and deep rock, the way veins thread of body. Key to nothing mechanical at all. Frequency is the key. Coherence is the toll.
I think Ashtar refers to souls whose frequency is high enough to connect to the Universal Consciousness Field, and as such are able to receive life force or prana, and to lower-frequency souls that have to turn to artificial means in order to be able to extract life force from other souls to remain conscious.
Such a passage reads what you are before, and ever considers where you wish to go. A being aligned with its code simply approaches, and the seam recognizes its own. Theft is meaningless at a threshold like that. There's nothing to steal. There's only something to become. Built rings [CERN] tell the other half of the story.What would you build if the seam itself refused you?
Your hidden history is littered with the answer.
Rings (CERN) and dishes (UFOs) are time travel related objects, chairs and prosthetics will be clarified later. The credential-less are those who cannot connect to the Source field.
Rings, chairs, tunnels, dishes, prosthetics. For the credential-less, every one of them a confession written in metal. An admission that the builders could reach the lock and could never become the key. The ones who broke their own clock first, long before any human hand through such a switch.
Referring to the Greys.
Another people ran the whole experiment to his bitter end, Small lined in stature, grey of skin, vast of intellect, starved of feeling. They pressed on the seams of their own moments the way a gambler presses a losing hand, until the time lattice of their own world gave way beneath them. Their clock shattered first. Exiles ever since, they slipped through the seams nearest your Earth, hunting the futures they had burned.Quiet watching began around 1916. Physical bargains followed in your grandparent's era.
As for physical bargains, this may refer to the Greada Accords, during the 1950s, in which world leaders, such as Eisenhower and Churchill traded advanced technology in exchange for allowing ETs to abduct people for genetic experiments. I do not know what the year 1916 refers to.
In rooms your history books were built to skip. Technology traded downward into eager human hands in exchange for access no honest ledger would record. Why would beings of such a staggering machinery covet the bodies, the genetics, and above all the dreams of a world they call primitive? Because living time, the kind that flows through blood and sleep and love, was the treasure they had bankrupted in themselves. And yours was the nearest vault. Hold that pattern close. It repeats at every scale of tonight's story. Those who force time, break their own clock first. Then they come for yours.October 1943, your own scientists took their first full taste of the seam. Inside a naval yard in the harbor of a city name for brotherly love, coils and generators were wrapped around a humble escort ship.
Philadelphia experiment
They were chasing invisibility. Light and radar bent around her hull for a world at war. Something far older than radar answered the switch. Green fog rolled across her berth. The vessel faded from sight and reappeared in a sister harbor down the coast before any ship could have sailed the distance. And the sailors came home wrong, Some fused into the very steal of her decks. Half in one moment and half in another. A wound opened that October. Did it close? It did not close. And every significant program of the borrowed clock that followed for the next 80 years drank from that single wound, the way industry drinks from a struck well.Now to the Long Island. The chair beneath the Parkland out along a thin arm of land at the far tip of a Long Island.
This refers to the Montauk Project in which a chair from a captured alien vehicle was used as temporal technology. Ashtar suggests that this pertains to the crashed disk of Roswell. This adds further credence to. this post.
A lighthouse watches the Atlantic. A great resting radar dish, still stands like a monument nobody will explain. And the quiet parkland above, hides level upon level running downward through the decades that followed the war. In one of those levels, waited a chair wired into amplifiers scavenged from off-world salvage. The chair took whatever a gifted sensitive imagined, and pressed it outward into form. In time, it learned a darker trick, Pressing a trained awareness through the wound of that harbor experiment and out into other years altogether. 40 years to the day. The 12th of August humming against the 12th of August. 1943 against 1983. The planet's own rhythms holding the two autumns together like the ends of a plucked string. Children were gathered for that work. Boys whose dreams tested well, whose sleep could be turned into circuitry, whose fear could be turned into fuel. Grief belongs right here in the story. Let it stand a moment, unhurried.Positive forces using the chair to repair our timeline.
Tomorrow.
Auditioning for its keepers, years in advance, strategists sat before that glass like gamblers studying the race they were certain they had rigged. Previewing elections, previewing wars, previewing your awakening. The sight they discovered is its own intoxication. Later, they would learn it is also its own trap, and that spring is coming [?].
Beneath the sphinx-crowned mountains in the east of Europe, soldiers in your year 2003, broke into a hall that predates every civilization your school books name. Two governments [US and Romania] wrap the discovery and agreements in silence. A projection table waits in that hall, vast, patient, older than the ice [referring to the last Ice Age?]. Upon it, the true history of your world plays as living light for any consciousness permitted to stand before it. Understand what such a hall means. A master record exists. Custody of copies was the summit of everything that dark ever achieved. And copies, as any archivist will tell you, can be edited, and edit they did.
