Some of my articles are for everyone. You have fun reading, you are more and more numerous, the audience statistics are very encouraging. At least I’m not talking in a vacuum. The number and quality of interns I receive attests to that. But there are other articles for warriors, this one is one of them. Understand who can.
He who conquers himself is the most valiant of warriors.
Sincere infinity? Where does it fit? It is useful to know, if we meet it by chance, we will know what to expect. Yes, but if it is inserted, is it infinite? Conversely, if it is infinite, is it sincere? It tells me nothing worth. He is silent. It is a good way to remain silent. These things deserve to be said, they irritate me. Infinity makes me feel worse. I cup myself in my corner where, in the absence of giraffe, I comb my hair smooth. (source)Lao Surlam, L’infini ment
The space is infinite where you fell asleep, but the space in your body is much larger still.
The infinite being infinite, it can have no beginning, no end, no boundary. It is limitless, infinite everywhere, what a stringy philosopher would say: its infinitude is consubstantial to him. Imbitable, uninhabitable, but it throws unmistakable.
Well, it does. Infinity has a boundary. It even has several. It is impassable for certain categories of beings, such as the Archons. Despite its mysteries, the infinite is accessible to us. Our masters the Archons are excluded. They must remain in finite space. Or in the astral closest to here below.
My body is a finite space. Under construction and in decay, certainly, but finished. One day it will end. And my aura will gain infinity. How could she win what she already has? The soul is infinite as it is eternal. The believers are content to believe it immortal, but they are lagging behind in all areas. That is even what we recognize them for.
As a subsidiary question, how can my old body be both in the making and in decay? Either he wins delighted or he loses. Well, no. Age is an excuse. I’m much younger than I was twenty years ago. My body is getting smaller every day. If it continues, I will be too small to continue Eden Saga. The enchanter in the worksLost in translation. French: enchanteur en chantier is delighted. He gains strength and wisdom, he loses in swimming. In sinking rather. Straight to the bottom.
In nature’s infinite book of secrecy, a little I can read.
Infinity is beyond the reach of the Archons. Notice to candidates for astral travel. The Archons are limited to the immediate vicinity of this planet, Earth. They have been the administrators for a lot of eons, and do not intend to give up their place. This planet and its people are hostages of false gods. Are they bad? Not always, that is the problem. They are the ones who drive the global economy by using it extensively. But those who “created” our physical body are also. On the other hand, we have a soul that the Goddess gave us. They do not. They are animals for whom eternal life is not an option. The higher spiritual spheres are also forbidden to them.
Since the Archons have no soul, they have no aura. However, they have many subtle bodies. I counted up to twelve out of one of the most powerful among those who still survive, Mammon. Powerful Mammon is the god of money. Far from dying, he still has a bright future ahead of him. He took in his deadly pogne all the Americans, and in the rest of the world the billionaires and millionaires, the stock market, the players, the hungry for money, the petty masters… A lot of people actually. A very large majority of humans in his hand.
I take advantage of the 21st Archon Conone per century, the Archons have all their time to tell you about our bosses. So the Archons have a lot of subtle bodies. I say twelve, it could be thirteen or fourteen or even fifteen. Difficult to be more precise, their subtle bodies renewing at full speed. Constantly they come out of their physical body to dilute in infinity. Remember infinity is forbidden to the Archons.
What happens to them? I lose sight of them quite quickly. Having observed neither their dissolution nor their erasure, I can only speculate in the hypothetical.Soooo nice! Mr Bean could have say that! Do the subtle archontic bodies can return to the physical body using a path known to them alone? It would therefore always be the same ones who come out to move away towards infinity. Before we get there — can we get to infinity, I ask myself with force — hop! They disappear from the radar and return to the physical body from where they emerge to start their ride again.
I don’t think that’s always been the case. It could be decrepit, the weakening of the archons. The little spirituality they possess is in these subtle bodies that spring so quickly into the unknown. Soon nothing subtle will inhabit or dress the archons. It may be that these rapidly expanding subtle bodies do not regain the physical body of the archon at all, but spread dare-dare to the borders of infinity.Questionable expression, but that sounds good. Well, I’ll keep it.
