Neculai Fantanaru

Everything Depends On The Leader

I Forgot To Die

On April 27, 2017
, in
Leadership Z3-Extended by Neculai Fantanaru

Do not try to resist the flow of life before you have crossed the threshold imposed by its determinism.

I have always believed that a vision can be changed, that a way of thinking can be overthrown at 90 degrees as in a mirror that seeks to control and dominate reality at all costs. In the middle was the inner content of the consciousness filled up to the brink to build a destiny. I was rather naive, a totally false and conventional ensemble of causes and effects above my understanding, very different from the way I was when I was serving my ideals of life with a glancing gaze to a future anchored in the promises of God.

What could I ask from a young family man who sees the world still in the pink colors of the fairytale motifs through the rounded lines of the possibility of being a hero of the free and prosperous, peaceful world in everything it has to offer, producing a kind of refuge in a fantastic space where everything is possible? Not that I became another, alien to my own being, a man seeing himself in darkness and complete isolation without any safety net, but now I think visions cannot be changed, they can only be adapted, laboriously interpreted as another test of the obsession with science and its conquests.

The virus was the inversion of the presence of the divine soul within my being, it was the condition to assume the denial of the dull reality in the endless shadows of a totally different nature, the immense luminosities of the sensible and worldly things. And it was spreading vertiginously to the infinite periphery of a cold, fallen, painful, wretched humanity, where man was always alone, irremediably compromised.

Leadership: Are you the weakness of a man who sees himself as a profound admirer of the art of living but unable to create it under its own name?

My name is Gerry Lane, I'm a researcher. I forgot to die. Undoubtedly by the satisfaction of a drama of great intensity, sickness, as if over time, a hundred times more intense than any overthrow of forces between good and evil. Or rather, death has forgotten me, as the artist forgets about the fatigue of the road and seems to be filled with energy when he takes part in the finishing of a special painting. For me, death was something that always happened to others, in the whirl of a call to the darkest forgetfulness of which I only absorbed the lengthy pause of separation.

We accept it as an inevitable fact, a black spot in a burning circle, seeing it as a very distant, almost unrealistic perspective, covered by the muscle of a heart I knew but whose beatings I could no longer hear. Death was a contractile tissue made up of cells of music that terribly ironed the various philosophies of living people, which medicine could not remove anyway.

The weakness of allowing yourself to be at destiny’s whim and not believing in what you have been given is an interruption of the experience of belonging to a small world in a larger world.

Daimon, or the choosing of my own self, so would John Fowles characterize the answer that I was offering to death. Reminding me of his hero, who was constantly staring at himself inside a room:

"He saw himself as a profound admirer of art but incapable of creating it. He had a feeling identical to the one he had experienced in confronting the great composers or performers, the great painters, in front of some extraordinary performances on stage or on screen, in front of those who knew how to prove their talent – and who, by implication, demonstrated his own incapacity and contempt for the urban art to which he was dedicated, a risk-free, dependent, compromised art."

The purpose of my life was to look for myself between the corridors of a dead person who was bypassing me and the areas of a life that was totally unknown to me. I doubt that I could have clearly distinguished an important part of leadership issues. At that time, my creation was a way of revealing myself as a source of life in a mortal world, depending on the subtleties of the essence of being vivid and predestined to make changes.

The meaning you give to life depends on the virtue of your transposition into a nightmare role from escaping by conquering the self-indulgence by accepting the terms and conditions of worldly (or divine) laws that are disadvantageous to you.

It is the duty of every man to update his sense of confrontation with the challenges of world events in the vast expanse of the fronts he is fighting on, correlated with the ability to make decisions and assess their impact.

A front of denial of reality manipulated by its divine forces, a front of refusal to be addicted to a particular context, a front of personality definition that echoes the tilting at windmills and a front of freedom to be addicted to what you are experiencing through an experiencing of a transformed man.

You must not lose on any front, but shine on each and every single one, on the front of pain, and on the front of the miracle of revealing divinity or your essential nature. If you do not want your life to acquire valences of décor, prove yourself to be a winner in any confrontation.

Leadership is the impact you have on events that test your ability to make decisions about the power to stay consistent with your own ideas about the meaning of life in a world that no longer believes in miracles.

I Forgot to Die is the result of quickening manifested through the strength of experiencing the fight against life. A life whose determinism is explained by links of causes and effects that do not always favor you.

* Note: World War Z

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