Sa maison, un amoncellement de meubles aux portes sans accès. Les coïncidences muselées, les mains toujours croisées afin de ne rien souiller. Pourtant le corps vieilli plus vite que les objets endormis sur eux-mêmes, annulant l’avenir. La place vacante laissée par l’être cher disparu s’est encombrée d’objets, sans fonction, creusant un petit abîme. On y habite le monde comme sa maison : immobile. Pourtant les espaces sont fragiles, le temps va les user et les détruire.
Love every leaf… Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you have perceived it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day, and you will come at last to love the world with an all-embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of thought and untroubled joy. So do not trouble it, do not harass them, do not deprive them of their joy, do not go against God’s intent. Man, do not exalt yourself above the animals: they are without sin, while you in your majesty defile the earth by your appearance on it, and you leave the traces of your defilement behind you — alas, this is true of almost every one of us! …(…)… My young brother asked even the birds to forgive him. It may sound absurd, but it is right none the less, for everything, like the ocean, flows and enters into contact with everything else: touch one place, and you set up a movement at the other end of the world. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but, then, it would be easier for the birds, and for the child, and for every animal if you were yourself more pleasant than you are now. Everything is like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds, too, consumed by a universal love, as though in ecstasy, and ask that they, too, should forgive your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however absurd people may think it. Dostoyevsky
Ce qui est appelé le mal désigne une erreur, un aiguillage fatal, le point initial regardé du fond du trou pour ne plus en bouger. Les trous noirs sont un mystère, que quelqu’un existe et les mesure est plus mystérieux encore. D’un pas qui à chaque pas détermine la précision de la mesure du pas sans tenir aucun compte de la distance prise.
I was asked by a professor of psychiatry once if I ever experienced depression. I answered ‘not to the best of my knowledge/experience’.
He replied simply: ‘of course not. You move too much….’
I tell all people I meet but especially those battling depression, loss of meaning and similar states: MORE NON-VERBAL EXPERIENCES DAILY is what the doc prescribes and movement is the best medium.
All roads will eventually lead back to the unspoken thing(s)we corrupt with our words.The path there passes through the body, movement, stillness. It has long been understood by some spiritual paths, processes, methods, religions and various systems but knowing is not enough, cause that is achieved through the same problematic medium we wish to avoid.
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