You're not god - Eden Saga

Winston Churchill, Joseph Staline, Franklin Roosevelt, Adolf Hitler, masters of yesterday’s world — Today’s masters are the better?

To those who have preceded us, we grant forgiveness and forgetfulness. Let’s thank them for leaving us a world far rotten than the one they received. Are they responsible? They did their duty. Are they irresponsible? I’m afraid so. In all logic, the person responsible for a mess is less guilty than the irresponsible one who allows a thousand.

Our Masters

They thought they were God and it got them into trouble. If you do like them, you will end up like them: responsible for millions of deaths. More than one archon, more than one Dravidian, more than one sacred snake took itself for a god, it caused sorrow! Rapes, sufferings, tortures, abominable lacerations to allow the false gods to crunch on the grilled skin, it’s the best. We all do that on roasted chickens.

Our masters took us for their poultry, they roasted us before hiding under a tent to devour us without a witness. It is true that they grow so dirty that upon seeing them, one would quickly understand that they had nothing divine.

The only master I know, he is worth two hundred. Well yes. Ten twenty.

Coward and Proud of it

You let it happen, in the face of the worst atrocities you look away. You believe that by looking away you prevent crime, you banish horror, you exterminate evil. On the contrary. You apologize for it. You forgive it. You grant him permission. And through your cowardice, evil spreads faster.

– But I’m not at fault! you respond immediately. I opted for tolerance, is it a crime?
Tolerance, there are houses for that, they said in the thirties.
– Me, the problems of the world, I know nothing about them, I understand nothing, it’s beyond me…

As a good irresponsible, you don’t let go of the piece.
– And I don’t give a damn about it!

Irresponsible and proud of it! There is the problem. By making fun of everything, the world doesn’t care about you. Oh you can die, it’s already too late. Your boys turn thugs, in a band they fight, what are you doing? You look elsewhere. Your daughter acts like a whore, everything you find to tell her when she cries:
– My dear, my dear, life is a hard struggle.

From All Time

If nothing is going well, it’s thanks to you. At all times, young people have turned thugs. That hasn’t happened since yesterday. “What is happening with our young people? They disrespect their elders, they disobey their parents. They ignore the law. They revolt in the streets, inflamed by crazy ideas. Their morale deteriorates. What will become of them?” said the old Plato 2500 years ago — In the old chronology, I specify…

The decline of generations is not new either. “The age of our fathers was worse than that of our grandfathers. We, their sons, are worse than they are; thus, in our turn, we will give the world an even more corrupt offspring,” Horace already chided two thousand years ago.

Do not tell me that the true responsible ones are the gods. The almighty former gods did their best. Responsible, they undoubtedly are. But not as much as the billions of irresponsible people who overpopulate the earth today.

Old are our gods

Those of the old gods who are still
Have the weight of years on the body
So many old times have plagued them
That at the bottom of the world they are reclusive
Attempting an impossible agreement
Between their soul and their old body

No longer accomplishing wonders
With half-closed eyes they watch each other
Dwelling on their past exploits
In the spring of their icy heart
Trying at all to appear
In the icy depths of their being

Such as once came from the heavens
On board the trolley without axles
Do they still have in their golden hands
An ultimate momentum that falls asleep?
The memory of the good old days
Masking the spell that awaits them?

So cruel is destiny
Almighty murdered
May such happiness be delighted to them
On the evening of the banquet of life?

Having built the foundations
From a paradise by their actions
Did they not deserve a better fate
That of being sentenced to death?

Boredom and the Ego

Irresponsible he is, despicable he will remain. A languor worse than misfortune falls on him. This curse so common today is called boredom. What a boredom is the boredom that keeps us up day and night! Where does it come from? Of a demon worse than death.

Boredom was born one day from uniformity, wrote Houdart de la Motte. There I register in opposition. Boredom comes from a completely different cause. He is sent by the goddesses to punish us for irresponsibility, lightness, selfishness, and egocentrism. That’s where the boredom comes from.

As for his parents… The disinterest is his father, his mother, and his unique cause.

