High on the Rock Bottom

Tramp world listen to me!

My soles are about to soil the road, clothes are all over my room, auditioning for the next eleven adventurous weeks on my body. This blog will be temporarily out, or permanently should this trip go wrong, but I'll be keeping a travelblog:

www.mytb.org/neophyte

Keep the still world moving while I'm away and hope you're not lonely without me!

Aviso de Despejo

Declaro por este meio o blog encerrado. Podem continuar a clicar nos links.

Peace, the no.1 War Crime

You know, whenever I leave home, I walk down the street and I see people wearing expensive clothes, counting money for their next shopping frenzy, getting on their fast cars with energy pumping in their veins, stepping hard on gas, basically being happy the way we've learned to be. They wear bright colorful clothes, listen to fist-thrusting pop and rock, and spend hilarious amounts trying to prove they are the happiest. And any man's mind might just wonder; have they forgotten what happened in the last decade? Is this the natural reaction to what we did? To keep our society the way we live it, we ruthlessly invaded countries based on lies others made up for us, and which we coped with. This decade has been one of the darkest ones, and yet our culture does not reflect it. We keep on blaming Iraq on Bush's war policy and on american troops in the region. But why are we angry? Is it because they did it for oil? Just look around you: who isn't using oil? which one of us can claim he's not enjoying this greedy society that needs to brake people from distant countries to prevail?

Some of us know. Some of us are smart enough to know the reasons behind Iraq. They are usually europeans. Many are americans too. It's easier when you're in Europe to hate the war in Iraq because you have another country to blame. We've been taught to point at the other side of the ocean whenever things go wrong. The war in Iraq was a dupe. Americans and europeans as their allies were duped into believing there was something dangerously elusive in Iraq besides oil dollars that, well... still weren't ours. We rushed into that land based on some impressively convincing fiction to make sure we got all the oil we ever needed. And we got it. Of course, now the very companies we sent to make the profit for us are speculating over it, so things aren't as nice as they could be. But we made a lot of money...
This society we live in is based on the fact that money's awesome. Why do you work? For money. Why do you seek profit? to be happier. Why should you be happier? because that increases your productivity. I remember after the war in Iraq started some big company's CEO said 'We invest in Iraq so the lives that were lost were not in vain.' Armed Forces from the Coalition of the Willing liberated Iraq as we witnessed another Vietnam, casualties reaching similar figures. And all because at some point, our money manufacturers eventually pointed in the same direction, and it happened to be buried right smack in the middle of Iraq's soil.

Now a lot of people are aware of this. They go marching in the streets, shouting 'Peace in Iraq'. Actually most people are quite conscious up to a certain level. Most europeans I know are, and I guess over half of the americans too. So these people, who call Bush and his troops murderers, they're getting ready for their sit-in. Let's call one of them Mr. Klean. M. Klean looks at his watch made of PS (polystirene) and shoot! notices he only has half an hour before the protest. So he runs, puts on his shoes with synthetic rubber soles and runs. On his way out he finds that package from Amazon with that book on 'Dirty oil profits in Iraq' shipped by airmail, quicly resolves his joy and resumes his flight. Gets in his car, sits in his seat that was assembled to the rest of the car thanks to its shipping from Kyoto, Japan to Detroit, MI, fires up the engine running on gas, and races fast. When he gets there, he stops the car, opens the door and pulls out a big board on which he wrote: 'DON'T SOIL FOR OIL!'.
Now tell me, where exactly did this man avoid using Iraq's bloody oil? With the plastic, the shippings, the gas... some drop of it must have fallen at some point in the big oil cauldron where his life was prepared.

I do not believe in war crimes. We do our little lives, dealing with our pathetic problems as though they could in any way be compared to the ones that are common in third world countries. But when something starts to threaten those tiny details which make our lives so much easier we have to do something about it. Well, not we of course. But someone. Europeans blame the States, in the States, democrats blame republicans, republicans call for necessity and blame it on Al Qaeda. The truth is we all wanted this. The ones who sent the army to invade Iraq might be the obvious lying scum, however, they will never be as big liers as we are. Our daily actions hire the soldiers who massacred a village in Karbala, they buy the bombs and the napalm that was dropped to rip iraqi faces off their heads, they afford the mines that will blow up cute little kids legs for the next 15 years, and they pay for the pipe-lines, the pumps, the drills, all the gear that will bring the oil to us. Every time you drive your car, every time you burn up your money on unecessary goods, just every smallest second of our consumer's lives. We are worried about a few men who were willing to invade a rightful country for oil profits, yet we support it in every decision we make. The insults tossed at them, our protests, our morality, the very definition of war crime is like a tribunal of crooked murderes judging a fellow murderer. And when we hang them publicly, it's nothing but good old dog eat dog, except that one of the dogs calls himself righteous. We lie. War is no crime. Our ways have squeezed these lost violent souls into Iraq, put them in a situation where aggression is as simple and natural as breathing, and then we dare to point our dirty finger at them when the heat is too much and their actions become devilish. War is never a crime. The concept of War Crime is a lie. In war people are there to kill, pillage and murder. That is what war is all about. Humiliation is nothing there, amongst the cries, the tearful widows and the limbless children. The one and only crime is what led to war, this greedy all-consuming peace of ours that can't sustain it's own combustion.

