Wild Child

Lunes 25 de Noviembre de 2019

Wild Child

The fourteenth moon makes itself smaller, wanes, the cold sails here by way of the arctic winds, the humidity settles in with the walls, the freeze flies invisibly in the air running through the window, I enjoy the northern winds, autumn is fading and the implacable winter is announcing itself early. The smells of the chimneys of the surrounding houses reach my nostrils, cork oaks, pines, woods turned into ashes delighting me with their majestic melancholic aromas that excite my neurons causing them to fire bursts of melatonin all over my body.

I close my eyes and appear in front of my house, enjoying this same smell of the fire that warms and protects the home while I can return, so I can feel the same air that connects our netting of space and time where everything is relative and fleeting. I look at the sea of my house and construct the reality that I desire, the astral journey of my inner wild child, the magic that contrasts with the world of technology and information, the magic that tries to be useful in the face of the shallow world of appearance, the social conditioning and uniform patterns of behaviour that govern the majority of human beings and attempt to rule altogether. The magic of our ancestors that has always been there, for us, so simple, so plain, so individual and unique, without mediocre power structures, corrupt institutions or manipulative religions, without intermediation; the sacred divine connection between God and men.

Lost among the corners of the immeasurable boundaries of my neuronal paths and my conscience, I cope with the days and nights caged between these walls and bars, each moment an interesting lesson for life. Since the first hours, the first weeks, the first months of this illegitimate imprisonment the moment of release has been close at least in my mind; in every instance there has been the chance of bringing the truth to light, of that official with a thirst for justice appearing and doing honour to it. Today I complete 403 days in this prison without having committed any crime and I have not lost the hope of feeling my freedom in the proximity.

Although the reality of this awful place is a lot harsher than that of my astral journeys, through them I mould my own reality, I connect with the source that desires this experience for me, every day I turn to the exercise of forgiving the flawed police officer who lied, the judge who doesn't do her job or does it badly, I don't know, I don't understand but little by little I accept more and more, without questioning much the ways of the universe, discovering the perfection in each experience and the complexity of existence in something as simple as being what we are. Breathing, staring at the horizon truncated by a wall and imagining what lies beyond, fulfilling the here and now, experiencing firsthand the suffering as a source of my inspiration, learning the art of mastering it, enjoying it and transforming it into music, words, energy, impregnating myself with the blues carried across the plains of life by trains.

Thus, magic plays an eminent role, without it everything is reduced to reason and the body, majestic as each of our dimensions, but incomplete without that flame that has no explanation, that is simply there for the one who approaches it, for the one who wishes to nurture the curiosity of the profound, confusing and yet embracing confines of existence. Complex in the confusion of the modern world saturated with information, mass beliefs and mechanical behaviour, conditionings; but simple in the self-awareness and acceptance of our immediate realities, in the infinite capacity of astonishment about the simplest things around us, in the loving rest that this wild child we all carry inside us offers us.

Science does not speak of this, neither does school, much less religion, nor the media, nor any source of first reach, but when I set aside these external factors that have tried to condition me and that sometimes still condition me, I may find a certain inner peace, a certain state of unity not permanent but always available, even with the bitter taste of injustice or the noisy minds and worn out bodies that surround my context.

The ancestral Chinese, the ancient Indians, the natives of Africa, the Tibetans, the American and Australian shamans, the Alpine or Siberian sorcerers, and in hundreds of different ways countless cultures in the history of humanity have always known it and continue to know it, but today the world has become westernised and a slave to reason, making spirituality a belief without profundity and a conditioning without analysis, where the vast majority fall prey to the fear sown for centuries, far removed from the simplicity of the magic that is brought to us by the bright waning moon or the cold air that refreshes our burdened being, or the soft words of awareness that our wild child whispers in our inner ear at every moment of our existence.