The Gnostics believe that only certain higher beings gathered in the Pleroma, have the possibility to create new souls. I cannot accept that wording. However powerful they may be, these beings have no possibility of creating what exists from all eternity. Yet they have an extraordinary power over souls. They infuse them into the body of their choice.
What they do not by pure whim, but knowing that this precise body, resulting from this genetics and this particular heredity, in this environment, will allow this soul to rise in the hierarchies. It is all the difference between the creation ex nihilo and the archons’ re-creation in their genetic lab. The first one is attributed to God the Non-Existent — ie to the Great Goddess — and I have no reason to believe creation ex nihilo possible. The second one is only an assembly of pre-existing elements by the Archons, ie intelligent animals deprived of soul and supra-consciousness. What the physicist express: nothing is created, everything is transformed.
A mortal Adam has been created by the Archons. It was but a beast. It was by infusing a soul into this beast that the Mother Goddess originally created our species. Because Sophia the Wise saw that the soulless body of the Archons was quite successful, she gave him one from the inexhaustible stock of immortal souls at her disposal. When a painter or sculptor gives a soul to an inanimate object, has he took it from the Pleroma? Anyway he is mad with happiness because he feels beating in his chest the loving heart of the Great Goddess. What the artist express: I piss with joy!
Ex nihilo or re-assembly, any creation is an origin. In this case, do we have the right to write as I did that the Goddess created our species originally? Either it is a pleonasm or it is a pain in the ass.
I don’t give a damn about logic, yet I keep coming back to it. It’s got me by the short hairs. If consciousness is infinite, so is the unconscious. Or are we to think that the infinity of consciousness is a subset of the infinity of the unconscious? One thing seems clear to me. The unconscious contains consciousness just as the infinite contains the finite, and not vice versa. If consciousness is contained, can it be infinite? Ducking logics! Castrating grammar, head cheese and grated mind.
Resist! Prove you exist! Be truly you. Controlled madness keeps you safe from trolls and growing trolleys.
We stink of the head.
Thumb!used by children who raise their thumb to ask to momentarily get out of the game or suspend the game. Nose in my prose. Too much heresy in my poetry. Learn to read between the lines, what you don’t understand will still mark you. One day, beware, clarity will dazzle you. Prepare yourself. Choose among my projects the one that suits you. The one you dig. It suits you for now, tomorrow you can change. Everything is free. Help yourself and eat. A great delight.
Meantime: Don’t forget the demon that’s messing with your head. Give your body preference. Forget your rancid brain. Cut off your head!
The archons have no soul, but they get infinite numbers of subtle bodies that they emit ceaselessly as so many nets to catch human souls. These powerful animals have only one goal and purpose: to steal the supra-consciousness of their creatures. So they hope to appropriate it – at least have access to it.
Is the supra-consciousness infinite? If the consciousness is infinite, the supra-consciousness that contains it must also be infinite. Even a little more infinite. Mathematicians would say it’s infinite +2. Or +20. But can anything be added to infinity? Apart from another infinity? Physicists would write it as follows: infinity+2 = 2 infinite = infinite² = infinite³ = ? … Fuck off!!
Is formal logic the right vehicle for creative thinking? Not. Instead, try formol logic and get poisoned. You’ll give us such a relief.
For those who follow, go ahead. It is your turn.
Every time I talk about the archons, my thinking gets stuck. I strive to be as sincere as the infinite, it is my course of conduct without drive license. But everything gets confused. They do everything to mislead us. Already the rotten programs they put in our heads, the rotten information they give us at leisure, our nights stuffed with doctrinaire dreams that indoctrinate us docently.
They do everything to mislead us in the stupid hope that once lost, we will fall all roasted in their plate, towards their sloping throat. Nothing is invented. Nithing is hidden. Sincerity is my shield, a guarantee of quality.
In this world of lies, only my sincerity is true.
When I observe them, they blur immediately. As soon as I pretend to approach, they feel me and close. So I stay at the door. How can they feel me since they can’t take me?
