Cursed by words
Photo credit: Bhakkah Something Something.
A gilded future
“So love is not a thing of the mind. It is only when the mind is really quiet, when it is no longer expecting, asking, demanding, seeking, possessing, being jealous, fearful, anxious—when the mind is really silent, only then is there a possibility of love.”
“When we talk about the theology of “God is dead,” this means that the notion of God must be dead in order for God to reveal himself as a reality. The theologians, if they only use concepts, words, and not direct experience, are not very helpful. The same goes for nirvana, which is something to be touched and lived and not discussed and described. We have notions that distort truth, reality. A Zen master said the following to a large assembly: “My friends, every time I use the word Buddha, I suffer. I am allergic to it. Every time I do it, I have to go to the bathroom and rinse my mouth three times in succession.” He said this in order to help his disciples not to get caught up in the notion of Buddha. The Buddha is one thing, but the notion of Buddha is another. Another Zen master said this: “If you meet the Buddha on your way, you must kill him.” You have to kill the notion of Buddha so that the real Buddha can be revealed to you.”
“The All is Mind; The Universe is Mental.”
Words, those goddam words, were made to control you, to limit you, to paralyze you, to enslave you.
You exist only to the extent that words have a meaning to you and others. You are words. But it wasn’t like that before. No: there indeed was a language older than words, and there was a language deeper than the carving made among the walls that carried our collective history through the ages. It was on those walls that mankind sustained the humaneness of itself, right there, in the dark caves where we found refuge when the outside world was burning in chaos.
The divine spark was preserved in the darker nights of mankind, and there was you in the middle of it, telling stories to the kids circled around the flames. Those flames preserved the last bit of hope. Those flames were the altar where you pleaded the Gods to give us all a final chance, one final straw to draw the destiny of humanity, naked at the throne of our collective fumbleness.
You were there. Standing on the heap of the human legacy!
You were there! Standing tall amidst the tales that sustained the elders over the millennia!
You were there, and then! And that’s when you decided to mark the walls with the silent cry of your heart, for the heart knows what best, and the heart knows the true colours of your spirit; the true shade of your characters, the true sound of your soul. You were there! One more chance!
Oh, if those walls could speak…
If those walls could speak, it wouldn’t be words.
If those flames could speak, it wouldn’t be warmth.
It would be a luminous story of hope. For there was never hope to be had in the first place, yet there was only ever hope to exist.
Hope is the matrix of the new language that we ought to develop. New is a misnomer here, for it is more of a return –a sort of come-of-age– to our divine cosmic roots.
Hope is found by carrying forth the legacy of humanity for nine months without knowing if the child will cry and see the light of the day. There’s no hope for nine months. There are pain and misery intertwined with joy and cry. But don’t we hold on to the mystery as if we could wring some hope out of it? The kid is our salvation, isn’t the script? Don’t we all dance on the roof of a Jeep pretending that the world isn’t ending, and if there’s a world to end, don’t we all pretend that we could find again the sound of a dance floor through the Many Worlds and find us all over again?
If those walls could speak, it wouldn’t be words. What are words when the world you loved lost its meaning?
If those flames could speak, it wouldn’t be warmth. What is warmth when the world that you loved burnt away?
We exist between the ebbs of our pain and joy.
We are alive in between the heights and lows of the sine waves, the mysterious flow of life.
Pain is normal.
Suffering is not.
Suffering is trying so damn hard to force a new route on the flow of our life. Hope is found when we accept the pain, and let it flow, untrammelled. And let it go with the flow of causal randomness that is a life lived full wu-wei.
Words have a tendency –hell, it is embedded in their structure, in their very root– to restrict the flow of the river. It’s more than that. It changes the path of the river. It creates an artificial creek bed for the flow of life to go through. It is not natural. It’s hell if anything!
Such a thing cause an existential crisis, and to a certain degree, it is the very thing that is at the core of our feeling of cosmic abandonment. Life does not flow like it was meant to do, for the etymology used to write our eulogy (isn’t living, actively dying?) is a vain attempt to immanetizing the eschaton, where in fact, the eschaton was never meant to even be the final act of our life, but the constant realm of our being. As Jesus said, the Kingdom of Heaven is right here, right now. Language was made to be a carrot-stick lure perched at the height of the veil covering us, to allure us away from the elution that would solve all of our being with the cosmos itself. The absolution of our sins was always found in the elution’s crucible of the human experience. The Architects of the better world have for mission to crack that stick perched on the forehead of people, to crumble that damned carrot to oblivion and crank the heat of the hearts of people and help them come as one at the throne of their divine higher self.
If you feel alone, you are walking –flowing– on this artificial river bed made out of words.
Do not blame yourself. The system made it this way. The program that was used to subdue you and your parents and their parents were engineered millennia ago.
The true language of humanity has no words, no conjunction, no finality. We are infinite –and luminous– beings. We can only be represented by what is infinite.
We are infinity. Limitless. Power, divine beings. How could words –limited labels representing a reduction of something real, a creation that renders what is unique into something generic, a tool to desacralize what is sacred– how could words ever convey the depth of the human experience?
It cannot.
In the older days, we could communicate via brain waves. In The Elephant Whisperer, elephants can communicate to rangers 300 kilometers away telepathically. Don’t you think that we could communicate between each and other this way?
Of course, we could, of course we could.
To trammel the way of the mind, words must be imposed on the kid’s mind (tabula rasa). Pathways must be forged.
This whole mess is very much traumatizing for the kids. Aren’t we all traumatized?
When we rebuild the words, may we communicate through what is infinite: music, art, drums, kisses! Dance!
True love is the love that speaks through every dimension, every Worlds of the Many:
Truth is the sword that can dig a new trench for the river of life to tumble upon.
Truth is the remedy; truth is the way.
Truth can be repressed, but cannot be suppressed.
Our new language will be Truth.
The Truth: that we are all one, all interconnected. All made of the same fabric, all knit with the love of the Creator. The Truth: Concise, to the heart, unconcealed information.
Start digging trenches now, with your sharp blade, and never stop. Chances are that the river bed’s been artificially fucked-up by many, many words and spell casted by the power that be. Dig them out. Why?
The flow of life is reality itself, and only a true connection with reality with giving you the things that your soul ever craved: true love. Unrequited love. Unmasked love.
And that’s why the Elites are pushing so hard on the agenda of disconnecting you from reality: for they want you in hell, for hell is their profit and the name of the game. Profane’s the paycheques given to the mass of drones to cash on the madness of it all, to kill God, for god s’fucking divine and divine’s all fucking too real and you couldn’t fucking get that –true freedom–, can’t you?
If they want hell, we’ll give them a glistering heaven, delivered at the edge of our shining sword of Truth. A gilded age forged by truthfulness. That is the way of the untrammelled warrior. That is the way of life. Death before the defeat of the soul.
Will you be there? Will you paint the wall of resistance with the colours of your character?
Warrior-up, and game on.
Out.
JP