This morning, on a sunny spring day, coincidentally related to my birthday, I decided to let myself fall, disobediently, into the unreasonable intoxication of this breath. An impetuous drunkenness, distilled and macerated in the warm vapors of the whispers of my intimacy.
[An intimacy now uninhibited, after my continuous internal licenses (so far from complacencies and conceptual servitudes) and whispers that emerge impeccably, from the purest intimacies and the deepest depths of Being. Today celebrated by my devotional fervor and my dedicated Attention to the wound in my heart.]
My dogs have come running down the hall, full of youthful joy. They have greeted me effusively and bouncy and, shortly after, they have relaxed, at my feet, next to the table on which I am writing these words.
Birds and pigeons, without pretensions of any kind, and ignoring other important considerations, rhythmically hum their melodies, happily, awakening me to new sensibilities, which stimulate the drunkenness of my spirit, today unbridled.
While I, feeling the sky, the dogs, the incense, the clouds, the birds … I look primarily at the background where all that happens, and in that background my scattering happens.
I have observed that, when I ignore that background, the days pass by anonymously, almost furtively, as if they knew of the fraud that nests in that ignorance and the pain that is neglected.
And it is -of that unattended pain- of what I would like to write on this spring morning, wrapped with his sensations and with the company of my dogs, resting inert at my feet.
But, I would like to write in such a way that my words should confront the interior fraud, which sublies under the drowsiness of the routine character, and which tries, cunningly, to usurp a place, which corresponds legitimately to the Reality.
Also I have observed that this fraud is what it gobbles to the purity, profaning it, domesticating it and turning it into an ornament usable for other ends.
This fraud can remain secret, latent, covered by this image constructed on ourselves -late, when the purity was delivered- and under which we try to cover, absurdly, the insondable processes of living and dying.
The priority that this image of oneself goes to have, in the decisions and attitudes of our conduct, contradicts the harmonious rhythm that brings us the life.
Our interpretive dedication towards this role (constructed with the scraps of this image and nourished by our identification with him) is such, that we prefer to ignore the ostentatious fact of its deception, along with the pain that this election provokes us.
This fictitious image, to which we surrender, cheats us. It cheats us, when it makes us try to reach the Truth, because it is not True for what he longs, since its will is the lie.
We should consider that, if from the lie, the Truth is claimed, it is because the lie is more seductive and powerful, when it is dressed in Truth, as the tricksters know well.
Having said previously that: we prefer to ignore the ostentatious fact of his deception, together with the pain that this provokes, I am implicitly pointing out the type of responsibility (with that pain) that each individual that try to separate the nobility from vileness, has. Something that should happen before choosing the dramatic route of deception and its hidden agonies.
That is why I speak of pain, with urgency. This is the pain of an absence, or perhaps of a betrayal. A betrayal ignored by the conscience, after having plunged deeply into unconsciousness, cornering this pain in the underlying.
I want to talk about that pain, because (from his exile) he is not being listened to by who should be done. Since now it is hostage of a deep deception, its own deception, poisoned by the desire of the impossible.
This is a denied pain, for the benefit of that image, of that artificial and puerile interpretation, to which we have submitted, on some dark night, believing that we can play -with impunity- with our soul.
It is, that pain, that moves me and claims me -as it will claim, to the reader interested in these issues, once he has accepted the challenge-.
Even knowing the rarity, that would suppose the fact that someone assumed these reflections that I dare to unfold, and taking into account the obstacles that will face those who assume it, I go into it, with the firm hope that, by pointing out the despair (that underlies the conscience of most human beings) it may resurface the hope.
Under that despair are bound, the beings who have ignored their origin, due to their blind obedience to everything that is agitated in their mental and emotional processes. Agitations, with which they are intended to elude and replace the Irreplaceable.
Exiled in the narrow corridors of a cornered vigil, they walk, in a subliminal endless wait (condemned to despair) who pretend the improbable, while fleeing their fears, pursuing inexhaustible desires and blind to the great truisms.
It has been said, by those who know, that liberation from this exile is freedom from Abysmal Slavery.
Marsias Yana
