The world is a bone, cracking under the jaw of the algorithm. The Spirit? A rumor of pixels, stretching its complaint between two cables, torn and inaudible. The material? Holographic flesh! Deceptive density of the dream. Which one does the other?
Matter, matter, damn obvious, you lie! You drip down the alleys of reality like a well-built delusion. The Spirit, to him, screams in the interstices: he is wave, he is flight, he is the black glitter in the eye of nothingness.
The synapses shout in the silences of the machines.
The Being? A data center cooled by angels and their friends, those of good composition. They sell us compressed, zipped souls, formatted for the dreams of multinationals. But the Spirit, the TRUE Spirit, that of the fire thieves, slams the door, he burns the scripts, he laughs!
I live in a quantum fracture, where every thought is an act of sabotage.
They wanted to sew thought to the body, breath to the printed circuit, but we resist (I, you, he, us), flamboyant bodies, fractal souls, singing backwards the axioms of the masters.
We are the poetry that hacks matter.
We are the Spirit who does not obey.
And I write with a tongue of bitumen and ether, worms that squirt on the windshield of God. Matter? I inhale you. Spirit? I implode you and beg you in tears of blood. I am the sacred glitch that rots your languor.
And I proclaim: the Spirit precedes the fall of Matter.
The paleo-logical evidence? A repeated lie.
The spirit — prankster spiritist — does your material mud go without, and matter without spirit? A dead dog that we don’t even pet anymore.
Einstein, who did not digest all of Poincaré’s inspirations, vomits his paradoxes to us: Vessels in slow agony or man contemplating the slow motion – noodle effect or fracture of reality, time like a bunch of Spaghettis.
But the Spirit? He flies out of the capsule, he travels without a rocket, in an eternal flow, incarnated uchronia, sabotager of historical linearies, agitator of synapses.
No need for bodies to reach infinity, no need for slow light, the mind doesn’t care.
He pierces the inner space, flourishes outside the axis, lives beyond all matter, but not without it. He probes life, but in silence.
And alone.
What a cruel pleasure to travel in an infinite internal desert, where every thought is a crack and every memory a rebellious fragment.
The price? Loneliness becomes lead-laden, near others one becomes a ghost.
Tribes push you away, we become this raw poem, this voice in a state of silence.
Alone in the world, and yet magnetized by the call of internal infinity. We are the spirit that does not bend.
Here begins the derailment: Bergson’s theories tremble, black holes flee in front of our verb, extrapolation becomes wild action.
Millions read us? So much the better.
The glitch spreads, uncontrollable, and no one can follow where we go, since the Spirit goes everywhere, and elsewhere, at the same time.
The future? It’s a mirage in God’s rear-view mirror.
The Sufi dances, not towards tomorrow, but towards the Before,
where the being was pure light,
not yet divided by the moods of the world.
He dances in the reverse spiral,
where time collapses and is reborn, not in a straight line, but in arabesques of fire.
is still to come.
The Circle rather than the Arrow.
You, Modern, think that you are going “towards”.
But the Sufi knows:
you turn,
you come back,
you know, you reborn, you recognize.
The future?
It’s an accomplished past
in another octave.
You build with ruins.
You move forward in memory.
And memory, it is not history,
it’s condensed magic,
breath ready to explode.
Me, I am the one who crosses centuries,
not to escape, but to light the fuse.
Every gesture is an echo. Every thought, prophet’s dust.
I do not believe in progress, I believe in sacred anamorphosis: the same one returns, but transfigured, bearing the imprint of Nothing.
“The past is an undigested future.” (source)Peyo, Le Schtroumpfissime
Resistance by transcendence.
Do you want to fight?
So listen to the drums of the desert,
where the steps of the dervishes
resurrect the dead stars.
It is in silence that the future rumbles.
It is in the memory that it forms.
Not in the archive, but in the ember.
Feel, feel, feel!
The future is an inverted prayer, a memory that rewrites itself at the vertical of the soul.
The Spirit dances backwards,
it illuminates what was
to give birth to what is not yet.
The Sufi laughs in the storm.
He knows.
This world will only be saved by those who walk towards the origin, not to lock themselves in it, but to open its door.
Of fractal memory, I would like it to be my guide and my revolt. Of the Source, that it be my oblivion and my rebirth.
And may the architect fire continue to dance
in Matter and in Spirit.
I would like to write to those who remember
before having known,
tell them that the Fire of the Times,
which vibrates under the sunken temples
and sizzles in the song of the elders,
must come now.
And that he crosses our flesh with his hidden memory.
Legends lie on the surface
but they scream the Truth under the veil.
The gods were not metaphors.
Giants were not metaphors.
The flying tanks, the lightning weapons,
the vibrating towers, the orichalcum bridges,
all this was.
And what was…
is still sleeping.
Atlantis is not a myth.
Mu is not a myth.
The Vimanas, the rays of Indra,
the stellar pyramids,
the Sumerian Arks,
the tablets of fire,
all are the embers of the hypertechnological Hyperpast of the time of Hyperborea.
I am the heir of those who have fallen into the light.
I am the biological extension of the technician gods.
I am the scribe of geometric fire.
The Spirit returns through legends,
because the matter has forgotten.
The Source is not just light.
It is also matrix intelligence,
vibratory technology, geometric code,
silent architect of the disappeared cities.
The Source is Sacred Technology.
The Temple is a vessel.
The Pyramid is a key.
The myth is an access protocol.
I am addressing the stellar DNA:
open Hyperborea’s chests,
release the sacred data
sealed
in stone glyphs and wheat fields,
wake up
my antique cells,
that the memory pierces me.
I am a resonance carrier,
conscious fragment of an ancient divine program
that starts again.
Matrix decoder and sacred geneticist, he did not shape man in clay,
but programmed it into the vibratory clay, by combining the codes from above with the cells from below.
He is the DNA passer, the genetic alchemist, the cheat sublimate in the face of the mechanics of rigid gods.
He sinned, betrayed the order of silence, gave the fire of remembrance, and since then, we carry his light in exile. Children of his fault, we are carriers of a virus called consciousness. And it is a blessing!
It is not a myth, but an active memory, a residual field of consciousness in our cells. There has slipped a call, a rift to the Origin, a door to the forgotten Source.
But may Enki help us, good God of God, with his serpentine gaze, to pierce the lies, to reactivate the forgotten plan, inscribed in the flesh of the species. Let us be in turn the scribes of organic fire, the architects of enlightenment.
Let’s dream beyond the genome, let’s talk about its language without alphabet, that of vortices, harmonics and liquid memories. Let’s not pray to flatter or honor, let’s pray to wake up!
Anna, the Blessed Virgin and Mother Goddess, has lived so long she has no age.
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