The moments follow each other: nothing gives them the illusion of content or the appearance of significance, are developed, its course is not ours, we look at its flow, prisoners of a stupid perception. The emptiness of the heart before the gap of time: two mirrors reflecting the absence of face to face, one image of invalidity ... As under the effect of an allele thoughtful, all evens out: no more summits, no more abyss ... Where to find the poetry of the lies, the sting of an enigma? Who does not know
boredom is still in the infancy of the world when still waiting for ages birth and remains closed at this time fatigued that survives, who laughs at his size and succumbs to the threshold of the same ... future, dragging with him the matter, suddenly promoted to a lyricism of denial. Boredom is the echo in us of time that tears ... the revelation of the void, the termination of the delirium that says or makes up life ...
securities Creator, man is being delirious excellence prey to the belief that something exists, while you just hold your breath: everything stops, stop your emotions, no longer flinches; suppress their whims: everything becomes opaque. The reality is a creation of our excesses, our excesses and our disorders. A drag on our palpitations: the course the world slows, without our heats, the area is ice. The time it takes not only because our desires engender this universe ornamental undress a bit of insight. A bit of clairvoyance reduces us to our primordial condition: nudity, a point of irony that we undress costume hopes that allow us to deceive ourselves and imagine the illusion wears off all other way of life. Boredom is just the beginning of this journey ... It makes us feel too long, unfit to reveal an end. Separate from any object, having nothing to absorb the outside, we destroy slow motion, because the future has ceased to offer a rationale.
Boredom reveals an eternity that is not overcome in time, but their ruin is infinite souls rotting for lack of superstition: a flat where there is no reason whatsoever to turn things around in search of his own downfall .
life is created in delirium and is undone in ennui.
(who suffers from a poorly characterized not have the right to complain, is an occupation. The great suffering not ever get bored, they filled the disease, such as guilt feeds the main culprits. For all intense suffering raises a fully simulated consciousness and proposes a terrible reality, I could not escape it, while suffering no object at that time mourning boredom is not opposed to the conscience nothing that compels a successful management. How to Cure a bad non-localized and extremely vague, which affects the body without leaving a trace on it, which insinuates itself into the soul without marking it with no signal? It looks like a disease to which we survived, but had absorbed our possibilities, our reserves of attention and would have left us powerless to fill the emptiness that follows the disappearance of our horrors and the fading of our torments. Hell is a haven compared to the exile in time, with the languid prostrate empty and where nothing stopping us but the spectacle of the universe that would fall under our eyes. What
therapeutic use against a disease that we remember and infer the consequences of today? How to invent a remedy to exist, how complete the cure without end? And how do you recover from birth?
The boredom, the nursing incurable ...)
CIOR EM - Breviary of rot.
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