There are sufferings that you inflicted to yourself to punish you. Man is a wolf to himself. There are other sufferings just to keep the ego in its rightful place: in the depths of the classroom where the dreamers stay. You can live very well without the mind. To be mindless doesn’t mean mad or stupid. It means you are vacant. Empty minded. Please cut off the central computer as often as possible. Enjoy.
Now it’s not easy. Work under the dictatorship of money forces you to stuck in the ego. Time lost for the spirit. To balance this dead time, stay in control of your leisure time. Seek the only escape that heals, the inner journey. In the sweet land of thoughtless thought, become a tiny lost point in infinite inner space. A bath in the nothingness of yourself that rebuilds everything. The world and you.
It is beautiful and good. Nothing to complain about. Except that there are cases of force majeure where daily action is no longer enough. Then the warrior acts beyond action. In other spheres. He calls to his aid the almighty Intention. There are other cases where the monster of the ego can awaken at any moment. Fearsome inner enemy, he waits for you to let down the guard. He looks at you. These moments of imminent danger predate a cascade of gifts. Incredible and terrifying gifts.
How does the warrior react? He rushes in. How does the wise man react? He knows that fighting against himself is a fight for himself. He understands that in such a fight there are no losers. Calm the game. Keep a cool head, and empty, if possible. Wait nothing, but refuse nothing whatever the gift. The Intention is sometimes generous in abundance.
We can inflict terrible trials on ourselves to be sure that humility will be our shield against everything. Against us. For us. The warrior is responsible for everything that happens to him. Accident, illness included. Terrorist attack too. Responsible for all without exception. Pardon? The end of the world? The same. The warrior bears it if he wants it. He’ll have to stop it if it’s not useful. Saving the world is so common. You see that in all Hollywood Z series. The end of the world won’t be like that.
Sordid punishment for the price of our sins. All human lives are challenged by another supervillain. Here comes the usual superhero who breaks the mouth of the ugly. The end of the world is sorry to leave, humanity is saved by the U.S. Not by us. Don’t get confuse.
Cut that shit shower. The end of the world will be pretty. A world that ends is not a sad thing. If the grain does not die, what will the ear be born from? We are the seeds doomed to open. By giving the best of ourselves, tomorrow will wave the wheat under the summer sun. Who in turn will die under the flour wheel. She herself killed by the baking of the bread that will die in your mouth. Die to be reborn better. Stronger.
Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. (Friedrich Nietzsche)
What kills us is not bad either. It transmutes us. Death frees you. Its opposite enslaves you. The opposite of death is the non-vie of zombies. It is by countering death that the voodoo sorcerer makes a zombie. Poor dead without soul, machine hardly human, the zombie works that is worth and lives as a convict. Or rather does not live. Spend his death among the living that he watches, without any emotion in the depths of his empty eyes.
Crossing the gaze of a zombie is the worst experience I’ve ever had. The zombies in the movies are pathetic. Ridiculous. The real horror is not in these phony chicks. Zombies in the fields of Haiti have a look that kills life. Fifty years later, I shudder. The allies are nothing. Three rabbit farts at the bottom of your canteen. Wind. Emptiness. But not life. Never in a million years.
How many times do we die to be reborn better? Ten thousand times? More? I will be a breath on the ears. I will breathe joy and sadness into the heart of the plant. I will kindle the embers of life that glow in the heart of the mineral. The lava that washes. I will be fire.French: feu, also means : dead That’s the name of the dead… Feu Xavier, I will burn for you.
Lights of Saint John’s night
Where your last money
In multiple hands
Ran your last bath
For all you’ve paid cash
This very money
Is the least of your worries
Death is nothing, life is nothing. But be careful. Don’t waste your life on the pretext that it is nothing. Do not cultivate nothing, wandering, emptiness, fear, sorrow, all that extinguishes. Take control. Be your destiny. Flapping in the wind like a banner. Tense like a dart. Never lazy. Get out of the bed. Never bragging. Never lazy. Straight up. Never haggard. Always want. Fuck hope!
