"Don't wake him up, he's got insomnia, he's trying to sleep it off!".
Traces of the imperishable, that inhabits us, struggle to break through the rubble of human stupidity. In each one of us, the battle of consciousness is fought in these terms. Do we ignore because we do not want to know? Or do we not know because we have not yet accessed knowledge?
As the saying goes: "No man is blinder than the one who refuses to see", and in the face of such blindness, the only possible answer is experience, that through love or pain, will open our eyes. For others, the weary trail of search open, because climbing the mountain of understanding is always an arduous path, different for everyone, but strenuous for them all.
Shreds of what we are will remain on the roads, on the slopes of the mountain and at each step; the climb will be steeper, the crossroads more arduous; the rarefied air from the heights will slow down your march, and the icy winds will relentlessly call into question your efforts. Even so, to reach the top will simply be accessing a transit station; in the distance, another even higher mole, will challenge you again, because the path of knowledge is built as much from what we acquire as from what we abandon.
Every year, at least one new book of my authorship appears. Like tracks in the wind, the messages they contain quietly scatter here and there, leaving vaporous marks on the existence of some readers, slipping between the seams of their thoughts, and sometimes, the best, turning on lights, warming hearts, or questioning the rigid walls of established truths, when their deepest feelings, those of the spirit, "play Reveille" for the sake of the mysteries of communication.
However, this evolution of texts, whose only link is the capricious coming and going of my dalliances with consciousness, is so difficult to frame, to place within any epigraph, that not even I myself would know how to do it. Every year I call on my protective spirits to assist me in facing the arduous task of giving a title to this mixed bag, in which there are so many questions of the spirit, as well as reflections of our current moment and all this, moreover, without any solution of continuity. I am not misleading myself about their "high" purpose, value, or significance; they are nothing but footprints in the wind, wisps of my cigarette smoke, lost in the clouds of change. Signals with the bonfire language, smokes that only those most sensitive stalkers perceive, brothers in the distance who, like me, separate from the herd, questioning incessantly the supposed truths of consensus, always convenient there, where the flock communes.
As much as my conscience doesn't retain at all any vestige of personal importance about these writing fruits that are my books, I don't forget that the wind is the great germinator. So, it's to the wind that I entrust the seeds that I reel here, and now and every time I face astonished, the terrifying white of that empty sheet, that spotless and immaculate challenges me every month, at least twice, in that editorial space that is not supported by any explanation, sometimes anachronistic, and always out of its natural context.
What in the world are my writings doing in a Martial Arts magazine? The truth is that I wouldn't know what to answer to you, my dear readers.it is already a miracle that someone reads in these times, whatever the reading may be, but the truth is that fate, and I say it with knowledge of the cause, placed me here... And who am I to question such a great Lord?
So I let my pen slide over the paper, like someone unloading a weight, and let it come and go at the whim of its whims, sometimes giving it to the service of worldly questions and others to those more typical of the spirit. I do it with the certainty that there are those who in this process use my mediumship to serve causes greater than any personal purpose; and I gladly yield it, because I'm going through those ages, in which vanity peels, dries out and wrinkles due to its prolonged use.
Regarding responsibility, however, I do not get out of the way. I gladly sign what I write and maintain what I've said, because I think what I say, and I say what I think.
Sometimes, in an exercise more of curiosity than of vanity, I reread what I wrote in the past and I discover amazed the invisible thread that holds in continuity a speech sometimes truffled of eternal scents. But who am I to say that?
These writings that I now present are no different from the previous ones, they are only traces in the wind, except that the seeds that they can carry, land on fertile ground, that of another spirit between two worlds, so inquisitive and hungry as the one who signs these lines. 90 pages.
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