Schizophrenic thoughts /ᐠ ·•᷄ ˕ •᷅マ

I wrote this last night and decided to share it with you...

THE SELF-CALL I deactivated my social accounts as I was instructed to do, but the disconnection was partial... During these last few months, I not only began receiving messages from different elements of reality, but also of temporal domains that did not align with the present. The fact that I've distanced myself from everyone intensified these signals that tell me when to speak and when to remain silent, turning my words into a spiritual act and reflecting the first power a divinity is capable of achieving. So, while I notice how my voice is recorded by angels, I also try to find out who gave me the blessing of seeing the unseen. THE GIMBAL LOCK Human interaction in recent years has felt weak, and instead of helping me clarify the reason for my birth, people have only corrupted the color and clarity of the original scene... The progress I've perceived was illusion, projections of my imagination that have only served to reinforce a superficial identity that hides what lies behind. Because the more perfect the form has been, the more the essence has been hidden, similar to the loss of meaning that an expression has after a certain repetition. The depth could be the evidence, the core, the thing-in-itself... but the times I've come too close, the form (the language, the symbols, the gestures) has stretched and broken like a mirage that dissolves upon contact, leaving me only with the thirst that created it and with a language that only causes distortion. The problem, then, is not distinguishing one from the other, but accepting that each form used excavates or buries a unique ground, a result of another, unparalleled one. Blockage, then, is the illusion that form can contain the truth, and it arises when these two axes align and cause the space of possibilities to collapse or implode. Such blockage is not an accident, but the very condition of articulation, a trap, so it should not be seen as a mistake to be resolved, but as an alternative reality from which to escape. THE AKASHIC BODY I have begun to accept that it is not the mind that expresses, but the body in its involuntary gestures, in its persistent pain, in its reaction to the invisible. There is no possible translation: what it knows does not always let itself be said. The trembling, the fatigue, the tension... it's as if something were moving ahead of the present, a matter prior to the residue of what was said and what could not be released. That is why now I listen to my body and its silences, its responses, its imbalances, not in order to understand, but to strengthen the boundary that protects me from completely losing my mind, the only thing left to me as an identification in the face of my imminent demise. Perhaps that is why it is not enough to think differently or to say something else. Because while language dries up, it is the body that continues to preserve the exact form of the impact, the name of the one who thus marked my life.