Forget every word you throw at life. Let them run to the bottom of the sea. And he waits, attentively watching the waves, for the return of each syllable.
To judge as fatal what is only here to be transformed, we, is to walk with a broken compass.
It is in the song that your boat sails over the golden line in the middle of the sea.
Sun and round stones... Understanding what is beyond simplicity is to undo yourself in essence. There, life continually begins, there, where nothing matters to know. If there are words that matter? Only those that transform, thought is made of nothing.
Time is the measure of wisdom.
Smile at the flowers that are late and rest my eyes on you while you wait,
you are becoming a wise man.
There is an Indian who holds a snake in front of a fire: love is the inner fire: a luminous door that burns the veils of lies. No image passes through that door, it dissolves into a thousand sparks at the entrance: the image you love is just fireworks: a burning lie. Only truth enters through that door: purity: here is a Miracle: you never see your eyes because you only see the image of yourself, but you see yourself pure and whole in the eyes of the one who strips you of the image of yourself.
Of True Want
It is when we lose ourselves from others, that a light and epidemic despair inhabits the weight of each object. All the objects killed by the body, our body dying by the objects... Where did we miss each other? Is it because of ourselves that we give ourselves to so much death?
However, from that soul outside of us, (we from that Soul) all the fragments of music are now clearer... How strange and sad it is, it seems to us that the soul gains gravity over its breathing, from holding its breath so much , we, stupidly happy and immersed in the colorful and dead matter of those thousand objects. We die like this all the time, with the full weight of our souls on our hearts.
And the insistence of that voice, the Voice, that we sometimes hear from us to ourselves, objects... that you have on your wrist, you? Hours that slip away... you don't fulfill the blood that runs through you, you don't care about it, you fulfill the hours and the hours alone, that slip away through your wrists, you object of yourself, I tell you... you let the words they died in your mouth, and in the mouth of thirst they died... however, that music...
I tell you: in a second layer of you and those you love, one of yourselves... in a second layer above the death to which you abandoned yourself, in that second layer, celebrate a word... Tell him, to whom you love: come closer to me, come closer and tell me who you are, you are unique, beautiful, only you, tell me a word about you and for you, sing that word to me in the space of our silence, alone ours, our intimate silence... and of what dies above us nothing will be ours, of what dies above us there will be nothing meaning; tell me, I love you for who I am, and for who you are, I love you because it is in Love, and only in Love that my body does not die, I love you because nothing else matters other than our intimate silence, that for where true music will resound when I once again feel your hands on my face... there, where everything is inhabited but nothing... nothing other than ourselves, nothing, absolutely nothing other than ourselves , from me and you, that's where we walk in Peace, where everything is made of nothing; where everything is nothing, is reborn in the full sense of our true will.