What will be said in the spirit more eloquently than what a drunk said: “The spirit is hermaphrodite”? But it occurred to me, during a prayer session, that the living error that mingles my existence has to do with oblivion, forgetting that arduous, dissipating meaning in Pythagoras's jest: "The world is a number and a tune."
And I remembered that in the power of the term an eternal postponement of the meaning, as much as in the word dawn of night and day, so I began to seek the soul with its opposite, and the body with its subtleties hidden in it, and I said: Let him who did not see the glass of the bottle sleep, but I saw the soul, the lamp that whoever saw it did not sleep.
And I said: O Lord, let me have lords commensurate with my sins, and friends symbolized by metaphors, by the arduous metaphors with which we used to communicate in a wine session, we are the false prophets who spoke of the soul, so we spoiled the sanctification of the earth, we crushed the only vine whose hearts tired of watering it. But the soul is whose soul?
The emaciated young man who slapped his beloved's face with a black flower, alone realizes that his funeral will not end as long as he and her are two souls, struck by an oar in two rivers that do not meet. Thus, the black flower that fell in the mud and was trampled by feet became a sign of the brokenness of the soul.
Whose soul I repeat my question with in mind the names of all those who ended up in this translucent wreck, whose feet were broken as they followed the playful path of this sacred amoebia, otherwise how could someone, in a drinking session, suddenly remember that he and his soul are two contradictory things, and that they are together superfluous for the need of the world?
Perhaps he was confused that night, laughed out of terror, or hid his fear by smoking, except that when he returned home, and before going to sleep, he wrote in his diary: “The spirit is hermaphrodite,” and when he woke up, he did not know exactly what he wanted.
And I remembered that in the power of the term an eternal postponement of the meaning, as much as in the word dawn of night and day, so I began to seek the soul with its opposite, and the body with its subtleties hidden in it, and I said: Let him who did not see the glass of the bottle sleep, but I saw the soul, the lamp that whoever saw it did not sleep.
And I said: O Lord, let me have lords commensurate with my sins, and friends symbolized by metaphors, by the arduous metaphors with which we used to communicate in a wine session, we are the false prophets who spoke of the soul, so we spoiled the sanctification of the earth, we crushed the only vine whose hearts tired of watering it. But the soul is whose soul?
The emaciated young man who slapped his beloved's face with a black flower, alone realizes that his funeral will not end as long as he and her are two souls, struck by an oar in two rivers that do not meet. Thus, the black flower that fell in the mud and was trampled by feet became a sign of the brokenness of the soul.
Whose soul I repeat my question with in mind the names of all those who ended up in this translucent wreck, whose feet were broken as they followed the playful path of this sacred amoebia, otherwise how could someone, in a drinking session, suddenly remember that he and his soul are two contradictory things, and that they are together superfluous for the need of the world?
Perhaps he was confused that night, laughed out of terror, or hid his fear by smoking, except that when he returned home, and before going to sleep, he wrote in his diary: “The spirit is hermaphrodite,” and when he woke up, he did not know exactly what he wanted.