Inquietudes

There is no doubt that between thinking and feeling there is a great difference, this is incontrovertible.

There is great coldness between people, it is the cold of what is unimportant, of the superficial.

The multitudes believe that what is unimportant is important, they suppose that the latest fashion, or the latest model car, or this issue of the basic salary is the only serious thing.

They call the chronicle of the day, the love affair, the sedentary life, the glass of liquor, the horse race, the car race, the bullfight, gossip, slander, etc. serious.

Obviously, when the man of the day or the woman from the beauty salon hears something about esotericism, since this is not in their plans, nor in their gatherings, nor in their sexual pleasures, they respond with a kind of frightening coldness, or simply twist their mouths, shrug their shoulders, and withdraw with indifference.

That psychological apathy, that chilling coldness, has two bases; first, the most tremendous ignorance, second, the most absolute absence of spiritual concerns.

A contact is missing, an electric shock, no one gave it in the shop, nor among what was believed to be serious, much less in the pleasures of the bed.

If someone were capable of giving the cold imbecile or the superficial little woman the electric touch of the moment, the spark of the heart, some strange reminiscence, something too intimate, perhaps then everything would be different.

But something displaces the secret little voice, the first hunch, the intimate longing; possibly a trifle, the beautiful hat in some window or shop, the exquisite sweet in a restaurant, the meeting of a friend who later has no importance for us, etc.

Trifles, foolishnesses that, not being transcendental, do have force in a given instant to extinguish the first spiritual concern, the intimate longing, the insignificant spark of light, the hunch that, without knowing why, disturbed us for a moment.

If those who today are living corpses, cold night owls of the club or simply umbrella sellers in the department store on the high street, had not stifled the first intimate concern, they would at this moment be luminaries of the spirit, adepts of the light, authentic men in the fullest sense of the word.

The spark, the hunch, a mysterious sigh, a something, was felt sometime by the butcher on the corner, by the shoe shiner or by the first-rate doctor, but all was in vain, the foolishnesses of the personality always extinguish the first spark of light; afterwards continues the coldness of the most frightening indifference.

Unquestionably people are swallowed up by the moon sooner or later; this truth is incontrovertible.

There is no one who in life has not felt at some time a hunch, a strange concern, unfortunately anything of the personality, however foolish it may be, is enough to reduce to cosmic dust that which in the silence of the night moved us for a moment.

The moon always wins these battles, it feeds, it nourishes itself precisely with our own weaknesses.

The moon is terribly mechanistic; the lunar humanoid, completely devoid of all solar concern, is incoherent and moves in the world of his dreams.

If someone did what no one does, that is, to revive the intimate concern that arose perhaps in the mystery of some night, there is no doubt that in the long run the solar intelligence would be assimilated and for that reason it would become a solar man.

That is precisely what the Sun wants, but these lunar shadows, so cold, apathetic and indifferent, are always swallowed up by the Moon; then comes the equalisation of death.

Death equalises everything. Any living corpse devoid of solar concerns, degenerates terribly in a progressive way until the Moon devours it.

The Sun wants to create men, it is doing that experiment in the laboratory of nature; unfortunately, this experiment has not given very good results, the Moon swallows the people.

However, what we are saying is of no interest to anyone, much less to the educated ignoramuses; they feel like the mother hen or the father of Tarzan.

The Sun has deposited within the sexual glands of the intellectual animal mistakenly called man, certain solar germs that, conveniently developed, could transform us into authentic men.

But the solar experiment is frightfully difficult precisely because of the lunar cold.

People do not want to cooperate with the Sun and for that reason in the long run the solar germs involute, degenerate and are lamentably lost.

The master key of the work of the Sun is in the dissolution of the undesirable elements that we carry within.

When a human race loses all interest in solar ideas, the Sun destroys it because it no longer serves for its experiment.

Since this current race has become unbearably lunar, terribly superficial and mechanistic, it is no longer useful for the solar experiment, a reason more than sufficient for which it will be destroyed.

For there to be continuous spiritual concern, it is necessary to pass the magnetic centre of gravity to the essence, to the conscience.

Unfortunately, people have the magnetic centre of gravity in the personality, in the café, in the canteen, in the bank’s business, in the brothel or in the market square, etc.

Obviously, all these are the things of the personality and the magnetic centre of the same attracts all these things; this is incontrovertible and anyone who has common sense can verify it for themselves and directly.

Unfortunately, when reading all this, the rogues of the intellect, accustomed to arguing too much or to remaining silent with an unbearable pride, prefer to throw the book away with disdain and read the newspaper.

A few sips of good coffee and the chronicle of the day are magnificent food for rational mammals.

However, they feel very serious; undoubtedly their own wisdom has them hallucinating, and these solar-type things written in this insolent book bother them too much. There is no doubt that the bohemian eyes of the homunculi of reason would not dare to continue with the study of this work.