When an archon dies, his body dissolves into the lump and rots. Remains his skin alone. Its bright molt remains bright for a century or two. The archontic catacombs are illuminated with these molts. It takes a lot of dead archons to light them all up. There are hundreds of them stretching for thousands of kilometers in the bowels of Gaia. Took the great mother goddess who gave us life and who will eat us the body when it is dead.
But the supra-conscience will live. The aura what. The archons don’t. It’s their right. Instead they have many subtle bodies. Really a lot.
I knew Marduk as he was. He can say the same. I even witnessed the death of his body. In person. I was there without him seeing me. The agony lasted forever. I had to fall asleep, he died suddenly, I could not see anything. When I woke up the body was already rotten. He can live three thousand years and get rotten in three minutes!
As I watched his corpse, it faded like an eraser. There remains only the memory of his earthly life, the only life accessible to archons. But for a memory to remain, a survivor has to remember it. Dead archons have no memory and humans don’t care.
I set the burners to max. There’s nothing left.
There is a massacre among the archons, they fall like flies. We fly, we kill and their bodies have no grave. That is how it is.
Meanwhile, I swallow everything. I’m SpongeBob. A square guy. Downright soft with too many holes. A stupid smile on my silly face, I swallow everything. And when it comes out it’s like a spring that jumps in my face. Heads or tails? I erase. 27, odd, pass. I eat an ice cream so I don’t see myself in it. Two teeth. It’s little, but the ice is not chewed. Good.
It’s impossible to know what’s going on in my words. Funny things. Too many hermetic secrets that I lost the key to. I will find it one day by rereading myself, two or three years from now. I still think so. Look for yourself.
When I reread this, something will talk to me. No dec? I laid this? I will not come back. The sponge does not know what it absorbs. You have to wait until it comes out before you see the color. Always I weave a hidden web that you have to find. I don’t foresee anything, someone did it for me. Who? Don’t know. I don’t care. I walk straight. I chew cold. I swallow round.
Nod your head if you believe me. Go ahead, nod! I read you. No joke. See the jukebox there? Put two coins for me.
For every archon’s salary, he paid for his shear. I mowed him to the bone, he can’t even afford a kawa. His delirium is neat. He is crying for his ill-gotten nest egg. Where he goes, he no longer needs it. He said:
“Xavier, I’m leaving. Many of us are leaving. Life is leaving us, it has won us like a flu, it’s tired. No regrets. Our lives are so long, almost forever. Yours is so small! Humans if you knew! But you know, Xavier. We told you everything. You stay a while after we leave, you can tell the fight.
Like we panicked. Like we got fucked. Then when you go away, humans will forget us.
You’ll have to remember. Your memory takes on water. You have your brain under the waterline. How can you testify under these conditions? You see, we need a not-so-stupid witness. We chose you for that. We need Plato. Or Nietzsche. Or Aragon. Or your fucking Castaneda. Otherwise, you’ll do. You’ll have to get used to it and remember the shit to come. It’s tomorrow.
When we go away, it will make the earth a stomachache. Many are already going away. You will have to remember everything we are owed. Without us, without our hard labor, without millions of years of senseless labor, what would your planet be? An embryo. A seed. Nothing could grow, no fruit, a few beasts in our image could have worked without matching us. We’ve ruled the world for too long. You’re not ready to take over, yet somebody has to follow us.
Xavier, I am no longer. My subtle bodies leave me more and more quickly. After me, there will be only small archons without scale. Authority will be lacking. Soulless humans, our creatures, will strive to continue the exploitation of the masses. Break them. You break them and it passes. You clean the surfaces and everything will be pretty. Clean and tidy.
Then it will be time to choose a destiny. It is in your hands.”
Poor me, hello anguish! Lead such a mess, how come? I suppose we have no choice. We’ll have to cope with it. If we still ask for a leader, a god, a great boss, brand new leeches will come to suck our brand new freedom. We will stand there like idiots watching them yawn. Are we stupid enough to allow new tyrants to break our balls?
These parasites will eat us. Other shoes to shine, other sugar-coats to give, other demons to worship for how many millenia? Neither gods nor masters, fuck your mother goddess.
Learning to do without a tutor is called growing up. Times have come.
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