Telling who took the last shot won't make any difference; the shot has been taken. Many more wars will come as long as we keep on living greedily, and terrorism will keep on as long as we keep showing off our satisfied futile needs, our needless purchases and the short range of our shallow care.

You want war?

good, stop acting like you don't.

You don't want war?

great, don't make it happen then.

XXIst century: Building the Masturbative Society

It is a curious fact that Man has always wondered what his place is in the Universe's plot - his ultimate purpose, and yet with every technological breakthrough the human race has been laying down milestones towards its complete uselessness. We were born with this overgrown brain, a evolutionary leverage which ultimately might lead us to creating a world that can keep on going on its own (still, according to our ways) and in which our presence is minimally noticed or even irrelevant. Fate has not lost its sense of irony since the biblical times, and our efforts will eventually cradle an existence in which we need not interfere, just as Nature - that once gave birth to our own species - did. To keep us from realizing too painfully that very fact, we have developed inumerous clever ways to veil our lack of use. Welcome to the Masturbative society.

Our features gladly give away our initial habitat, the one we were conceived to survive in. Two legs, opposable thumbs and ultra cerebral development: we are runners meant to manipulate our environment in order to reproduce and carry on with survival. Our bodies are tough, our muscles can be quite powerful. Our legs can carry us, along with a heavy payload, should our arms or back care to help. Our arms are meant to throw, bash and carry, our legs are meant to run... we are natural hunters. But where is all of this nowadays?
We don't need to hunt anymore. Even if we did, we invented rifles. Rifles shoot animals with a minimal effort. Aim&Pull hardly takes any physical work out. Going to the supermarket by car takes even less. Yet some have found a way to keep the body useful. Because the truth is our body is slowly losing all its abilities and will eventually shut down (which we call heart attack due to morbid obesity) when it reaches a severe state of purposelessness. So we go to gyms. We won't walk to work but we don't mind spending 60 bucks a month to go run in a gym for an hour, like guinea-pigs, chasing after a still wall for 40 minutes. Yet others try to keep their hunter's instincts alive: they gather up to hunt, shooting rabbits with guns that would punch every mosquito in a cloud if you gunned it. Then they hang them around for their friends to see and later their wives cook up another (certified) rabbit meat they bought at the supermarket. Fisherman return the fish to the water, kids play soccer on their playstations when its sunny outside... This is the world we have created to live without our bodies. Our mind has taken over the power because our body's uses are limited to those demanded by Nature. And we definitely want more. But we can't live without them. Hence we keep faking their use, just to make sure they will hold till we're very old.

However, I don't mean to say that our society has only renegated the physical realm. In fact, it has quite curiously taken an immense interest in it lately. Botox, gyms, liposuction: everybody wants to show they fake the better. This is actually good. It means society has realised this fact, sucked it up and moved on. Though something worse is also at work...

Our muscles have lost their ability to our brain. But that was a while ago. Then our brain lost its own use to itself. Extracting cubic roots in your head is more of a circus show rather than something actually useful. Even solving equations with a pen and a pencil isn't very useful. Computers can think for us. Machine can do all the work that consists of either mental or physical stone hammering, because doing it is just a pain in the ass. It's not human we may say. Animals can do it. Machine can do it. We won't. This is actually a lot more recent than the gym thing. A little over ten years ago, there was this man at CERN (the great european physics laboratory) who was a sweeper; he sweeped floors at the theory division. But from time to time a door would open there and some physics lunatic would invite him to his office (no, this is not gay porn) and ask him to compute this huge calculation. Because he could do it faster than computers. Eventually, in the late nineties, his freakish skills got overthrown. We work out sudokus and we run for our health to maintain a flesh and a mind that are no longer useful in this world we have created. So what's left for us? Why are we not extinct yet?

