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You know that I prefer to live in the astral, I spend most of my time there. Obviously, it blocks me from the world where my fellow human beings live. Are those below my like? Not really. Like me, they have chosen the astral. Smoke, light up without getting cold. Cold-insensitive, do not look down. Dizziness.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Zeno! Cruel Zeno! Zeno of Elea!<\/em><\/span> ~~Paul Val\u00e9ry, The Marine Cemetery (excerpt)<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Sometimes –often — I want to go back to the world where we are bored. Why do it? No idea, it feels like a need to pee. So I have taken the habit of not venturing too far into the multiverse, for fear that my flight back will take too long or even worse, the fear of not finding my way. Which is completely stupid.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There is no time or space in the astral planes. From the moment I realized my naivety, I stopped applying to the astral the physical laws of our space-time. But it took me a while. I have admitted that the notions of space and time are no longer valid in the astral. Whatever my distance, on Betelgeuse or in Kalamazoo, I can come back here in the instant. And I find myself sitting in front of my screen, from where, by the way, I had not moved.<\/p>\n Only my mind leaves the field. My body remains fixed on the screen, at the keyboard, at the pond, at the gravel, at the foreshore, at none. I write without head, beheaded for a good cause.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n This quiet roof where doves walk<\/em><\/span> ~~Paul Val\u00e9ry, The Marine Cemetery (excerpt)<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Mysterious are the worlds of the beyond, absurd are our assessments of this other reality, more real than the original. What is called reality here on earth is an illusion fabricated by material beings and admitted by the lack of subtlety of our five senses<\/a>. The message they send to the brain is not an exact reflection of what\u2019s out there. It\u2019s far from that. It\u2019s partial and biased. Instead of a true copy, the message of our senses is a free interpretation. Free style in minor mode.<\/p>\n When this incomplete and distorted message reaches our brain, it, like any computer, interprets it with its programs. Yes, but here we go. These programs are bugged. They contain orders to distort certain aspects of the real considered dangerous for us other basic morons.<\/p>\n Summary: Our brains, like any computer, need programs. Their own are bugged.<\/strong><\/p>\n Who made these programs? Nature? Why would this impersonal and imaginary entity want to hide certain aspects of reality from us? Is it nature that decides what to hide and what to let leak? She would then be our true god. Shall we worship him on our knees, rather than the old bearded man who seems to be completely uninterested in his creatures? If it exists, and has created anything.<\/p>\n My answer:<\/strong> Well, then who made these damn bugged programs? The matter beings I talked about earlier. It\u2019s the best answer I could come up with. Now there are other, much more boring questions to ask, starting with this one: what happens to our free will<\/a>?<\/p>\n Free will comes from ignorance of the real causes that make us act.<\/p>Motionless at big strides<\/h4>\n
\nDid you pierce me with this winged arrow<\/em><\/span>
\nThat vibrates, flies, and does not fly!<\/em><\/span>
\nThe sound faints me and the arrow kills me!<\/em><\/span>
\nAh! the sun… what a shadow of turtle<\/em><\/span>
\nFor the soul, Achilles motionless at big strides!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\nDasein, Being-Here<\/h4>\n
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\nBetween the pines throbbing, between the tombs<\/em><\/span>
\nThe right Midi consists of fires<\/em><\/span>
\nThe sea, the sea, always recommenc\u00e9e<\/em><\/span>
\nO reward after a thought<\/em><\/span>
\nWhat a long look on the calm of the gods!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\nHard Ending<\/h4>\n