Take Gently Her Hope Away

It is rude to steal hope from a little girl. When a child builds her own convictions, they are frail and delicate. Like a teddy bear. If you come up and say something like: “you are the projection of your brain” or “our existence is the hallucination of a socio-cultural machinery connected to your nervous system”, you are precisely a cruel monster. You are stealing a teddy bear from a little girl. Shame on you!

Hope is important. But step by step, you have the coup d'etate of hope. Hope becomes a nightmare, the nightmare. Your little girl brain starts to project. With her teddy bear as lieutenant, he's launching himself in grandiose building ventures. He builds bridge to a place called future, the scaffolds his imagination with new development. Always for tomorrow, always towards the place that is not here.

It's good to escape the brutality of desperation. When your flesh is burning in torment, it's good to thrown your tortured body somewhere else, pouring some fresh illusion on the smoking wounds. That's good. Nonetheless, your place is here. Hope makes you dreaming away. I love dreaming. I love drinking. I love hoping. Yet it's not hope you need. It's presence. Your brain is here. You are here. Is it a hell? Come on! I don't believe that. You need bridges for nowhere. Is it really a hell???

Ok. A demon is pitchforking your guts? The body is a endless moan of pain? That's the easy. Your presence to yourself is the sublime illusion. Take away the mind from the pain and the pain will fade away. It must do it. It's a pure nonsense, that your consciousness disappear and only the pain stays.

No. The real problem is the big emptiness. Every man will accept forever pain, if it's really forever. Nothingness. This is hell. That your love, your memory, your meanings, your values, your body, your arm, your eye. Everything. Disappeared. Nothing. Not even crumbs. And hope is planting the idea, that with good bridges, bridges very soundly built, somehow, you can escape. Maybe only crumbs. Maybe only a ghost. But something! If only the Big Toe, could manage to climb on the Hopeful Bridges. Maybe later he could drag the rest. Maybe.

That's hell.

The hope that the Big Toe, somehow will rescue from emptiness. That's insurance. And it's cheating. Because they are rich and you are poor. Don't trust insurance companies. Don't rely on the Big Toe of Hope. Hell is there. With an actuarian. It's the teddy bear.

Now, you are a monster if you take away hope from a little girl. But when you are the little girl, with more than a tendency for drinking, a bunch of friends in your head and no more clean underwear, that's the time to say goodbye to the teddy bear.

Wait!

I didn't mean suicide! Suicide is the Lack of Hope. Same family, same company. They work together, they reinforce the same habit. Come back. Here is the place. Presence is heaven. Realize that you are the emptiness. That you are the centre of this vortex. The socio-cultural machinery plugged in your brain is giving you the show. You are the show! And it's empty! When you rely on hope, you give someone, somewhere else, the joy of the show. No man! The show is here. Were you expecting MUCH more? Who told you? Jesus? Stop listening the teddy bear:it's an acturian. He wants your signature, but hope is blinding you for the small writings. Small writings are your jail. Somewhere I fill my place. Wrong. Here. Be present to yourself. Stop giving hope a chance. Tomorrow is not different. Tomorrow is here. Hope is desperation with a wig. Be decent, put away the wig. Breathe. Desolation all around? Maybe. Let's crack a joke on the ruins. It's healthy to play tricks to the crows and to hyenas. Loads of laughs. Breathe, again. Be centred, be yourself, be here.

Being here is the thing.  

Real Minds

What there is more real than the mind? Maybe the glass in front of me is a hallucination, maybe the bottle is produced by a evil god, maybe the entire pub is a dream, but this thinking process, this very mind that is subject of hallucinations, dreams and more, must be real.

Poor,poor Descartes.

Let's drink together. Follow me. The glass of this cup, this is real, because if I crash it on your skull, you'll hear a bang and the salty taste of blood dripping in your mouth. Let's roll out of this smelly room and look up!

Yes, the morning sun, that's real! After a night spent drinking and chatting nonsense, this warm is real. It's November and the sunny days in Autumn have hard-wired joy in my brain. In the summer, when you're a child, every day is a day to play outside. But when Autumn comes, it's too cold. So a warm, sunny day in Autumn, it's child play day. No matter how much your deranged, philosophical brain has been twisted by alcohol and arguments, those neurons know, yes they know that Autumn and Sun means Joy. What? Neurons don't speak, so don't have language? So it can't be a meaning?

....

It tastes salty, the blood, doesn't it? Let's keep on rolling. Smell the soil. This is real, the ground for your feet. Try to stand on your head, like an Hegelian for a Marxist. At first the blood is pumping to the head, can you feel the gravity? This is real. Your body is the resultant of millions of evolution, to design blood pumping the other way. But, hey! What a pleasure, the body adapts the new posture and it is winking to your trick. “Mate, the new headstand posture is quite cool, I like to play with gravity”.Discharge of endorphins confirm that. It's real.

Let's run.Run.Run.Run. Forget the cloths, this bourgeois prison for your legs and cock. Let's feel the warm of this November. And what is this? Oh my god! It is a park, where kids are playing. And they are staring two drunk philosophers, with only the sunny November to cover their willies. The kids and their parents. It's not what you think gentlemen. We are philosophers, it is a thought experiment, we are enjoying the sun,... it's hard-wired,... the joy...you know, ...when I was a child. A mother approached. A crispy slap on the check. It's not pain. Pain is a glass smashed on your forehead and in this state, barely noticeable.

No, my dear Descartes, it's not pain. It's shame. Can you feel it? Can you feel the blood coming on your checks? Your brain is pumping blood from your naked leg (aggravating the size of the freezing willy), it is concentrating memories and socio-cultural projections and it is giving you a psycho-lash embodied in your face. And my friend, this is more than real. The shame is real. Ask Joseph K..

Let's go back to our place. You were saying that minds are real. I think that the sun of November, is real. Children laughing and playing, are real. Blood is real. Shame is real. But minds? All that is surrounding us is a dream, a hallucination. Yes. Maybe. And the biggest illusion, the mind that is dragged in a world to call home. I see a brain and its narratives. I see blood and its planet. I see actors and their play.

All this vortex is dancing and laughing around a vacuum. This empty square, you call the most real place of the universe?

Real minds, that's nice. Only a drunk French could have thought such a flamboyant farce. Real minds, like if everything happening really count. So egocentric. Well, he's French. Real minds. Ah. I must tell Heraclitus. It'll make him laugh. For once.