The impeccable warrior overcomes himself twenty times a day. Ceaseless fight until the ultimate victory. So the undressed king kneels down on his gown
The dethroned king cuts his head to know the Way. Lao Tzu said it, Didi repeated it. (source)The blue lotus by Hergé I do chorus. The head is too heavy a burden for those who want to reach the Ocean of Tranquility. The infinite serenity of the non-thought. The delight of the mental emptiness. The end of the ego. Trying to achieve it, I spent my life there. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Now I know. It all makes sense, and that’s good. I’m human, just human — or more human. And less than nothing is badly good. Can do better. Try harder.
I teach you the Superhuman. Man exists only to be surpassed. What have you done to surpass him?
The mastery that counts is that of yourself. Your victory is awakening. You made the one with the multiple. You killed the old Adam. In you awakens a world that demands only to live. It was necessary your victory. From an intimate element, innocuous in the eyes of the world, here comes the cog of the Great Whole, the god of the machine, the miracle of the technique, the wink of the accessoirist, the tinkering, in the stride, in the tempo, and the room appreciates.
Bravos in the eye you return to the hard day’s work. Warrior by day, fun at night. Sailor bored him, warrior always. The nice deal. Well done. No grapes on the pavement. Nobody hurt. None of the guys. Result. No damage. I like that.
But now, think of something else, sing me life in pink and take me if you dare. The keum was morose and did not like poses. It has faded the rose. The parenthesis is closed, out of context and without cause.
“If there are fatwas, verbal killings that result in effective killing against all those who express themselves by thought or drawing, I have never heard of fatwas against the murderers in the name of Islam. And that is unacceptable.” Georges Kiejman, Charlie Hebdo’s lawyer.
It’s about your life. What will you do with it? Yes, you want to try everything that tempts you. There’s an age for that. Beyond that age, the warrior knows himself. He aspires to control himself. He feels ready.
He wants to follow in the footsteps of his peers, Crusader knights, marked in the heart with the cross sign — not the Christ’s cross but the shape of the forgotten mother spaceship Hyperborea. The great elders show him the way.
In those uncertain times when nothing looked like nothing, you doubted. You got it right. You found your way, you followed it. The path that has heart has brought you here. No matter the trials, only the result counts. You are no longer the same. Your heart is open. You are able to love. You watch and marvel.
You understand that there is nothing to understand.
Learn to live headless, following the impulses and suggestions of your ignored body. Your forgotten body. Lost in the past. Broken. Tired. Torn. Crushed. Brewed. Rid.
There is a place far from everything, up there, where no one goes. The path is arduous, hilly, stressful. Fear at your side. Emptiness at your feet. The vertical climb. The cliff. The overhangs.
There is an inaccessible place, all of prayer and rest, where never has the hand of man put the nail of a foot. I was lucky to find it, but no, luck has nothing to do with it. The gods showed me. How lucky I am!
In this place known to me alone, I take pleasure in being, which becomes Being and penetrates oneself forever. In this place I flow from the happy days to the sweet sun of eternity. Once upon now Saturn the Time is in my eyes, I give him back his Mona Lisa smile.
Dance, warrior. The trance is your mother. Swing your behind. Begin your prayer. Sweet bitter. The more you think about it, the more the stridence offends the silence. Tilt your luck. France your dance. It is sometimes enough for a little, a shadow, a chorus, an unknown glance at the bend of the road, the eye that follows you from a distance, a hand movement that tells you to see tomorrow and you stay in the morning on your thirst, on your hunger. In the middle in a corner. Come back. He no longer waits for you but follows your way. He takes you by the hand. He sings and you are good. Run your chance. Go to your dance. he must die tomorrow.
“Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin.” (listen)
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