Is it desire? Could be desire. After all, desire is what moved us to build this world that relinquishes us now, like a twenty-year old forsakes his parents who are outdated and obsolete. But is it really desire the last outpost of true use we have? Try to put yourself in a stone man's shoes (or rather stone man's bare feet) who, thanks to some space-time wormhole, suddenly appears in 2008. It's like paradise: pretty women everywhere with all their teeth on, endless hallways of food sitting like dull game within his grasp, fierce beasts far away along with disease and cold... What's left to wish? That man would be the happiest cave man in History. So why do we crave so much for everything around us? Why do we just got to have that car? or that pair of shoes? that MagicSweeper from TVShop? Our society has come up with a brilliant solution, a fake-out masterpiece. People don't need the damn 200$ shoes. So let's just hang a picture of those shoes wherever they go and talk about it on whatever they listen to. That'll get them to buy them. We are faking our own desire. Why? Because we can't live without desire. We have nothing left to wish that really matters. But, just like we can't live without our body and our mind, we have to keep our desire burning or our emotional and psychological system will start to meltdown, like a nuclear power plant meltsdown when its reaction isn't controlled by the electric network's needs. That's why rich people who fail to become prehenptively shallow have such mental problems and 90% of them end up depressed.

Damn! so it looks like we're heading towards becoming a silly party of rudiculous merry-makers, cheering in joy and crying in sorrow, while our creation struggles in the backgournd to provide for our basic needs. For it's our creation that has really taken our place in the world. And the fact that we've created it is what makes us unique and essencial to this universe.

Creativity. Creativity is what we have left for ourselves. Computers can't create. "They lack the imperfection for it." Nothing leaves the rules that were once established for them. We are the guide that leads the way into the future because the products of our creation still can't step off the road laid for them. Maybe this is how God felt about 2.2 million years ago, before he invented the humans. There He was, writing on his blog, telling his other deity friends how creativity was what distinguished them from all the rest and Bam! these monkey-looking creatures start walking around, making tools, painting stuff, building towers, writing books. But they were some ugly mother-fuckers. So He and his mates, Shiva, Allah, Odin, paid no attention to them. Tough luck. 2.2 million years later, atheists rule the world.

So which one of our "ahumanist" creations will rule the world in 2.2 million years?

Stand-up (1)

