Balzac wrote The Human Comedy: a hundred novels showing diverse lives. I borrow this title in a completely different sense. What everyone does here on earth is a game, a code, a comedy. Here on earth, diverse lives are all the same. Above, elsewhere, there is a meta-reality that one may discover in its dreadful splendor.
To this are added Les Cent Contes drolatiques, as well as early novels published under pseudonyms and some twenty-five sketched works.
I didn’t do all that. If I’ve experienced wonders, honestly, it wasn’t my fault. Don’t look to me for merit or a destiny.
I’m going my way and without hurting myself for nothing, says the song which adds:
My grandfather’s father was the king of beggars and I in my misery I am always happy.
Since childhood, my life has led me along winding and improbable paths. I didn’t care where they led, I followed them all, sure it would be the best place I could dream of.
This insolent chance is not my fault, it is part of the plan.
All this luck is explained by the goal. It is defined in advance, without my knowledge. I’m quite old now, the quirks of my daily life could be put down to senility. The immediate loss of memory, it all started there. I get up to go look for some object, the time to take three steps, I don’t remember what I’m looking for. Emptied my head, it’s the great white.
The gerontologist will tell you that this is common after 70 years. I am 77. Only what the gerontologist does not say is that we also lose the memory of our past. The old incidents in our lives also disappear. It’s all memory that is affected by age. Memories die, you forget your heart. But this isn’t my case. I remember perfectly everything I learned during my long studies. So long that they still last. There, no loss. What I was able to find during my astral journeys is clearer than if it were yesterday. What touches my passion, the distant past of humans, has no memory gap. Astral memory intact, even improved. My case is not just about gerontology.
I navigate at sight between fragments of past lives, I go through sequences from several eras mixed with others from elsewhere, I don’t know where. Parallel worlds are interspersed between the various sequences of my here and now, making understanding even more chaotic. I don’t get it. And that’s not coming from old age.
I am here and elsewhere, I am yesterday and tomorrow. I see the future as clearly as the origin of this planet, four billion years ago. It’s not the result of senselessness. I’ve always had access to other reality shots, and it keeps getting better.
I have always been on the fringes of the mundane experience of this humanity, which is commonly called reality. Those who are not there, who refuse it, are fools. The opposite is true. This reality results from a pact that is imposed on us since childhood by multiple forms of slack. School, religion, the army, politics, the world of work, the quest for pleasure, the obsession with money…
This common “reality” can appear within me, of course; my survival depends on it. Now it blends with the virtual and the astral. A messy stew. I land my rabbit there. All of this is shaken, mixed, stirred to form the broth that feeds my soul. It forms a single moment of life with its own coherence, which each time tells me an original story, that of our species. Because we are not alone. Other intelligent beings direct us through dreams.
Extrahuman, adj. Who is of a nature other than human. In many ways, Poë’s literature is extra or superhuman.
And even our nightmares are precious, they tickle the strength of soul. Beyond the frightening or morbid, they tell us what to do … and show the mistakes to avoid.
Horror hides a positive message. A nightmare is just a gift in disguise.
The only actions that matter to everyone, we don’t remember a thing. It doesn’t matter, no one cares. Yet I say and repeat, nothing important happens in life that is not suggested, led, imposed by dreams. At night you become the person you have been for all eternity: an angel. And you romp, fight, and struggle in a larger world, and by a lot. The Dream World is the only real world. Life here is pure fiction. Only the weak attach importance to it. The strong and powerful are not those we believe, those we revere, those to whom we obey. The true strong and powerful are regarded with contempt because they do not play according to the rule of this fake world.
They live with all their soul the dream life of angels.
We are all chosen and prepared long ago for what we have to do here on earth. Each one has his task, but not all of us succeed. Not always.
No matter, another chance will be given to us in the next life, which may take place in a distant past or in a new world.
I was chosen. I was prepared for what I do. Selected before I was born. My host family was carefully chosen, not by myself, but by my guide. My astral double. My eternal soul, the believer says.
Every event of my childhood, my youth, and my middle age has been orchestrated to help me understand human comedy in its naked reality. That’s the real human comedy. Sordid or magnificent, Shakespeare-like or Balzac-like, it doesn’t matter.
Like the big birds, we are passing through.
Sleep is a small death, for during sleep the spirit leaves the body as after…
In the mirror, I saw my double. He told sadly: Xavier, what has become of…
This world is fake: a playground, a lab, a test. It serves only those who…
The following spring, tiny swallows come out of the nest, chirping and insatiable.
It was enough to open a small wooden door to leave the city without traveling.