Our Paradise Nights


In the desert of the world, full of stress and sand in the eyes, we hardly advance. We grope. We are struggling. Poor puppets kneaded in matter / Mater / ma terre, here we are domestic men, dwarfed by the dark ages, robotic by the TV, burned by the tax pressure, trapped by the cost of living, subjected to the racketeering of GAFAM,Google Amazon Facebook Apple Microsoft lost in the globalization of mobsters and rats.

Rat race
It’s a disgrace
To see the human race
In a rat race
Rat race


In such an oppressive, stressful, exhausting, incessant vacuum, I find – miracle! – a haven of peace. This is not a personal trick, due to I do not know what talent I would have and that others do not have. This talent, we all have it, word! Whether we are weak or we are strong, great effect without effort, precious comfort improves our lot. Whoever we are, we taste it. Its flight takes us every night. It is about sleep.

Its benefits flood us, real energy shower, sympathetic symphony. The immersion in the Spirit, the visits to the unconscious, the wonders of beyond earth and the delights of the astral world make our sleeping life the right replica of paradise. Small problem: we do not remember it. Worse still: if by luck – or by abstinence – we remember it, however precise it may be, this memory is not a reliable description of what we experienced in a dream.

The brain has made it up. Safeguard of the daily grind, breaker of wonders, the brain is a safeguard. A pc asshole who wants to annex us. It is not he who produces the thoughts, he only picks them up. Then he sorts them, he makes his choice, this one will be fine, that one will be fine, this other no question, he censors without qualms. Normal, he has no soul.



First suggestion

The dream is not. It is waking life that is dreamed of. Dream or nightmare, who knows. Nightmare for the most part. The so-called waking life has no importance, no consistency, no existence in the eyes of the gods our masters. The most intense thing between them and us is when we sleep. When we’re dead. Without our agreement, they explore us, we implore them, life and death to know first.

They teach us the middle way, the serene life, the magic queen, the ancient science, then joy will come – we understand why they all fight, on which arena one struggles, then you learn to let go of the rein, to leave the scene – go where fear leads you without gene Eugene, daily fear, obscene panic, unhealthy terror that one assails you who manhandles you – shame on who loves without antennae, then magic queen becomes dwarf, amen.

The gods our masters have developed for eons a teaching and awakening program that unfolds over the ages according to a computer sketch. Each age has its share of wisdom, each people too, otherwise it’s stinking shit. Every epoch has its rishis, its prophets, and their word hovers in the air, please listen out, stay on the watch. The writings rot, only speeches remain.

Or rather sleep. It is when you sleep that you are taught. Every night. The so-called dreams are not. See a dressing, a make-up, a tinkering that the brains provide so as not to break our wings.So as not to reveal the secret of miracles. Nor that of the oracles. Upon awakening, the brain grabs snatches of memories, immediately deforms them, dresses them with material drawn from your unconscious database. He makes up the facts, in fact, with consummate talent. Put yourself where you want, ranafout.


Second tour

So what matters remains hidden. Many do not believe it, most attach no importance to it. And yet, without this daily phenomenon called dreams, human life is impossible. We die not from lack of sleep but from lack of dreams. Because dreaming is not the nice cinema we imagine. It is also blood and tears. The survey of past ages shows an infinity of open bodies, guts in the air, a bitter litany of miseries and galleys which exasperate those who despair until the end of the Camembert.

At night your sun shines. Your inner star floods the paths of the astral with your light. At night you meet your masters. At night you follow the Way, the one that never leaves the furrows of light. At night you are really you. At night you drown. At night you see yourself and you love yourself. At night you receive yourself and you offer yourself love. Light and love always come together. One is the sign of the other.

During the day you run. The day is a warm gun. A valley of no return. You have to do this, listen to that, eat this, drink that, say, read, fry, bake, repeat, reread, bake and get spread. The night is yours through and through, from beginning to end, from top to bottom. And it fills you up. Every night in paradise. You forget it, but you live it. Fifty percent of your time in white. Law of oblivion. You live real life, you meet your real father, you cherish your real sons. Here below they are but copies. The original remains in the fold.

The day is steel. The spinning wheel of daytime is playing tricks on you. You run after love. You run after always. And you never reach it. Tintin. Hold back your spiel. The day is deaf. Heavy. Gourd. Oven heat or bear cold, the day is failing. Night awaits its turn. Awakening in your sleep. Disappointment upon waking up: you always see the same.



Third gear

Those who know by heart what they have reluctantly learned will tell you heartily: the night restores the body because REM sleep gives restorative dreams. The toxins break down. Fatigue dances jitter. Weariness is eluded and so are worries. It’s true, but not as they think it is.

Sleep opens the door to the astral. Behind this door, our masters teach us every night, throughout life. Thanks to these fabulous lessons, we regain the meaning of life that we have long lost. The awakening takes it from us, but the beautiful energy animates us for a long time. My evening dates, when it is getting late, I slip into the bed and happiness get me. I leave.

It is astral travel that fixes us. It is our masters who wash us. Our soul soiled by matter needs prayers, no doubt, but even more so to take a good shower. The word of our masters is the toilet of the soul. She comes out of it renovated, energized, ready to face the awakening and the new day.

Nothing material can heal the mind. A little spirit heals all matter. The lessons we receive asleep are an elixir of youth. Passport to confidence. Antidote to dementias. Ready for the intense life. On an air of silence, there we dance, there we trance.


Last hour

What to say ? What to become? We never become anything that we have always been. Once the wall of oblivion is broken, absolute memory comes back to us. We finally know the path which goes up against time, which descends towards tomorrow and the distant tomorrows. Time is my garden, so it will be yours. Nothing holds that comes from nothing.

On the other side, hey hey, you see people, shops, houses and walls. We see fields of flowers and meadows to roll around. We see shepherdesses in petticoats and grannies in basket dresses. We see mixed snails and double-tailed lizards. They have two superimposed. Plus one at the back that can be dismantled. They arrived before us on earth, normal that they are ahead of us in paradise.

Every night you find yourself there with lilies. And delicacies. With a propeller stroke. So after death you get used to it effortlessly. You disappeared from the Diary of the Living, but you are not dead either. You live as before in your dreams, but now you remember it. There is no opaque veil, no fog, no awakening in which to find the life before. There is only you, eternal. Dreamed. Settled. Stable. Comfortable.



… Before the fall again, the granting of a new body -on Earth or on Alcor– to life after death.

i year …  ailleurselsewhere in French ?


I walk on the path which is no longer the path but the walk.
Issa Joe Ouakam