Alors aujourd'hui c'était un de ces jours super, mais ben juste terrible. Terrible pour moi bien sûr , hein, c'est pas la normalité. Ah non, didieu! Moi, je suis physicien. Moi, la Britnesse S'pierce ça me fait que dalle. Bon, quand je dis moi, bien sûr, je parle que de la tête. Parce que le bidule là en bas, dès qu'il détecte la britnesse, hop là!, il hausse le périscope. Ah, c'est un malin lui... Faudrai que je le sorte un jour peut-être, question de lui montrer la ville. Je sens qu'il commence à s'interesser à la science lui. Il va être comme Papa. L'autre jour, je lui ai raconté une histoire le soir pour l'endormir, et puis je l'ai assis sur mes genous et il m'a fait «Papa, c'est quoi la spéléologie?». Ah, les jeunes, les jeunes, comme la cu-rio-si-té ça les touche! Je suis tout fier. Alors comme un bon père je lui est répondu: «Hé! Hô! Tu veux bien arrêter de me parler où quoi? Ça fait une semaine que je ne bois plus!»
Ah oui hein! parce que quand vous buvez les bidules ils se mettent tous à parler comme des tchattes-tchattes. Quand on rentre tout troglodytés après une soirée en boîte et qu'on veut faire pas de bruit en rentrant chez soi parceque la copine, elle, elle en à marre de faire la vesselle sans le câlin du roudoudou après, c'est là que tous les machins se metent à parler. On arrive, on veut mettre la clé dans la serrure et c'est alors que elle se décide à vous faire connaissance. Et comme toutes les femmes, elle fait la difficile au début. Moi, je ne lui répond pas, j'essaye simplement de mettre la clé dans le trou mais la serrure n'arrête pas de bouger. «Ah, non tu ne vas pas me la mettre dans le trou sans qu'on se connaisse mieux! Pour qu'elle femelle d'animal me prends tu, espèce de sauvage?». «Mais t'es conne ou quoi?! Je te la mes dedans tous les jours et tu ne me dis jamais rien, c'est maintenant que fais l'abstinente?!». Faut dire que quand je gueule à la serrure, de l'autre côté c'est pas le silence qui m'attent non plus! Dès que je rentre, ma copine, elle se met à jouer ma mère, en imitant même les cris et tout. Alors elle est bien sympa de m'aider à ne pas manquer Maman mais j'aurais préferé qu'elle me laisse tout simplement jouer avec les nichons comme Maman le faisait quand j'avais un an. Mais alors, non, ma copine il faut qu'elle fasse des discours: «Raigne, rochigne, trucide...» (j'avoue que je n'arrive jamais à me concentrer sur ce qu'elle dit quand elle râle, ou quand elle me demande des trucs; c'est peut-être une maladie, faudrait que j'aille voir un médecin.). «Mais vé la pitchoune que je te dis que la serrure elle me laissait pas rentrer, c'est quand même pas de ma faute quoi!» Mais elle continue. Faut dire qu'avec celle là y'a pas besoin de boire pour la faire parler, ah non! Pour elle, parler c'est une deuxième façon de respirer. Ou peut-être même une première. C'est pire que la radio. Et en plus c'est une radio du vingt-et-uni-ème siècle parcequ'elle s'allume automatiquement dès qu'on s'en approche et en plus toujours sur la chaîne qu'on ne veut pas. Alors bien sûr le guide d'utilization je l'ai jeté poubelle au deuxième rendez-vous ce qui fait que je n'ai aucune idée de comment la faire taire. Une fois j'ai même essayé de tourner un des tétons voir si on pouvait baisser le volume et "Clac!". Là c'est sa paume qui a parlé, ce qui m'a surpris parceque je n'avais rien bu. Imaginez si j'avais bu! mais au moins ça aurait fait moins mal.
Quand on est bourré, ils parlent les objets que je vous dis. Par contre l'année dernière, je suis allé en Italie et je me suis foutu dans une de ces villes avec de ces rues ridicules qui ne servent à rien. Oui, qui ne servent à rien! Vous savez les petites rues désertes où il n'y a personne, où quelqu'un a laissé son linge pendu il y a environ deux guerres mondiales et où les chats ils sont au régime pour pouvoir passer dans les rues. Elles ne servent à rien ces rues là. Ils les ont baties pour pouvoir vendre des cartes compliquées aux touristes, et puis de temps en temps ils en prennent un ou deux en ôtage et ils demandent une rançon pour les faire sortir de là. Mais me voilà perdu comme un con. Eh bien, là les bidules ils ont pas été fichus de me dire quoi que se soit. Même pas où me procurer de l'alcool pour pouvoir leur parler. De toute façon ils allait me parler en italien ou marrocain, ou mafiarcien. Ah oui, faut aussi savoir qu'en Italie la mafia elle contrôle les éboueurs. Alors il y en a des rues où les poubelles sont "very typiqueul". Ça pu la pasta pourrie partout. Je crois d'ailleurs que c'est pour ça que les chanteurs italiens ils chantent avec des voix ridiculement nasales. C'est parcequ'ils se bouchent le nez. Essayez ça marche. Les nanas elles vont vous prendre pour Ramazzotti: « hoooo caaaammiiiinaaaatooo suuuu peeeensiiiiieriiii riiiipiiiiidiiii... mais poutain qué sa poue per ici!».
Mais alors, eux, les italiens, ils savent faire taire les femmes.

A cool wind is blowing

Heiemo kvad, det song i li.
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
Det høyrde nykkjen, på havet skrid,
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Heiemo kvad, det song i lund
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
Det høyrde nykkjen, den hei'inghund
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Nykkjen tala til styringsmann:
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
Du styre mitt skip på kristne land!
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Eg vil meg på kristne land gå,
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
Den vene jomfruva vil eg få.
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Så gjeng han seg i stova inn
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
med håge hatt og blomekinn
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Nykkjen han dansa, og Heiemo kvad,
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
det gledde alt folket i stogunne var
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

No må kvor gange heim til seg,
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
Heiemo tek eg på skipet med meg.
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Heiemo, Heiemo, still di harm,
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
du sku sove på nykkjens arm.
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Ho stakk til nykkjen i holamot,
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
odden han rann i hjarterot
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Her ligg du, nykkjen, fyr ravn og hund
vakna dikko ædelege drengje
enno hev eg min kvedarlund.
For de hev sove tidi for lengje.

