Wherever you smell, it smells rancid. Something is rotten in the state of Earth. Wherever I look, dark skies are seen. No sound around, not a melodious flight animates the shadow falling down in the air. One would think that a proud demon has cut off the light and will burn to ashes everything I love to hear.
Religions are rotten from within by the fundamentalism of the faithful and the hypocrisy of the clergy. Science turned religion has exactly the same problems as the old ones. Politics grow fat thanks to lobbies and everyone knows it. Sacred twenty gods, when will the golden age be?
“If you don’t die while you are alive, you will die while dying” (Motto of the Teutonic Knights)
He kept putting it back on the carpet. Patate was inexhaustible on the subject. He said: Do you know what I believe? Widespread corruption must alert the aliens watching over us. From their point of view, it is imperative that the average level of their herd improves as quickly as possible. In two short centuries, maybe before, we should pass into the golden age. It is a question of being of attack. Or dead.
In order for us to improve, you will see that they will throw pandemics and tsunamis at us. Are you going to end up putting that in the noggin? No? Here, take this in your face again. And people will fall like flies under the flytox. Dogs of my bitch! Everything will end up farting, genocide of grandpa, room for young people. You’ll see. It’s not over. I said.
I find it hard to swallow. For the pandemic, okay, Patate got it right, and well in advance. But for the rest? Two hundred years of patience, and presto! paradise for all? My balls! Where are the warning signs? I see mostly hatred, contempt, ignorance. Would a new humanity begin in perfect happiness? It will only do this on the ruins of the previous one. Which means a lot of deaths. Walls of dead bodies, mounds of corpses, heaps of killed people, mounts of macchabs jumbled together. Once again. So goes Death.
Few representatives of our humanity will have the good fortune to survive to witness the first steps of our replacements. The latter will take them for gods. Their fathers, their creators. Because soon our humanity will have to leave the place or disappear. But first, she will develop the future race, much smaller. And this new race takes the previous one for gods. It has been so since the dawn of time. Repeating in turn like a merry-go-round.
Apart from these rare survivors, we will all end up in the dustbin of oblivion. As with previous changes. You and me, or our grandchildren. It’s coming very soon. All in the banter, God is flushing the toilet. And of this perverse cycle will not remain stone on stone.
Let us be aware. Let us assume our primary responsibility, vis-à-vis ourselves and those who will come after. Can we confide in selfishness and petty avarice? To hang on to the unnecessary? A shroud has no pocket. Money has never bought happiness. It is the heart. Only love is happiness. Try to keep it. Choose the love that lasts beyond the seasons.
Love is the universal Rule; the light, his beloved sister; knowledge, the fruit of their union. Love and Light take us beyond embarrassments and worries. Do we hurt you? Do not curse your fate and bless your tormentors. If your heart is sincere, you will come out again.
“Whether you succeed or not, whether you save the world or destroy a continent, whether you comb the Mona Lisa or comb your hair, we will forget you as well”, said Ficelle, literary father of Pockatoo.
Today I realize that the verbal delirium of Vieux Patate has corrupted my mind. He sowed great confusion in me. In my inner being the worlds touch, short-circuit, strangle and invade. I go from one to the other, winged fawn, elephant,lost in translation – French: ailé faon, éléphant it depends.
Nothing is going well and all is for the best. Sweet song and warrior song, nothing helps, everything dominates. And this one says this, and that one does that, and we look at ourselves dumbfounded, deprived of water, gas and electricity. When Patate set out on a campaign, reason was still lying home. He beats the charm, runs the pretentious, plays the pig or tells fleurette, and business in the bag he says out of the blue: Come, let’s sleep with the chicks. Gratefully I agreed.
What is the worst honor? Die a virgin or sing vespers? Smell a rod or burn a candle? Running naked on the stadium or talking raw to the squad yum?
The moldy imagination of Vieux Patate is more sticky than fly paper. I stuck to it with all my wings and soon I will stop struggling. The trap is solid and well designed. I’m just a fly.
Merlinesque and whimsical laughter of the fanatic from beyond heaven. Of the concerned devourer. Leave without momentum, chariot without axle. Laughter is slow, the mage is old. If you hurt from the farts, you will die from the thick, said the Other to his apostles. Be chaste with the vast, be serious with the brave. Be strong with your body, be flame with your soul and flower with your heart. Without sighing or worrying, be surprised by the Spirit.
Play the game remembering that it is a game. Life is only a game. Death is only a game. Maybe the same? Too much the same? Bandwidth stutters.
Movement of the mind, soft resistance of the ego which feels lost, but which does not surrender without a fight.
To fight against is an illusion. Divine power makes our will laughable. Who are we to resist those who made us?
Does this mean that we will have to endure for a long time still these degrading adventures, this concert of cries of pigs, this sinister celebration of the Unique Matter?
And for the golden age, let’s not be in too much of a hurry when it comes. Because for us, it will be the age out.lost in translation – French: âge d’or, âge dehors.