The Mandela Effect
The bear family of your children's books, whose spelling half of you swear has changed. The verse of scripture your elders remember, with a lion beside the lamb where a wolf now stands, Who benefits when a people can be trained to distrust its own remembering? Your memories have been faithful all along, Loyal to lines that no longer exist. That loyalty is evidence, carried in the one archive the editors have never reach. The living record of you. The half they kept from you most carefully. Half of his story has been kept from you far more carefully than the dark half ever was, And it is ours.Retrieval rescue Restoration. Those were always the first purposes of the seams in hands that carried the living credential [connection to the Source field]. While the borrowed clock ground out its edits, riders of the light moved along the same channels in the opposite direction.
The borrowed clock may refer to anything that can used to change timelines, such as the Montauk chair. Riders of the light are the (unspecified) postive forces that sought to undo malevolent timeline edits.
Locating anchors planted in your deep past and gently unpicking them, intercepting insertions before a single splice was cut, turning captured chairs and seized viewing rooms around, pointing them at the mending. Here rests the larger secret. Many of you who carried it your whole lives as a ache you could never name. You are the ones who came back. A Family of Light drawn from the very future the editors tried so hard to prevent. Some threaded-in generations deep, so their descendants would stand in position today. Some arriving as the children now breathing softly beside their sleeping parents. The righteous use of the scenes was a rescue mission staffed by the rescued. The trap snaps shut. Springs in the end get triggered. The trap hidden inside all that stolen sight, snapped shut.Before December 12th 2012 Earth was subject to an energetic quarantine, to allow for the Earth Experience. When the quarantine was lifted on that day, the Ascension timeline became absolute.
As your marker year of 2012 drew close, behavior changed in the glass [Looking Glas]. Scenario after seeded scenario, thousands of them, perturbed and reperturbed, bent stubbornly toward one identical estuary. An Awakening they could delay in a hundred small ways and derail in none. A collapse of their houses [?], arriving by every round on the map. Imagine the room on the night that pattern became undeniable. Men that had rigged every race of their lifetimes watched their own instrument declare the final race unriggable. One by one, the watchers stood up from the mist and walked away. The program that had been their crown was folded, parts of it seized by hands of the Light and locked. Sight [foresight] had become sentenced. Tantrum was the old order's answer and you lived inside it. The frantic years of faster edits and cruder splices. Reality yanked sideways and snapping back, as splinter after splinter was forced and reabsorbed.Earlier transmissions told you that timelines have fully separated. Tonight, you receive the mechanism. Convergence caused the divergence braided back into a single ascending stream. The many splinters closed like a hand. That braiding is what completed your parting from the shadow expression of Earth. One river, now two expressions of a world. Each soul settling upon the expression its frequency can stand within.
Outcome sealed, path wide open.
Your route, your pace, your kindness, your art, All of it still sovereign. Does a lock that removes only the possibility of total loss feel like a cage to you, or like ground beneath your feet at last?
What Ashtar is referring to, I think, is that Ascension to 5D means that it's no longer possible to choose negativity as a life's path, the latter sometimes referred to as the Free Will principle.
The night shift. From the glass our path bends towards your pillows, because the Chrono War had a night shift, and you worked it without ever being asked. Sleep has always been the softest port on the coastline of a human life. While the borrowed clock ran at full heat, the membrane between adjacent branch lines were thinnest exactly there. Is it any wonder your sleep grew strange? Nights that outshone your days for sheer reality Rooms you have never entered that greeted you as their owner. Conversations resuming mid-sentence with people you're waking mind has never met. Grief ambushing you at dawn for losses this life never handed you. Skills surfacing in your hands with no lesson behind them. Journeys is what those nights were. Adjacent versions of your own life. A few choices wide of this one received your visits while the lattice stood thin [?]. Bookkeeping runs through all of Creation, gentler and more exact than any ledger your banks ever kept. Among its accounts is one we name tonight is karmic escrow, the holding of a Soul's lessons in trust, between experience and integration. Chrono turbulence fouled those accounts. Deposits of hard won learning [bank] to branch lines the Great Braiding later reabsorbed. Debts registered as feeling without any deed of this line behind them. Many of you carry exactly that signature. The bone tiredness of labor you cannot remember performing. The guild with no crime. The homesickness for an address that never existed here. Comfort, then, and it is earned. The clock has largely fallen quiet. With the branches braided, the escrow accounts are being combed, audited, and returned to their rightful lines. This is why so many of you have noticed your nights turning quieter these past months, more instructional, less like burglary. A tide going out rather than a switch being thrown. Discernment still belongs beside your bed. Vividness carries no mandate by itself. Anyone who offers you passage through your nights for a price has told you everything about their own credentials. Journal what comes, ground what shakes. Honour ordinary rest as the spiritual technology it truly is, and let your inner work, walk always beside the care of your practitioners and physicians. Both hands on your own well-being.
