Yes, I often complain. May my readers forgive me. The trials I am going through will be experienced by others; I tell myself that they will be happy to find an account of this experience. I know she will end well. It can help them. It can take away their doubt. Support them in these difficult times.
Yet I live in the most beautiful coastal village of Brittany. Of France. Of the world. Nevertheless. I have suffered too much in recent years, for a result that is still awaited. I am barely emerging.
By dint of having fun in the astral, day and night, by dint of running away from this fake planet and the aliens who inhabit it, by dint of being just a shadow among the shadows, a number among the numbers, I was a zombie among the zombies.
By dint of seeing only the other side of the scene, I got lost.
I was pure and hard, I’m soft rubber. I was strong and dashing, I’m fucking crazy. Madly fucked. I was kind to myself and to those I love; here I am, stupid, always more stupid. No friend my age remains, they are no longer. Here I am the last living in their circle of graves. Where to look for it? How can I find myself?
Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I shout. Sometimes I am afraid, sometimes I cry. Never where I expect it, always at the wrong time.
I open my mouth, it’s another who speaks within me. And it’s him we hear. I see him. I believe him. He makes of me what he wants. Even worse, there are several of them. Legions of crazy men shouting together in a deafening din. I have low eyesight, I can’t hear anymore.
They speak to me through my mouth. Inside, when they touch me, every touch of their fire fingers burns me to death. Why not? Suicide is forbidden to me. I have something to do here that justifies this long presence. Does it justify this long suffering?
I put it in perspective: great pains, they say, are silent. Mine seem benign since I talk about them to everyone. I complain like a baby braille. I lament at nightfall like the manatees of the old port. I sob at the dawn on my pillow, soaked by the tears of the night.
The old port is ruined, I am ruined like him. Not because of money, but because of envy. Alive. No life without death at the end. The end comes more or less quickly and never when you want. He will come when you don’t want to. Filthy bitch of life and its pig of death!
Voices have guided me since childhood. I only had to choose whether to listen to this or that voice, or to turn a deaf ear. Or not to listen to any of them in order to act on my own idea. Voices scolded me, rebuked me, encouraged me, congratulated me for everything I did. All together, none agree with another.
Moral consciousness? Me, talking to myself? No. They speak too distinctly. Very different voices that I recognize immediately. They argue. They assert contrary opinions, which they vehemently support.
I can’t write anymore: I can’t read my doodles again. On a keyboard it’s worse. You’d think the keyboard is delirious. Xavier’s just delirious. Except that there is more than one Xavier under my hat.
Summer struggle, winter struggle,see RUTEBEUF it’s always me the galley man.
I no longer had the slightest hope of escaping from the mindlessness that was crushing me. The loss of myself seemed written in my genes. Inevitable, it led directly to the tomb without going through the remission box.
Then my heart chakra opened wide. It was about time. Love rushed in. Who would have thought? If it really works as I feel it, thank you, the Living One! Thank you so much! Yes, I suffered but now it’s over. I’m regaining the blazing energy of my forties, but it’s greatly improved.
The vision I embrace is much broader. The clarity of mind clearer and much clearer. Understanding becomes fraternal, warm, and welcoming. I am overflowing with affection for everyone and for myself.
I love myself! I offer myself gentle thoughts, compassion, I whisper encouragement when the slope is steep, compliments when I reach the top. Such tenderness towards me was unknown to me for ages.
Wrong. Always. Because the old love for myself was pure ego. Fatuity, disdain, pride, and puffiness. But here I am myself, a simple happiness to still live and to know my story until the end.
Such bliss! Loving each other opens the door to love.
Lying in my bed for a nap without sleep, I suddenly relived a childish emotion, I was less than ten years old. I saw myself completely naked in the hollow of a loving hand. A giant hand and not embarrassing. A hand of pure love that trickled into me, pure shower of blissless happiness and nirvanic ecstasy.
How many times did I experience this real dream when I was very little! Comfort impossible to say or describe. That happiness, a gift from above, made a midget a hero. I had nothing else to do but curl up and conquer the vastness.
The hero who doesn’t sleep but is better than in his dreams. The outside world was incomprehensible to me. I considered it dangerous. But there, in the hollow of this eiderdown palm, the little child becomes a giant.
Earlier, lying on my bed without sleeping, I wanted to sing about how happy I am to live. It was Suzanne de Cohen, in the French version by Graeme Allwright.
And my voice came out so deep and powerful, I knew that my throat chakra had opened wide!
… If I had such an organ at 20, I would have become a singer!
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