LUX MISTICA

In our life many things weigh us down and create like a mountain of stones within us that blocks us. I have recently been able to find some space for its Light but I think I am unworthy of it. I feel like a little sparrow looking for crumbs. His word and His divine energy are immense and I feel as tiny as a gnat. I have asked many people to pray for me because I would like to feel the faith. I really wish I had a gift from the Holy SPIRIT but I don’t think I deserve it. I believe that the world itself is currently crucified on the cross of pain. We should all help each other. Rediscover divine love and help as many people as possible. Time always appears to us like this, in the form of an unstoppable and necessary worry. Plotinus had questioned himself enough about this restlessness. In fact – so he says – there is a place in the Soul that generates a very particular dynamic, that is, it manages to produce “the sensible world in the image of the intelligible one and makes it mobile, not of the intelligible movement, but of one similar to that and that aspires to be its image ” They are a series of steps, but it is not difficult to go back to the first question: why is time not enough for us as it is? The Soul cannot tolerate the intelligible inside. It is too much, it is heavy, it continually fades into its impossible consistency. It exists, yet it seems to have nothing to do with what Maeterlinck thought was “the atmosphere of life”. We need momentum. Indeed, no, it is necessary to offer the reasons and conditions. Time, in an imperceptible instant, recalls its nature, becoming the subject of itself and the identity of the bearer of a past that is almost always transfigured. This is why it is so complicated to write about what has been: the memory takes the form of a narrative about which we often know nothing. We only feel an impulse to hold it back, but the only action we can really do is prepare the wax, to start over. A divine arrogance pushes us to cut the boundaries of something that perhaps does not exist. In reality, the memory wanders a bit on its own – above all it takes its own form on its own – and, like a poem, it returns. In fact, the actual writing of the self is not so far from the famous long journey that ValĂ©ry talks about: we are waiting on the side of the road for a lump of perfect words in their unitary project. It almost seems that our role shouldn’t be felt. But, in the end, delimiting everything towards the outside makes everything infinite towards the inside, an infinity that needs to open up, selecting, explaining a narrative, above all wrong.

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