Theistic Syncretism: On Love, Ethics and Moral

Black Butterfly

First off, recalling: In TS both Microhistory or personal History and Macrohistory build up together History as a whole…

Google’s slogan used to be “Don’t be evil”. As simple as that.

Nowadays, Google belongs to a business conglomerate, namely Alphabet, which slogan is “Do the right thing.” As sinister as that.

If there is one thing. One, single, one, and unique thing, that I would call a true sin, that would be to try to frustrate hope and love.

If you kill someone, you kill a life and all that that carries.

If you manage to frustrate love by deceit, well then again, “To deceive two parts are required; namely one that deceives and one that lets itself be deceived.”

As hard as if may sound, as I perceive it the deceived part is at fault to some or another degree.

And finally, somewhere in between, there’s torture.

You can torture anyone, specially a kid.

You can go around in your city thrashing beggars or immigrants in a 8 to 1 ratio.

Exactly. You are Evil. You are mean, aggressive and bad. But by no means you are stupid;

You choose and easy target or milite within a violent criminal group, be it Neonazis, some organized religions, a gerrilla, or some States, in order to not have to fight in an equiality of conditions.

Because you are Evil and brave, not stupid, and wouldn’t want that.

The victim, then, grows darkly. He’ll distrust, know not love, have no hope and, eventually, two things can happen;

1. He dies and so love will have been frustrated.

1.1. Additonaly, he can grow to be that which hurt him in his depths.

2. Life finds a way. Life finds a way. Life finds a way… And, if love is sincere, and life stands strong, love shall never be frustrated.

Thanks for reading…

Told On Two Pages

I’ve come to a conclusion: “The collector of hearts” deserves something out of the walls. Here’s my idea: A whole new genre.

The scene goes around the funeral of a man with autism. Autistic but in a fucker-destroyer way: with psychic powers and so on, who died near being thirty years old.

He was sure he was going to die at five to one, not knowing if daytime or nighttime, and he acted recklessly, not to say suicidal, the rest of the time.

Which led him, curiously enough, to die at five to one.

On the tables, here’s the novelty: There are both actors and viewers, not knowing each viewer who is and actor or another viewer.

Scripts, or even frameworks, verse on remembering certain moments of the life of the protagonist, that must be mixed in order to reach some conlusion, and can and must be varied between performances, knowing the actors a kind of a BIOGRAPHY of the autistic man and their personas, which must be usef in order to involve the viewers.

Original Contado en dos páginas.

Lunar Strain

Blueish Moon

It is only a Star.

    It reflects the light,

    That which cannot be seen directly.

    To consecrate your life to something,

    To anything,

    It is only a Star.

    To symbolism,

    It symbolizes the Unconscious.

    I took down doors,

    That many don’t dare to cross,

    Many others even ignore they are there.

    It is only a Star,

    It symbolizes the silence,

    Powerful,

    Which can evoke any song.

    Almost like listening to it,

    Almost as if she were there…

    It is only a Star,

    Those doors won’t come back,

    They just cannot,

    For every step,

    Every single heartbeat,

    Is a point of no-return.

    That was one of the doors.

    It is only a Star,

    Ignored by most,

    To consecrate your life to something,

    To the unconscious,

    To Lunacy,

    That was lunatic,

    This door was black.

   It is only a Star,

    To be able to recall any memory,

    In absolute terms,

    Each context, each sensation,

    They sometimes come without having been conjured,

    That’s the price of non-oblivion,

    For that door is also gone now.

    It lives within me,

    Yet outside at a time,

    For it is only a Star,

    For it is also my unconscious,

    For “ello” is me,

    That door always were frail as crystal.

    It is only a Star,

    But it sets my Imagination Ablaze,

    Even though she should have died.

    That door was the most painful,

    But I am already here,

    Something says “stop”,

    Something yells “Fool! Take advantage of it”.

It is only a Star,

    It makes me deceive myself,

    Into believing I can be only with her,

    One to another,

    With nothing external.

    That door shall never be destroyed,

    Because you are reading this,

    Because communication is always two-wayed,

    For it keeps me tied to life.

Now and forever: From Daniel Prior to Eva Luna.

The Poison Well

Venom.

I do not bother to hide it.

I voice it out: For you to hear my up.

My words, Gibt fein Acht.

I’ve spent years now in the Psyquiatric Ward.

What I do hide, are my true reasons: But we are friends, this is my secret, my gift, from me to thee;

I am a sadistic. As easy as that.

I dispise certain people. The ones who are weak enough to feel my power,

Which relies in my authorità.

I fear no punishment, nor Earthen or Godly…

They think they are better than others, id est, better than me (better than God himself, ya believe it? Heathens!), so I psychologically torture hem into insanity and…

O’Clock. My shift endes here.

For now…