The Birth of The Phoenix.
For all the Children born by Fire.
“The Morning” by Philipp Otto Runge, 1808.
To be born is a bet. We never know in which nest we will fall. We hope that the best will come of it, that Life will receive us as a zealous mother receives her offspring under its wings. We bet. We bet on a love that crosses mountains, that overflows limits, submitting, rawly, to a colorful world where the human psyche crawls in shades of gray. We have courage. I have never seen a cub that hasn't the audacity, that wasn't unmistakably, spontaneously brave. And despite the tiny wings and fragile bodies, we surrender to the abyss; we trust in the one who created us and our luck as beginners. We feed on integrity and are unaware of cynicism; we dress in impetuosity and display willpower greater than the strength of a hundred well-nourished men. We earned our right to exist, and Life smiled at us when it looked into our eyes for the first time.
We learn to crawl, we venture to walk; our steps reverberate with enthusiasm, constancy, and optimism. We run over ourselves in euphoria, eager to overcome barriers and embrace freedom. Yet, as if by divine means, we suddenly are confronted by The Obstacle and its remarkable apathy. We adopt a carapace that will be inflexible to our most beloved desires. Slowly, we perceive the suppressing walls, the suffocating ceilings, and a floor that obstinately pursues to cling to our feet. Our existence begins to develop in mute. We share the tiny perspective of a star born free in the immensity of a captive sky. We believe that reality is one and that it is restricted, limited, and miserable. We feel hungry. We languish in the care of greedy claws that rip our skin and devour our souls. We learn that Love is synonymous with pain, lancinating, and continuous pain. And in the name of pain, we offer ourselves on trays as obedient children do so our bodies may be gradually consumed by those who beg.
We confuse envious gazes with cautiousness, malicious fallacies with trivialities, stealthy behaviors with individualities, and coercion with discipline. We see the beautiful as ugly and the perfidious as ordinary. Our eyes were stolen, and our senses altered; we are hostages inside our nest. At this point, we hear from the catacombs of our subconscious the same song heard by Ulysses*. We face pernicious mirrors, mirrors distorted by lunacies. We contemplate borrowed monsters, monsters that belong to the early hours of another. We witness the anguish of unrequited Love in words that swallow fireflies and purge shadows. Our mind disassociates from the surroundings, seeking to escape an inescapable nightmare. We surrender everything, the entirety of what we are and would become, remaining with us a wounded and brutally corrupted judgment as a guide.
And in the face of the abyss, we have only two options: To Ascend or to succumb. Ascending, we will take a long, tortuous, arduous path: the Individual's path. Succumbing, we will perish with our hearts dismayed by those who deceive. Right or wrong is inconsiderable, but neither is this an ode to those who choose to suffer. On the contrary, these are words to those who transcend it and rise. Courage, this was your first impetus, and it will be your last; to be born is only a process; being reborn is the Masterpiece of Life. Those who remain on the fringes of the fire will never disintegrate, nor will they invigorate, for it is the Spirit who purifies the hearts met with ignorance. Life gave you It’s Kiss; to repay it is to encounter your first death. Do not try to resist it, nor stiffen yourself; tenacity lies in humbly bending over. Reveal your true nature: raw, naked, vulnerable. Wash the blame inflicted by mediocrities misled by virtues. Surrender to the abyss once, twice, indefinitely, with the certainty that Consciousness will bring you to the surface like the Phoenix is from its ashes. Do not fear Darkness, as from it will be revealed the Splendor lying behind the shadows. Cause the death of every illusion is and always will be the irrefutable birth of a New Dawn.
*Reference to Ulysses, the hero from Odyssey, by Homer. He is confronted by the alluring and fateful sirens's song while tied to his ship's mast.
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The Voice of Source
“The Source speaks in silence. Its voice is not intellectual or critical, but loving and All-knowing. It goes beyond the mind and even, the Soul. Its language is not emotional or devoid of empathy. It is Wise, Noble, and Dignified. When we listen to It we become what we are made of. That is our Essence.”
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