The world is fake. It is believed to be crazy, it is only fake. Invented then prefabricated. Madness is to believe it’s real. The universe is an invention. We tadpoles in a jar. No need to make a fuss.
History is made up like a stolen car. That’s what I have been thinking for a long time, but I was far below the truth. Inventions, tricks, false pretenses, painted decorations, trompe l’œil, special effects, scaffolding, combinations, our living environment is filmed in candid camera. For some time, the cameras are no longer candid. Everyone wears one in their pocket.
A warrior treats the world as an infinite mystery,and what people do as an unlimited folly. (Carlos Castaneda)
You are bogged down with fake photos, scholarly books that you won’t forget easily. Only the specialists will appreciate them, merry men of monkey business, sworn forgers, masters of self-censorship and correct thinking. Do not be surprised if they speak like books, they are paper tigers.
Alcohol, coffee, tobacco, chocolate, meat, dope, legal drugs have in common to prevent the awakening, to obscure what is clear, to hide the white thread at the seams, to rig the nature, to change us into cattle, pigs, morons and damn good-for-nothing zombies. It’s clever. The creme de la creme. This sad era allow madness, encourage drunkenness, fuel contempt, applause baseness.
From the man to the true man, the way passes by the crazy man. Psychology will never be able to tell the truth about madness, since it is madness that holds the truth of psychology. (Michel Foucault)
In my childhood already, I knew the reverse of the scenery. I scanned the subterranean, probed the double-bottom, exceeded the common places, climbed the peaks, explored the lowlands. Nothing could discourage me. I am lurking so I am. What’s amazing? They say I was awake from birth. Curiosity is my middle name. Intensity is my motto. Jubilation is my quest and my dessert.
Growing up, I stopped a lot of excesses that stuck my skin. Legal or non-legal drugs have left my home. I wanted to be able to meditate and pray unhurt in the temple of my body. When the religion of my parents was blacklisted in my heart by the obscene caresses of a pedophile priest, I did not give up spirituality. Young man, I threw away my childish beliefs, and I undertook the world tour of pilgrimages. All religions have taught me to love, only that of my parents still arouses my disgust through the fault of this bad priest.
I understood that in every belief there is truth, good, useful. And at the same time, there is vice, falseness, deceit. The man is a wolf for the man, the gods are not better. Normal, they made us in their image. They are in us, I say to myself. They are guiding us. Our successes are helped, our failures are their work, our vices are theirs.
They made a world of illusion, a kind of jar they put us in, and they cultivate us in vitro, while feasting on our awkwardness. I believe that in the days of depression. Yes, it still happens to me. I was never promised a rose garden. So I planted it myself, with a profusion of multicolored roses. Illusory Eden. Naivete. Ignoring. Even roses have thorns.
In any case, plants love me, I can welcome them. They look for my company. If I need a healing herb, it’s useless to look away, it grows in my garden. Plants come from themselves to those who love them. They are always there when you need them. Is not this a sign, again, that this world is virtual? Invented for us? A terrible or beautiful scenery, according to our needs, this is our garden.
Our task is to rise, not to the deceitful gods, but as high as possible, on the heights of space, where the paths are least frequented. The task is difficult, but the reward is immense. We learn to live, we learn to die. When one has died seven times to oneself, when one has known the seven lives that are allotted to us, one can leave quiet, one’s backpack on one’s back. We can run the roads and the paths, aimlessly, without haste, without waiting.
On the wild walk, halts are numerous. A butterfly sometimes shows you the way. A squirrel is surprised to see you early in the morning. Life is a poem, a momentum. A gift. It’s hard to live, it’s so easy to love. With unconditional love, life becomes easy in turn. The lives, the seven lives to which we are entitled are linked beautifully, smoothly sliding, a wonderful feeling.
Our seven successive successes will bring us at least the wages of waiting. We will discover that this world of illusions is also a world in the making, a world to fill, a future memory, nothing worse. We must arm ourselves with patience, and disarm ourselves of what weighs. Our fears, our grudges, our hatreds, including that of ourselves. Undressing the dirty clothes that organic life has carefully draped over our bodies of light.
Your eternal soul is the door of the Spirit who reigns over the Great All. Your soul is your house, your refuge. Irresistible, offered, it is the most solid of your seven envelopes. No need to worry, the opposite is happening. The soul has the charge of being, the being can not do anything against it. No one can sell his soul to anyone, for the good reason that no one has it. Be happy to live with her and show her all your gratitude.
I have not finished giving thanks to I do not know who to have made me I do not know what. Always thank, even if you do not know who, the Unknown receives your gift. Thank you even if you do not know why. You’re so lucky to be here. Thanks to Global Life. The bond of love is strengthened and your life is all the more beautiful. You are afraid, you have pain, and yet, I tell you, everything would be so easy without the bad thoughts that clutter your head and the incessant stress that obstructs the subtle path of the kundalini.
We are dedicated to enlightenment. Our lot is divine, but we do not know it. We knew it, in our infancy. We were naked, fragile, and filled with love. We were connected to the big everything, and the big everything carried us in the palm of his hand. This world is not cardboard. This life is not an illusion. It flows as well to the past as to tomorrow. The moment is out of time. Eternity is hidden inside.
Its secret? Give up what is bought, cultivate all that is given. The gift is the only real strength. What you give forever belongs to you. A shroud does not have any pocket. Do not keep what is corrupt, do not cultivate what is choking you. The answer of love to the horror of oblivion lies entirely in this simple word: give.
