There is not ONE reality. Neither two nor a thousand. There are an infinity of realities, and in each of them, an infinity of possible scenarios, a myriad of individual possibilities that generate myriads of myriads of possibilities.
And an infinity of possibilities can coexist. An infinity of universes pass through ours, a myriad of infinities of creatures ceaselessly pass through the molecules of my body, how can we be surprised if the voices I hear are not mine? How can I be surprised that my fingers run on the keyboard faster than my thought – the eternal absent?
Outdated thoughts
Whoever wants to write with thought wants to stop time running much faster than it does. Logical thinking is a brake that holds us back. A wall that stops us. A grid that traps us. The day my head went empty, something or someone other than me took control of my being. If it’s god, I have an ass. If it is my higher Self, my inner master, my double or someone like that, I have the butt edged with noodles.
Yes but if it is an alien who wants me good? I eliminate the other hypothesis, that of the alien who does not want me good, because it does not overlap with my experience. Since I have been enslaved, I have felt free, infinitely. Since I have been ordered, piloted, led, I let myself go. I’m so happy. To good angels, those in whom I hardly believe. No doubt I am wrong. My little self is a big ass. It is rare, thank you angels. But it still lurks in the shadows.
A thousand realities? Even more. Each his own. All of them are equal. Pipo & Co. Each of us has several. As much as we want. Often, for the sake of conformity, we keep the same for ages. Still hanging, the chandeliers. Hanging on the ceiling like idiots. Like little egos. Very small but so invasive!
The miracle is in the encounter. It is successful or not, it all depends on the context. The instant. A matter of time. Timing. The warrior is nothing without a perfect sense of timing. He always arrives at the right time. How does he? Another mystery. He doesn’t know, he just does it. His body does it. Or some other force that sneaks up on him.
Control and Cunt Roll
Control is an illusion. We have no control over anything. Especially not on oneself. The thoughts that run through us are not ours. Who, where do they come from? Are they useful or pernicious? Do we really need this incessant cramming? Must cut the sound. The only way to end these unwelcome thoughts is to turn off the tap. Kwik, I no longer think. Bing, my head is empty.
Control over ourselves is an illusion, while control of our thoughts by others could be a reality. One among myriads. To escape it, it’s simple, stop thinking. If it hurts you, hop, don’t think about it anymore.
Do the irresistible impulses that take hold of one or the other come from him or her? I doubt. Here is what I believe. We are remote-controlled. Led by others … Who? Do I know?
Take refuge in dreams, take refuge in prayer, ostrich politics, hide in your faith. It’s more convenient and more comfortable, right?
– If I no longer have faith, what do I have left?
The truth. Tough. Bitter. It has nothing that reassures, nothing comforting. It whispers in the ear. The head is terrified. Only the heart hears it. If you no longer have faith, you have life left. Full of splendor and full of horror. Life is for those with a firm heart and a tough tongue. And family jewels too.
– By the way I was in this trading.
– What trading?
– Family jewels.
– Ah yes, gold, silver, diamonds …
– No. I mean cocks and balls. I sold them to those who need.
– And it worked?
– God’s fire! There are many to need them, believe me.
– I suppose so. Too bad the job is lost.
That’s it. This reality is worth many others. They’re all equal, and they don’t mean much. In fact they are worthless. Next to nothing. Three rabbit farts.
But tell me … These multiple realities, these innumerable settings in which I evolve … If we add to it the fact that it is not me who controls me, what does it give? A virtual world, like our video games. A virtual world where I’m just a 4D character. Well, it becomes clearer, it seems.
This noise that runs
Tomorrow, tonight, sometimes reality will multiply. Its multiplicity will become visible. And everyone will hear this rumor running.
Already awakened by the third ear hear it fall from the sky or rise from the earth, muffled and terrible rumbling that shakes the floors and the windows, which tears the sky apart. Is it an Apollo’s gift? Only the awake hear it. But for them, what a horrible din!
This rumor, terrible, threatening, is the first of the seven trumpets of the apocalypse. Or not. It is the announcement of new, variable, adjustable realities, mutant realities. In the noise and the fury of a world engulfed in its droppings, appears a pond swan. White in the foul smelling mud, elegant on a filthy background, naked in his feathers, proud under the moon, the swan goes on his pond. Sign of the times …
The noise makes its telluric fury still heard. Glue your ear to the ground which trembles, deploy your antennas towards the sky of ashes, the night comes. We will have to get started seriously. Incessantly.
If you have heard a thousand flying fortresses, the giant American bombers, tumble over the conquered country from the top of their immense pride, if you have trembled under the scathing gusts of this terrible noise they make, this noise which kills more surely than the bombs, this cry of shame, this filthy groan, you will never be able to admit that the unknown noise of which I speak is a hundred thousand times louder. And yet it is. Oh yeah !
If it was the alarm? The forerunner shock? The sirens that herald the impending disaster?
Yeah … Or what if I was the messing around? Reassure me, write that you hear it too.