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"The wanderer" came to a big deserte, he felt spied. As if, everybody were looking at him, he started to thing about "what i've done that could be so wrong?". As he walks, he thinks about live.
40 - Why worry?
If I don't write, I might end up dying. My heart still beats, but my spirit visits hell, without moving my body or even leaving the place.
Hell is watching yourself.
Feeling in the spirit what the body forces the soul to do. Wills don't sleep, evil doesn't dream, because it doesn't sleep, evil happily looks at weakness, and in the moment of hesitation, it reigns. Command. Require. Abuse. Humiliate. enslaves. Judge and condemn.
So it leaves the skin it inhabits. For satiety and sovereignty, just to make it clear: regardless of direction and willpower. Evil still drains its host, because once it enters, it can leave (if you wish), but it will forever poison you.
Suddenly, this desire that dominates and almost blinds decision-making is combated by the reason that exists at the center of the essence. There is no malice, but a libidinous will, which dominates the thought, but does not possess the entire body.
Thus, the flesh that shelters the soul, lives in conflict and soon passes from concupiscence to cupidity, pointing the mirror that reflects its own vexation and shame assumes a totalitarian state.
Basically, it is not natural, proof of this is that it never happens. Why does the craving happen? To the point of agonizing. There is undoubtedly a repression, which is almost manifesting itself. Fortunately, never completely, just suggestions that after much torture are abandoned and rejected.
After all, the core of true action, action in its most primal form, I would even say in its birth form, this form is nothing more and nothing less than something divine. Just looking for a sincere exchange. Never the inconvenience, which is usually the result. After the blizzard, the effect promotes embarrassment.
There is no malice. And the slightest perception that the presence has become unwanted is humiliating, saddening to the point of depression. As if two distinct personas pilot the same skin, this skin, inhabited by divine souls, not by their own nature, but by the very divinity that created them.
The body is nothing but flesh and blood, and certainly nothing is more certain than that fact. At some point it will succumb and turn to dust. However, something so fragile and perishable harbors the purest divine creation, the soul.