My Religion...

September 9, 2017

 

 

My religion is a utopia, the utopia that we can build a better and better world and we have to do it together... My religion is freedom; to have enough time to do what really captivates me.

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I like the splendour! My taste is not conservative, I adore the extravagance, the eccentricity, the fabulous, the best of the best, to have what no one has, no one, no one.

I love irony, which is my best way to disqualify those whom I don’t like, to surprise, to provoke, to hit. In my imagination begins my style, my marginality, my desert without dogmas, where I am saved from the idiots who live under a false idea of what is good and normal; the ills who believe they can heal others. In my dream is my world, and the most exciting thing is that it is not mine. Who can be master of a dream that comes and goes whenever it wants? In my dream, I meet with the past and get details from the future, that’s why I can see both my mother who died years ago and the daughter I have not given birth to yet. In my dreams, I see beings who cry through their ears and eat through their eyes as Picassos.

 

If I don’t pay attention to time it doesn’t exist; time only appears in the culture of the obligation. If I get carried away in the flow of the present time I can feel the active stillness that the mystics talk about, that mirror of reality most people are unaware of. I turn away from linear time, historical time, the time in which things have to be done, because is the time in which we produce under obligation, imprisoned in a culture of  consumption. The only reality is inside me, the rest is illusion, because everything seems too far away for me.

 

It's Monday and Friday and it still is August, nothing as exciting as this reality; some bewitching voices continue to proclaim the transcendent where man is forever alive.
 

Sometimes reality happens to me, but never ceases to amaze me, because the world is more fantastic than real; this I learned from the mirrors where all possible worlds overlap.The things of the world are duplicated within and outside the mirrors in the same way things are erased when I don’t live them and when I forget them, this is why I remember the hands of my mother, this is why the houses I no longer visit have disappeared, and fell silent the Edith Piaf songs I no longer listen to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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