Heiemo Og Nykkjen, tradicional, Norway

La jalousie

Dans cette sale vide dont les portes mènent à quelques autres quatuors de murs silencieux, ton attention pendait dans le vide. Légère et dançante, elle pétillait sur quelques meubles absents avant de revenir sur tes genoux tel un enfant gâté et parresseux. Non loin de toi, assis sur cet animal abattu à forts coussins de velours, Il te parlait, mais le vent de ses paroles ne soufflait pas dans la forêt de tes pensées. Là l'hiver s'était installé, et les arbres intacts s'échangeaient le silence qui s'appuyait sur eux. Gris, les sons ne se propageaient pas dans cette touffe de paille humide, et les seuls brins qui gettaient encore se cachaient dans l'immobilité. Au loin, tel un faible bâttement d'une fenêtre par une brise sans volonté, on entendait les paroles qui se perdaient dans les champs comme des vagabonds vêtus, sans rien à dire, cherchant un interlocuteur ininteressé. Sur les arbres, les brins ne poussaient pas de ce côté-lá.

Tes mains jouaient tranquilement sans savoir qu'elles dénonçaient les gestes errants de ton regard. Un peu plus en bas, il abandonnait tes genoux confortables pour venir serrer la main qui dans Ses yeux attendait craignante, alors que deux petits anges rosés tiraient en même temps sur tes joues pour faire avancer le sourrire.

Pourtant, parfois, sur le chemin de retour vers son étoffe, d'une maligne feinte ton regard fait un faux pas vers moi et, penchée sur le sol, tes yeux d'un air plat se posent - non pas sur les miens - mais un peu au dessous, sûrement non plus de vingt centimètres, quelque part sur moi, avant de se relever et de venir paisiblement s'assoir sur le giron.
Derrière moi, isolée, sur un mur vide parmi les meubles, l'action tourne naïvement sur les aiguilles de l'horloge, se répetant, lente... les murs, les meubles, les portes, nulle part, le regard, se pose, se lève, revient, vingt centimètres. Puis dix, puis cinq, et plus que trois, plus que deux, rien que un. Le voilà. Tes yeux plats se posent sur les miens, je leur relève le couvercle pour voir la cuisson fumante qui s'y prépare. Puis je refermai, et ton regard se relevait.

Dans cette salle vide dont les portes mènent à quelques autres quatuors de murs silencieux, ton attention pendait dans le vide.

Aliens, elfs, big-foot... without Hollywood they'd be lost. Or would they? I already knew in Iceland you need a special authorization from the Elf-lore councillor whenever you want to build something on that island - so you won't mindlessly risk disturbing the elves' kingdom, and that in Nepal there's a special plan exclusively aimed at protecting the Yeti and preserving its habitat. But now, I ran by this hilarious line as I was filling in the Russian visa application form today:

Type of passport : _ diplomatic _ official _ tourist _ seaman's passport _ alien's travel documents

So while SETI is analysing terabytes of cosmical noise to find alien transmissions from outer space, Russia is already issuing visas for extraterrestrial visitors, as long as they have some valid E.T. travel documents. Who knows? I might be lucky and meet Elvis on the Transiberian.

The Greatest Useless Thought

Have you ever eaten strawberries and wondered whether everybody else experiences the same taste as you do? Or looked at your fine blue blazer and asked yourself if your girlfriend also pictures blue the same way you do? If you have, then you have already been confronted with the puzzling undeniable fact that, as long as we interpret everything consistently, there is no way to know what blue actually looks like. Blue as you perceive it, is a mental illustration of signals sent by the eye to your brain when its light receptors are stimulated by electromagnetic radiation within a determined range of energy. This is nothing more than what a lineage rooted in ancient tantric hindu traditions, retaken by buddhism and recently preached in The Matrix, has been trying to figure out.

