Every Sant Jordi is the same. I fall back into the role playing of a sort of character that comes to live in a sudden rush to make it today. I’m an expectator of the show. I’ve had a glance and the mood of the literary force. You sitting down writing for a purpose. A prose that comes right out of your head. A writer’s exercise. Like running to a runner. To write is to breath, only if it has a meaning behind it.
Great literature is meant to have some sort of master mind behind. Some sort of storytelling trickery that leads the reader somewhere. An intention of a kind. It’s not my case, as I fail to come up with the decisive narrative to start with. I’ve just lost myself to the rythm of this exercise, like dopamine for the ancient soul who still wonders if there’s a meaning for this shore. There isn’t. And I’m fine. As a being, but also, overall.
I like the intention of trying. I’m trying too hard. I’m also just scared. I never walk the talk the way I’m supposed to, but rather to go around the whereabouts of where my feelings are taking me. As if I go right to the point, the point in itself would dissapear. Where would I land then?
That’s the place I mean to go. Someday. Today? I don’t know. Not today. That’s the trap. That’s the trick. The mind game that is playing me along to be the conspiracy against myself. To keep myself within the cage. I’m the caged bird, holding the door close. To sing inside, without the actual sense of freedom. While this freedom I long, I’m already experience it. I’m sure of it, and fond of it too. It’s the excuse that got me here. To write, to say, to think. And yet I’ve not managed to make the plan work towards the notion of my trail. The one I’m meant to follow. Lead myself. And, well,… others?
This is the thing. I’m good enough to create a movement on one. My own type of ordeal. To lead myself towards my own destiny kind-of of tale. But that’s a milestone on its own. But rather shallow and selfish. Narrow minded and hypocritical. I’m just interested in my own shit kind-of-thing. But if the thing I’m interested in is the common outcome of our collective welbeing, then the story is a little different. I’m shifting the desire of myself towards the collective narrative of building it ourselves. As collective. A NEW one. A collaborative ordeal. A movement.
Then the leading becomes sheparding. Still, the narrative is taking the shape of a sect. I’m trying to convince people to follow me where? What’s the promised land here? Hasn’t this story been told already? Millions of times. In fact, it’s no different to the recurrent tale of capitalist individualism: trust yourself and focus on your one true passion, and that will open a door to the true measure of your being. Yet it still some ideal longing that mirrors your desire to go beyond your fears. And the act in itself might me required in a sense, as collective movement reboot, to start over from scratch. That should clear things up to allow a NEW sense of being, and to account for your very own personal experience, to the very collective experience of brighter vision of our humanity, in the collective intelligence our time.
So what am I selling?
Who am I fooling besides myself?
Ain’t that also just another pyramid scam?
Perhaps so. And I’m the puppet master of this trickery. I’m the magician and the self-proclaimed law-maker. I’m the disguised executor of a deus ex machina hat trick. God Father himself told me to use that. He thought it would be convenient for a convincing tale of two worlds. One going forward beyond our control, and another, parallel, in opposition, or rather in an orthogonal direction, towards the wellbeing of a holistic human nature that takes a step back, slows down, and just simple gets off this moving train towards a lame vision of ourselves.
Would you be so kind to go this other way?
ALLS
