Intelligence everywhere, love and beauty in each detail for your pleasure and upliftment. In what honor ? By the favor of pure happiness. And thanks to you. You are the fruit of an impressive human and superhuman lineage. As such, you are worthy of the best.
And I have the right to offer it to you. Petriated with humility, I accept this heavy task and make it my dessert. Do not think it is sacrifice. I have walked so long on the paths of old times, worked so hard, so much pain, so much pause, far from the garden of roses, and the flower will be fruit, and the rose becomes gnosis … But let’s talk about something else. Your favorite subject. Your choice.
It’s for you
You whom I do not know, who will never write to me, who does not seek to know me. You too, who profit from what I write without hesitation or qualms. And for you who come back willingly to my blog with the delicious feeling of being a regular, or for you who often had flashes while reading my sweet deliriums.
Or you who would have died without your daily dose of Saga of Eden. Or for you who remember yourself throughout the tales. For you, over there, who reigns over the All and who do not know it! Yes, it’s for all these you that I’m screaming. And that I write.
For you, I have spent lifetimes showing myself curious about everything. Happy snoop, fully lucky, fulfilled finder, how many years have I worked, tireless slave of gold mines, drawn by a sure tropism, moved by a force that exceeds human nature?
I am a man, and nothing that is human is foreign to me. (Terence)
Serf of love, bird of the astral worlds, I admit the summits, I hear the spheres. Their music fills the universe. All you have to do is hold out your third ear and you will be able to pick up the distant fragments of the astral symphony which gradually grows until it becomes deafening. Defying. Definitive.
So many deaths!
Reader my law, reader my king, for you I died on the cross, nailed to the eternal tree, the evergreen yew, companion of the parish enclosures. In a girl’s body, I burned at the stake of infamy. Over the course of a thousand and one lifetimes, I have died strangled, wheeled, hanged, stoned, peeled alive, scaled to the bone, enucleated in every atom of my body, castrated, disembowelled, atomized, beheaded. And I derive neither glory nor remorse from it. La mort l’AmorDeath Love has nothing I fear.
Death when I breathe. Death when I rest in my nest. I know death by heart for having experienced it from every angle, in every corner, near and far. Death is my guide. Death is my ride. I listen to its advice. My death who knows the day and hour. Looking thru a glass onion at the ultimate companion.
Help! Help Yourself!
In the end, when I look at my life that counts for a thousand, I see everywhere the luck that I had, the luck that I still have, son of chance and of Isis, son of Horus and father of Osiris, yes, I said well, my friend. I know what you are thinking. I know you are wrong. The truth is not my goal. This is everyone’s sacred quest, you know that. No one can impose a truth on you that is not yours. It is your divine nature that will be your only guide. My goal is your awakening. Then you will choose.
So please help yourself. Everything to detach you from the premature job. Pre-spoiled success. Pre-hidden secret. Happy penitent of the Hotel du Temps, open the doors wide, the shutters, the windows. So that the day may enter it. So that you can see with your three eyes open.
For your use and your exaltation, I have brought alive buried worlds, forgotten cities, submerged countries. The world is my garden, its avatars, my fathers. The gods before opened their grimoires to me. I studied the language of the gods, which I speak little, and do not read better. It is the common language of the Milky Way. The one they taught us is not the purest. It is dialect, because our creators come – like us indeed – from the farest galactic suburbs.
I speak of these gods as if they were my neighbors. It is somewhat the case. I know they exist, I have met them. But I am quite sure that they are not divine.
Gods they are not, our jealous masters. Gods they will never be. This is not what they aspire to. Will they teach us love? Knowledge ? Awakening? They couldn’t take such a risk. Why would they give out so much of their power? They rule over us. Our bosses. Our sponsors. Or they never existed, they came straight out of my feverish head.
How to explain in this case that they also came out of all these legends, all these mythologies, all these testaments of all the religions of the Earth? All these choirs, unanimous, singing my chorus?
Our divine godparents taught me to read the signs they have designed for us since the dawn of time, under the 200 suns of the Big Dipper. The intelligence that we see everywhere is their work. Love and beauty in every detail, it comes from them.
For you who pass and will not come back, know that I have been searching the memory of this world since the age of 12 years. Of this world and a few others. We are connected, all mythologies have told us that. We are networked with other star systems, other planets where our masters and allies are. Others also where our enemies are.
Oh you know this story, so many films and books have told it, with its countless variations. They placed her in the future out of coquetry, or out of respect. SciFi is about our past. Anticipation books are tools for remembering. Remember yourself, know who you are, where you come from, where you are going. Know why you are here. I won’t tell you, but if you read me, you will know.
Gods they are not, no. They are the Star Warriors. And in our true story, the Dark Star is called Hyperborea. And the former gods have won all the Star Wars. But the Star is also a place,Place de l’Etoile, see below a princess, an arcane. In the Tarot garden, this arcane bears the number 17.
Give the flower
XVII. Offer the flower, and not your heart. Keep it well in your chest, let it illuminate. Offer the flower, not the plant. Its roots run through you entirely, the nourishing sap comes from your blood. Offer the flower while keeping the plant in your heart.
I offer the Star, I donate my quest to serve yours. Gift of the arcane queen. Donate blood from my veins. Gift of joys and sorrows. What you offer is what you like. Only the goods you give are forever yours. They will bear your name. They will always be your gift. What you buy belongs to the merchant. For it to belong to you, you must give it. What does it matter to whom you give, if the gift pleases.
Offer only the best and keep the source in your heart. The worst is unworthy of a gift. A worthy turkey? The dam dam. Knowing how to keep what is yours while offering endlessly the fruits of your inner tree, such is the wisdom that fills and nourishes. We are only rich from what we give.
It is useful for the Warrior to offer without knowing to whom he is offering. Juan Matus explains the matter to Carlos Castaneda. It is to make a payment on the account of the Man. Free act. Secret gift. You put yourself at the disposal of chance to correct an injustice or help out a passerby.