The concept itself is quite easy to understand. Our experience is made of nothing more but mental interpretations of electrical activity in our cerebrum induced by a foreign reality of some unknown nature. This is a modern reinterpretation of written texts such as the Abhidharma or the Prajñaparamita, which try to explain the theory of voidness. This doesn´t mean the world does not exist - as in the nihilist meaning of voidness, it only says the world as we see it is not the real world, it is only an illusion built upon a limited perception of reality. What you think to be your hand is not you hand, it is not part of you, it is brain activity. Somewhere, beyond this veil of illusion, in the outer reality, is the real hand, the one we can't access, an impressive agglomerate of cells, molecules, atoms, elementary particles which have nothing to do with what a hand really is. By 'really' I mean what for us is a hand. It's skin-colored, it is connected to our body (hopefully), it has five fingers which can wriggle happily or grasp angrily, it has nails which can elegantly pluck a string or be nervously bitten. A hand is far from being a one-piece concept and you will find that everything is in fact a collection of simpler concepts which may be recursively subdivided in our mind. And all that is in our head. Your friends, your house, your sweetheart, they're all in your head, they are ions being transfered inside a complex neural network. I don't mean to say you're making it all up, that there is nothing there to be perceived and that you're simply nuts; that's nihilism. I'm saying it really is there, it's just not what you consider to be 'it'. Reality is only experienced through perception and interpretation. That may be seen as the veil and the illusion.
Now once you have successfully realised things are so, you start wondering what you might do reagrding such a shocking revelation. And that's when one undertakes the path to enlightenment, the Dharma, the road to absolute freedom from illusion, the ultimate liberation from your own mind. If our mind is providing us with this world we care for and suffer for, thinking it is the real thing and that pain is more than just neurotransmitters (it feels more than neurotransmitters) then let's be free from it, let's tear down the veil of illusion, let's behold percepted phenomena as mere illustrations. These are the teachings you may find in the Abidharma which is the foundation for Hinayana buddhism practised in South-East Asia. Every man, should he whish to cease his suffering permanently (of course, when they say permanently they mean throughout your endless cycle of reincarnations and not just one lifetime), must walk the path to nirvana to be free from all illusion and never suffer again. This is the path Neo walks in The Matrix until he atains nirvana after Trinity kisses him (so would I attain...). He follows a master (Morpheus) and an oracle who lead him to realise all he perceives isn´t there, that his brain is making thin computer code into big 'real' things.
The Prajñaparamita sutras, the corresponding texts for Mahayana and Vajrayana buddhisms practised throughout Asia from Tibet to Japan, take it a little further. A Zen master once said:

Before I had studied Zen for thirty years, I saw mountains as mountains,

and waters as waters.

When I arrived at a more intimate knowledge, I came to the point
where I saw that mountains are not mountains,

and waters are not waters.

But now that I have got its very substance I am at rest.
For it's just that I see mountains once again as mountains,

and waters once again as waters.

Hope. Till this very moment, life was like a dream in which sense was mistaken. You knew it was there but it wriggled and squirted like an eel, dark and misterious, eluding your mind's cluch, slipped and crawled out of your feeble logic back to that black pool, unknown. Now, you've found it, it jumped right into your arms like a foolish pet, peirced the cristaline surface of the water that preserved its mystery, and there you held it, divine, shinning in your strong grasp, hand in your hand, the king of all thoughts, now subdued to your master, to your mind, to reason's rules, like an innocent child, the key to the door... out. Victorious, in your head ring the bells of pride, ancient men dance in your imagination upon sacred dirt, calling for the world - 'The savior has found the key!', you, you knows.

You light its flare but it points at nothing. Nothing changes. No key hole. You weave it high on the shadows of this new-found illusion, hoping to tear the veil, to burn it down in glorious vengeful flames the lie that keeps us bound. But they don't move or even faint. The illusion remains. Mad, your power screams in pain, starting to feel its logic rotting from inside, consumed by doubt, growing within like a cancer threatning to shatter down the bridge across the river. And so the beast stirs again, out of its fallen corpse comes a stronger stench, bleached and permanent, and you hit it with your mind, but it rises back up, and you bash it, strike it, hammer it down under your reason's mallet, strirring thin air only to swirl it hard enough so the stench comes closer to your nose, bragging like a clever girl crying out laughter in your beard.
Defeated, the eyes that once saw now watch pointlessly as the walls fall back in, suffocating, driving air into concrete which you breathe, shear illusion filling your lungs like metal, and the flame goes dead under its bricks.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

What comes next is irrelevant. Because after what comes next, everything is. Your mind with its rightful rules of logics - that pit of divine where all phenomena falls in to become true and real, even yourself, are too that same illusion. Brain signals if you wish to believe what you see, what your mind makes out from it. It doesn't matter what you believe, what you do, if you get out or stay. There is no illusion for there is no one to be illuded. There is no difference between what you see, what you hear and your thoughts, your feelings, the very sense of yourself. Existence is a mind's deal. Accept it or not, it won't leave. You rely on it to be. You are what it is.
Nothing matters anymore. Morality, faith and science are comfortable buildings in which we rest, putting away behind its walls the truth which we dare not check it has left. You come to me, with your frail principles and your common sense, but I am beyond it. Your angered blows are like tasteless kisses on a dry veil separating our mouths. You will never meet me, and I will never meet you, for we both exist.
The Path is over before it started; there is no one to be freed.

The horror.... the Horror.