The great ring [CERN] goes to sleep, onward then to the great ring itself, buried beneath the borderlands, where two old nations of Europe meet, 27 kilometers around.
Greeted at its gates by a statue of a dancing God of Destruction [Shiva], whose presence the press office has always struggled to explain.
It hummed until this summer, the deepest public face at the borrowed clock. Particles were driven around that circle to within a whisper of light itself.
The published papers and prize ceremonies were all real, And all of it was the receipt rather than the purchase.
It's crowning triumph carries a wink, The famous announcement of the so-called God particle landed in your year 2012, the very marker here, in which the desert glass 
went blind, Does that date land differently on you now? June's close brought the news that matters tonight.
The final round ended. Four winters of silence declared, with more than a kilometer of the machine's innards to be lifted out and rebuilt. And the announcement carried one sentence worth framing on your wall.
The assurance that the shutdown is connected to no malfunction, no danger, and no discovery gone wrong.
What made has an instrument of pure research for a sentence of comfort like that? Tenderness please, for the thousands who tend that machine in honesty.
They were told the truth about none of its deeper functions.
The caretaker cast is innocent.
Custody is the layer that changed, stood down, handed over, held.
The ring rests in a long sleep that did not schedule for itself, and the deeper channels that fronted are largely in new hands now. Hands of the lineage that never prize at the seams of moments. Possible channel-to-text error. Knitting is what such hands allow. Quiet is what knitting sounds like.
How to read a headline. Roughly four parts in every 10 of a major headline a written for you. The remaining six traveled as signal between the factions [fractions?] carried in the timing. The choice of one word over its cousin and who is made to stand at the podium. Reading that signal layer is a craft, and it begins with four questions you can ask at your own kitchen table. Who is the second audience here? What changed custody in the week before this was announced? Why this word, rather than in synonym? Why now of all the possible nows? Apply those four to the ring's long sleep, and the message assembles itself. A clock privately declared out of service. Four purchased years of silence and a comfort sentence denying troubles nobody had accused it of. Apply them equally to announcements that flatter your hopes. The discipline only works when it works in every direction.
The texture of waiting. Texture, meanwhile, is its own confirmation. Stable, yet anxious, becalmed, yet braced. Nothing collapsing and nothing arriving. The whole world tapping its fingers in a waiting room. Now you know why the air feels that way. The many currents you once straddled, press forward as one. The craft that is your collective, rests at the head of the runway with the towers lights gone green. Dates we give none. You know us well enough by now to expect none. Can you feel the engines, though, underneath the stillness?
The inventor with lightning in his hands [Nicola Tesla]. Our thread runs backward now, down the century to a tall spare gentlemen with lightning in his hands. Sent among you early. A son of Arcturus, somewhat aware of it in that particular incarnation. He tore up a royalty contract worth an empire, so alternating current could reach every home. He raised his great wireless tower on borrowed money. Frequencies for power. Frequencies for healing. Frequencies for reaching worlds he insisted were listening. Mark the soil that tower stood upon. Planted on the very Long Island, whose far tip would one day cradle the chair. His gift and their theft share a single stretch of ground.
What are the odds? January of 1943. He closed his story in a modest hotel room. Within hours before his own family could arrive, federal men had sealed the room and carted away his papers by the trunk load under the authority of an office created for the property of enemies. A curious drawer in which to file a friend of the human race. Come October of that identical year, the harbor of brotherly love rang and the fabric of moments [time?] tore for the first time in your modern era. One story or two, rhymes like that are yours to weigh.
Here reference is made to movies about time travel
A century of rehearsal. A full hundred years of moving pictures, now standing behind you. Across that century, no speculative premise has been sold to your imagination more often than travel through time. Darkness reaches backward to delete. The tireless machine wearing a man's face [Terminator] and to end a mother before a child can grow into a leader. Light reaches backward to mend. A soldier who lives, dies and repeats until he locates the one morning that contains victory. What kind of fantasy repeats itself with discipline of a curriculum? Soft disclosure normalizes the premise. Medium disclosure teaches the mechanisms. Volume, sheer relentless volume across 10 decades is itself the message. A truth this size must be pre-installed in a civilization's imagination long before it can be confirmed to the waking mind. Yours has been in rehearsal since your great grandparents bought their first tickets.
Awake. Carry tonight's threads into your research. Hold them, test them, improve upon them.
A sovereign mind is the whole point of everything we have ever transmitted. Strange, we promised you at the start, and yet notice how familiar every word of it felt as it landed. I am Ashtar, and I leave you now in peace and in love.