After a long break from this platform, product of other tasks, I continue with some reflections that seek to enter into the wonderful experience of life.
Without detours, let's start ...
"But she lacked your fire ..." The fear of a wise man . Patrick Rothfuss.
The deserving, the assuming ... I have constantly found myself surrounded in doubt, surrounded by my own unconscious threads of fear. Gradually the legion of fine strands have created an atmosphere of their own, an ecosystem as real as the one that, perhaps, was outside, like that forgotten kingdom from which the words misunderstood of freedom, naturalness and love.
Inside the asphyxiating tissue I learned to be a slave, I learned the art of not looking up or extending my arms and legs, I learned to live with fingers engarrotados, to breathe short, to watch timidly and to listen without wanting. I remember, above all, learning to feel without enjoying, to admire catatonia and to cry in the constant cold
Submerged in catalepsy, my memories of the beyond were covered by a hard and dark layer of beliefs, habits and fearful thoughts, making them inaccessible to my weakened and muted consciousness. The memories of the light, of the subtle solar ray, of the passionate kiss, of the hot sex, of the warm and wet skin, of the sharp and stimulating moan, of the voracity of a hand squeezing with great desire a thigh or a breast: all those memories came as electrical impulses, causing tremors in me and in the delicate structure woven by that mysterious presence that was fed by my navel. These evocations were immediately enveloped by the icy voice of that entity whose whispers indicated that such impulses were noxious, of beasts and men dejected, that would make me fall to the horrible abyss from which he, or she, protected me by installing his wonderful network.
This creation makes you invisible, undetectable, facing a mysterious and enigmatic reality for which you are not prepared and you will not be able to tolerate. Because if that were the case, if I let you go, you would die, "said the voice of the ice.
Time passed, what I thought were days and nights, what was entangled like suns and moons, and still wrapped in this beautifully arachnid planet. Always guarded (protected), never free (abandoned), suffering became my truth and pain in my greatest virtue. But sometimes, after satisfying the hunger of the impotence weaver, the memories returned: a curve drawn by my lips when I let myself be illuminated by the subtle caresses, by the viscous and warm fluid that I found when penetrating the wavy and overflowing figure of sweetness, of a fragrance that slowly closes the eyes and wet the lips.
In the ecstasy of sensations I stood as conqueror of the highest pleasures, as lord and master to contemplate the explosions of color radiating from the sinuous and slender force of long hair and swollen lips; she directed her moans to the highest stars, propelling herself in me and in my ability to push her strongly, from within, beyond the confines of her body.
Noticing my prominent virility and my flaming torch on, the ice queen sought, cruelly, show me the virtue of guilt and disobedience, self-hatred and contempt fire. In that way, she, sometimes he, almost extinguishes my flames, almost castrates my power, almost keeps me for thousands of years more in hibernation.
Even without understanding the memories of the fire, the impulses helped me and encouraged me more and more to shout, to widen myself and raise me to cut with my forgotten sword the fine fibers of loneliness, of the sadness inflicted by doubt, by that an ancient belief that was established in me, not without my permission, and whose shadow has mortally dominated the waters of my belly, the fire of my sex and the air of my thoughts. Even without understanding the evocations, formerly called fantasies, I can glimpse life outside the nest, the interwoven world of the spider, which has created reality procreating in my passivity and in the doctrine of apprehension.
The deserving, the assuming ... Coming out of the numbness I am able to recognize and attend to the call of her, of fire, of her own voice that responds and seeks the pleasure of full development, of that which is the only one capable of illuminating me the longed and eternal abyss, of that world that I left so long ago and which claims its king, who is still struggling to emerge and triumph over the finite creation of my fears: the ice queen.
"Asleep was the picture of a fire. Wake up was the fire itself."
The fear of a wise man. Patrick Rothfuss.
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