An old man who dies is a library that disappears, says the African proverb. I am not old. I tried, I can’t do it. However I did not lay a book or two, but the whole library. You have it free in front of you. Still it goes on and on.
I borrowed from Nietzsche dear the title of this article. It is not the first appearance of the philosopher of freedom here in Eden Saga. I have already devoted several articles to him: anarchist, superhuman, prophet: Nietzsche is all this together. But don’t be mistaken. This joyful wisdom is mine. Here and now.
One day or another, I will leave. I made up my mind. I don’t know where I’ll be going, but I don’t really care: I’ve only known fabulous places. One day I will stop healing myself, I will let myself pass away. I’m already preparing for it. In fact since childhood I have been prepared for it.
When the time comes, I will be ready. In a short circuit of vril I will light the inner fire. The fire from within. All my cells will light up together, my body will ignite in the white light where I will take my flight.
But first I want to take my time. Good time. I still want to laugh, to enjoy, to choose, to discover endlessly. All my lives are cut from this material.
What you are criticized for, cultivate it, is you.
I have lived a lot. Lots of intense lives since my birth, and much more before, elsewhere, in other bodies, under other skies, at other times.
Weaving all the lives that I have remembered, the story would fill two strong volumes. Two illuminated quartets, with pretty lead characters from yesterday, adorned with etchings and punctuated by lamp bases, printed sheet by sheet on a laid back with a beautiful hand, bound in full leather with bookmarks, bookmark and various bookplates, all beautifully.
In the meantime, I work hard, night and day, in all seasons, in all weathers, weekdays and Sundays. I am lucky to sleep little, the night hours are conducive to writing. The stories wind and unfold better under the moon than in full sun. They are obvious. They are racing.
It is beautiful to write, to create images, to unfold lives, to bring together races, to welcome humans from all countries and all colors. You have your happiness in your heart.
It is in your hands that tomorrow our earth
will be entrusted to come out of the night.
And our hope to see the light again
Is in your eyes that wake up to life
Dry your tears, throw away your weapons
Make the world a paradise. (source)
A great joy. That is my life. Who hasn’t always been so. Far from it. My mother said life is a piece of shit and every day you have to eat a little. She didn’t say shit, she was shhhh and we understood. When I was young, I thought the grown-ups did not say bad words. Oh yes, I too was a small child, I still am.
My joy comes mainly from you. From this fabulous contact with my readers. Many of you write to me, I answer several hundred emails per week. Few of the big kinks. Rare hates. Frequent thanks. I’m not looking for one, the most beautiful are your smiles, you whom I love even more, dear friends I met, since you reached the other side of the mirror.
I write every day. Every night. I bring water to my thirsty star. I drink it for more than ten years, the dear always has the nugget. So I pour my water into living water, like the Star my boss. I discover the prodigious saga of our species as I write it. What I am telling is not invented, but revealed, so to speak.
Not really. Nothing is revealed. No white angel in a robe of light came to visit me in the wee hours of the night. No demon has taken me on a high mountain to climb the world and say to me: “Do you see all this? You feel the happiness of all these wonders? These treasures are yours. Take them. I give them to you.“
Chosen my ass. No one can claim any apocalypse, another name for revelation. There is no revelation, there never has been. Or else everything is revelation, our ideas come from elsewhere, our thoughts are suggested to us. Both hypothesis to the same result.
God appears only in dreams, which are more liars than an outgoing deputy. You are only elected by the ballot box, never by a supreme being. If it exists, God doesn’t care about our salads. Each his own. You have to understand it. Her life is not funny either.
I had a dream where I saw God. He spoke to me: My life is not funny every day, you have to put yourself in my place.
I went there to see. And I liked it. Being God is a nice job. So many advantages! Everyone greets you very sweet, everyone smiles at you, everyone loves you. You can tell the worst bullshit, everyone applauds.
There are two or three morons who do not believe in me, but I don’t care. Everyone else loves me. And I do love to be loved.
Then I woke up.
It was only a dream
An ugly lie
The night deceived me
Joyful or not, god or not, wisdom is not granted. Never. Stop dreaming. Awake.
No one got all the answers. Not even Googoo.