It wasn't really me, was it ?
What can I do if the Emergence process has been initiated ?
And along with it, the explosion into a myriad debris of the world's trivialities ?
Sadness is forgotten.
Sadness is on its way to being forgotten.
Sadness of the verses, my verses, lost in the spirals of materialism.
Sadness of hearing the worlds of suffering created by the intertwining of ridiculous remarks.
This way to be sitting with so much joy that others seem not to want.
This joy that they don't know they don't want,
Do not believe that thousands of texts have passed through me and leave me unscathed ?
These texts have blown everything away,
The Breath of the Emergence has carried along, is carrying along
Everything.
Until eventually there's nothing left.
As long as the creative investigation has not completed its work, the texts find their way between my inner river beds.
When the letters finally pass without hanging on to a memory, an experience, a belief, a suffering, it means that joy has set in.
The joy of having nothing to write other than joy.
©FJ May 2022 —
Groupe de Pratique
Recueils — Participations
Merci à tous
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