Egoism and egocentrism are at the origin of the disgust one feels for other people, foreign countries, the state of the world, the suffering of men, the uncertain future that awaits us and which we deserve. Yes, that we fully deserve. By dint of disinterest.

Mutual Aid

Help yourself, the sky will help you, they say. This vain dream deserves a sponge blow: help, we’ll help you.

Helping is a way of being, being is an opportunity to help. I received the example and the lesson from childhood. My parents were part of all possible mutual aid services — provided they were Catholic! They dedicated their heart and courage to it, their four children did the same.

With rage at the beginning. Disgust then. Love finally. And we became as our parents had wanted. Me in any case. With the others, we lost touch for a long time. They find me totally crazy. I can’t prove them wrong.

Mutual aid has shown me the inner path that rises. Its refusal, like that of everything that concerns others, is the path that leads to hell. Hell is others” wrote Sartre when existentialism forced him to irresponsible ego access. One should not write until one is awake. Nor pretend to be a philosopher. Nor accept any homage.

Ignoring all the past, only seeing future
I was preceding ‘me’ every conversation
And gave my opinion that I wanted the one
To criticize the world casually, casually.

Yesterday still, sang the great Aznavour.

7 Billion Centers of the World

Egoism is wanting everything for oneself. Before others. In greater quantity. The egocentric takes himself for the center of the world, which is absurd. As everyone knows, the center of the world is me. All tributes are due to him, no effort is on his shoulders, no responsibility except the accentuation of disorder and decadence. Does he care? No way! As long as he has the lion’s share…

The opposite is gift, generosity, kindness, the impulses of the heart, openness, honesty, righteousness, vivacity, the absence of all snobbism and any affectation, the deep feeling of unconditional love, undifferentiated, generalized, universal and multiverse.

Love the gods as they are and men as they will be. You are not a judge to condemn, you are not a god to absolve yourself, you are not an executioner to punish. Nor to punish yourself.

I am a man

Society having given up on transforming me
On disguise myself for its look to meet

The people who see me
Passing in the street
Call me a faggot

Women who believe
Should have seen what they got

I am a man I am a man
What could be more natural in sum
In bed my style matches so well with my civil state

Satan Lives There

You are not god and it’s better. For others as well as for you. Who thinks he is a god condemns himself to become a demon. Oh little devil, it is not Satan who wants. There must be more than vice, better than virtue.

Game Over

I was there with my imprecations when the night fell like a curtain. Finita la commedia! The game is up. It’s brutal. It is dark night and no lighthouse, without any doubt one does not see a drop. Suddenly, as sudden as opaque black, a flash shines piercing the retina.
We don’t see keud, we guess.

A monster. A demon from before. A horrible clone. A standing frame-fast archon. Don’t make me laugh, my lips are chapped. And this sad mutant looks pretty uptight to me.

-What? Don’t you see? There’s a big thing that moves on top of you. Stay here. Don’t bother him at all.

-Who is it? Do I know about it? This creep doesn’t look convenient. You see that he starts spitting fire? Breaking out the flames? To crush us from head to toe with his diabolical guano? His purin? His colic? That the filth floods us? Don’t throw any more, I’ve lost it?

Shit!

That’s the thing to say. Everything was going so well until now, I was moralizing my father, I was perishing, I fustigeais, I went from diatribe to syllable and the king was not my cushion. Nor my cup of tea. He measured in the, what, thirty-forty meters? Tall for sure. The exact size, I couldn’t say. From XXXXXXXXXXXL with sixty thousand X before the L.

Now coughing a full basin of phlegm to clear his throat. Shaddap your face, he’s gonna speak.
He expresses himself in a stormy thunder. Not a voice he had, but a whole electorate. Howlin’ wind, roarin’ storm, this huge thing is beatin’ a world of drums.

Fuck it, goddam! I’m deaf.

Whadda hear ? But a long shrill whistle, like super-jet at takeoff. It is the Géant Vitchié who is heating up his reactor while I am heating up my editor.

Stiff actor in chief. Shooting from the mug in short. Long sad face ranked 6 stars. This huge crap is killing me.
– Whaddy says? Whadda know?!

You’re not god