The Testimony Of A Destiny Born Of An Astral Configuration

Be thankful to consider all the paths of your life as a kind of duty of a high spiritual teaching that is to be fulfilled when the time of a resetting of the world comes.

I cannot even explain to myself what I did, unless I condemn myself to a perpetual wandering in the search for past times, forcing the unanimously accepted boundaries of the truth that comes from the overpowering Creator that is in me and everywhere. He invaded my body, my mind, my soul, with the spell of the thirst to find the traces of a totality in which the opposites of this world are found. A katana cut broke the reminiscence of an undisclosed secret in one shot.

He who would feel in my way of writing some hostility to anything that might prejudice my superiority in the mirror of time would also feel the cold wound of the finitude of existence that was preceded by nothingness.

I only know that I have to try another metaphorical story, but not about strategies, militaries and wars, but about the impressive culture of a forgotten world, a manifestation of a hidden divine reality that imparts to the reality of a lost civilization the fundamental color of the vital principle, and blood, as in a painting by Adam Varga. Already I feel good to have been a part of that world, without forgetting myself, without risking losing myself in a script directed by someone else with the evidence of immortality that the universe has sprinkled on every act of imagination.

The crossing of time resembles the illustration of the reality that you feel you only experience in a painter’s vision. How much virtue exists only for one reason to be part of a larger picture of things, how to conceive the pictorial surface arrangements with living exaltations, hyperboles of unforgettable sensations, revelations of an old and enigmatic world, all of these paving the way for a new form of expressiveness.

Can you ensure your visibility in a leap above the level of a mere mortal, without changing your perception of your ego at the moment when you cannot be defined as a "passer-by", but as part of the length of a road which flows without interruption?

I, the one who was traveling clandestinely between lives, books and paintings, became one who had danced in a storm on the road leading to Delphi, when Jupiter would survive and defeat his father with the support of the Titans. The amateur league has denied me the right to linger too much there. When the road was not easy to cross, when my whole body and my muscles demanded the right to rest, I looked at the ancient gods about which my only friend, Hesiod, said they had retreated to the north on some islands blessed after they were defeated by Zeus.

The experiencing and contemplation of something tangible only with the desire to encompass a new reality in the hourglass of time, the miracle of an invisible existence to unapproved looks, the reflexes of a poetic vision, with an unstoppable thirst of knowledge springing from the very substance of the previously assimilated, made everything seem less intimidating.

Regretfully, but also with joy, I left Delphi, bypassed Himera, just to spend time looking for a mysterious paradise where the heavens were spinning on the polar axis that Hyperboreans glorified like the Atlas Pillar. We had heard that the wise and prosperous people in this land did not know disease, suffering, and old age.

It was an attempt to come to terms with life. After having passed through hard-to-reach mountains and through the forests around Kios, the only ones that time has not turned into a barren terrain, after spending wonderful moments in mysterious places, we have come in a country where imagination was an Empress over the minds of men and I was greeted by the creative genius of a medium-sized race.

Can you create an event in your own life experience that has awakened your feelings in terms of what it can produce at a level of mentality change in relation to the perception of a fleeting pleasure that maintains the permanence of an idealistic vision?

A particularly beautiful woman, Electra, took my hand as if she had done it for a lifetime, and led me near Asgard, the most holy sanctuary of Aesir. After being presented to the Atlantean priests, at the head of an unregulated confederation of the kingdoms, we were allowed to attend the ceremony due to the sacred union of what appeared to be a great priestess and a king. The hill on which the ceremony was held was surrounded by five concentric circles of water and dry land, equidistant from each other.

I stared in her eyes, as the painter looks at his model to capture the gentleness of spirit, for which there could be no other proof of artistic craftsmanship. I realized that she was looking straight into my eyes with the same pleasure that you read a poem dedicated to the gods. The effective force of secular wisdom would not have been able to create a depth in the texture that values the spiritual space between two worlds so sowing in their essence and yet so remote compared to the much larger dimensions of the material universe.

In order to encompass a reality that only fiction can express, it is necessary to breathe a fresh, fragrant breeze to that cry that speaks a silent language, a warm hug under a starry sky, as if it were all braided with silver yarn under the rays of another lamp.

Can you justify the credibility circumstances that apply to recognizing the status of "graceful presence in the time line" gained as a potentiator of expressiveness of a repeating image?

I still nostalgically experience those times that history remembers little of, in another life that accompanied me throughout the evolution of my soul. Everything is an awakening to that which is eternal and indestructible, a kind of abstract representation of an ancestral memory, reminiscent of a period in which only the wind and the birds broke the silence of a barren reality.

A philosopher of ancient Greece and the founder of the Academy of Athens, Plato, told the story of the legendary Atlantis, but omitted mine and Electra’s story. These are the mortals of this world that I could never understand. They are attracted to the rare riches that increase their price, they only rely on the passing ones, but never afford the luxury of giving the present to the substance of eternity.

Finally, infuriated by the constant mixing of the races that thirst the priests and the kings of power, the gods sank Atlantis in an unnamed place. But they were persuaded to attribute to this paradise some extra dimensions of "legend" due to the proximity between me and Electra, as an echo of the times of unquenchable love between Guinevere and Lancelot, without which the legend of the kingdom Camelot would’ve been forgotten.

Everything is relived in other times in another form, but in a similar context. The Greeks knew we were nothing but the shadow of a dream. According to idealistic doctrine, the verbs "to live" and "to dream" are perfectly synonymous.

Treasures and riches fade away, memories remain stuck in the hourglass of time. But colors will always serve as expressions of different states of mind. I do not think for a moment what is happening around a history suspended in vague memories, but I am grateful to consider all the paths of my life as a duty of a high spiritual teaching to be fulfilled when the time comes for a resetting of the world.

An image that is repeated over time is an attempt to make a deal with life in a world doubted by its very popularity, that even if it survived and evolved to a point, can always prove to be fleeting.

Testimony Of A Destiny Born Of An Astral Configuration refers to the power to integrate yourself in a world that could fall apart at any time, but one that can also be revived through the fantasy with which you attribute to it a real, more attractive and more convincing image.