Monday, January 24, 2011


It’s getting harder Mary.

I wish I had more of Crowley in me.
He knew the art of discernment.
He could smell the black of manipulation,
the stench of fear and submission.

Do you think me weak?
Or is all of this an attempt to sharpen my senses,
to cut through the false and illusion, to polish the ruby?

Because I have to tell you, this is getting quite tiresome.

I am in the middle of a storm that is not letting up.
I do not wish to stand in its center anymore.
Maybe, I’ll just step out of it?

Would you think less of me?
Or be proud?

How much longer shall I weather this out?
Tell me.

I don’t know if this is worth it.
I don’t know if I ought to care this much.
I pity man.

Man is a dirty dog.
I don’t think Gurdjieff said this to justify man’s behaviour.
He said it so that man would take it upon himself to become more
than what he is. To try. No?

But Mary, I think he would be so disappointed to see how man twists and tangles up words to mean something else, how he gratifies his own egoism, so that he can delude himself into thinking he is not required to transform the merde that he is.

Gurdjieff saw Truth.
But I’m supposed to accept that man is weak?
So he can continue to gallivant when he knows better?
Ah, the worst kind.
Those who know and pretend that they don’t.

I will not give an inch more, when I feel myself depleting.
And I will take all that I hold to be true and real,
for my own growth.
And the rest? The nonsense, the futility, the stupidity?
I will scatter them out into the sea.
Just like that.
Not one more breath, Mary.
Not one more breath on merde.

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