That we would call the junkie, the addict, the one with an overdrive that could cross any terrain, ride over land or water, inferior is such a billboard of our ignorance.
Fear of what we do not understand, more often than not, passes as “expertise.” Anything that man cannot control is considered a pathology; dangerous.
Why?
Because control is the tool of the governing class. And who are they trying to control? You guessed it. You!
And how do they do it?
They deem anything extra-ordinary, out of the ordinary, a disorder. It is, in fact, highly ordered, but the order is implicate rather than man-made. And this scares man. Get back in your pen!
Here is the wisdom of the ancients, the words of the ancestors. Here is your own terma hidden in the cells and the rocks, your doctrine, your scroll written, tattooed inside each of your cells.
Never flawed, never impure, never broken, never contaminated, never corrupted, never harmed, never damaged. Incorruptible to the extent that you choose to enjoy your nature, to the extent that you go out of the doors of perception, that is your mind.
Saints and whores, mad scientists and yogis, innovators and freaky geniuses, great literary artists and drunken poets, brilliant lovers and epicureans, those with OCD, junkies and the incarcerated, rocket scientists and cosmonauts all know the space beyond the imaginary line.
The line, drawn by a simple pen that ants won’t cross, as if it were a mountain.
That the masses won’t cross because they are obsessed with their molehills.
There is a dimension that cannot be faked or feigned, that once you’ve touched, cannot be untouched.
Heroic in nature, generous in demeanor, funny and fierce, playful as hell, that you would fight for with the conviction of your soul.