When you’ll forget how to hope, I’ll teach you will. (Seneca)
Hope does not live. It kills. Look inside you and answer me. As long as we are hopeful that things will work out, we leave our will in the closet. We trust the ego, this liar, this sycophant, this traitor. Who suffers when you sacrifice? Your eternal soul? Your spirit? Your inner being? Not that I know. Who suffers when you fast? Your body does, Jesus said.
What is your body? Matter to tame. To redeem. With this matter you make living. It will not be as before.
Who suffers when you stoop? Your ego, yes. Always he. It is the mind that suffers and the mind alone. Ego, your name is America. Pride, your name is Africa. Sufficiency belongs to France. As many ways, as many songs. But it’s always the ego that sings. Lose face, haunt of the Asiatic, supreme honor of the knight without armor. Of the disarmed warrior. Of the sorcerer without spell. Of the nagual without ego.
We spend the first half of our life forging a strong ego, and the second half to get rid of it. (Carl Gustav Jung)
Advocate for humility. All these ego-filled people will laugh. Make too many laughs… These fat, false pedants are real ignorants. What do they know about life other than to reign, humiliate, enjoy belittling, crush, reduce, and the warrior says thank you to them. These tyrants are so small. They teach you to grow through their labyrinths of idiotic constraints, their mazes of petty power, how could these dwarves grow you other than by humiliating you? If you conceive of hatred, if you cultivate vengeance, bitterness, bitterness, rage, the desire to kill, you become like them. Worse. You have lost your star. You have no mana. Your qi goes out. Sad is your ka.
Campaigning is not limiting. Humility is my home, wherever I go I take with me. I roll it out to lie down when my body is tired, and when it’s not there I don’t make a big deal out of it. I can live without, at least for a moment. To dwell, to stir, to gather… When I have more than enough, humility can rid me of it. It is a course to take. A stage to pass. A mirror to break. A furrow to trace in the insane azure, in the offended pride, in the huge inverted, in the smashed ego, in the money spent, in the screen crossed.
I teach you the Superhuman. Man exists only to be surpassed. What have you done to surpass him? (Friedrich Nietzsche)
Campaigning not for politics, but against it. Unbuckling the statues, the false gods who kill us, the assholes who have had us, the cooks, the déjà vu, those who are too provided will be the review. Acting quietly, without respite, without concern for walls of shame, rumors that rise, it is action that counts. You don’t expect it, but it suits you well. It takes you far away. We go, we have fun at least, waiting for the day to come. The bright sun that will come tomorrow morning on your way.
Dune dream, moon truce. The darker the night, the brighter your aura. No one runs away. No one follows you. You are alone on the desert path. Your heart is tightening. Your intestines are making miseries.
Walk quietly. Only listen to your heart beating. Your step that goes. Black is the night. The cold follows you. The evil wipes you away. The valley bores you. The pal forgets you. All suffering is useless. Bliss too futile has elements that are stacked, small joys, fragile moments, addition of nothings, for the style, without thinking further, without waiting tomorrow, throw of the ballast and your remorse to the fire, do the one with the two, do the real with a wish, touch your death with a hair, laugh if you want, shout if you can, the good is nothing, do your best, a lot honey, a bit my nephew.
If the miracle happens, it is not you who does. If the weather is beautiful in your sky, you have nothing to do with it. If everything works out, it is your angel. Too bad I don’t believe it, it’s not me. My shield of humility is woven into the thick material of believe without believing. It deflects all the assaults. I’m nothing but a passer-by, a witness. If all goes well, good for us. I’m not responsible, I’m sure. I am responsible for everything, but the miracle at my knees is invited if it wants, when it wants. And if it comes I have nothing to do with it.
The slightest flaw in the shield comes from a lack of humility. Take yourself for what you are not, immediately hello damage. You’re small, you’re mortal, you’re the kid of the minitel, you’re neither handsome nor Hollywood and your name isn’t Clint Eastwood. If you happen to come out of the dark, there’s a Chinese in your mirror. Remember well that you are nothing when the ignorant prostrate, when your bladder becomes lantern, everyone licks you and pours themselves, but you have just lit the wick: it is too late to hide, death cannot miss you and yet if you escape and salute, as proud as a fiddle. Watch out the ego gets closer. This scoundrel is picking your pockets. He thinks you’re a jerk. It’s ugly. Why don’t you take a bite out of him and blow his head off?