The promisse of happiness

I don’t know what my mind is up to. Like all the oth­ers, my brain is a gelati­nous sponge pop­u­lat­ed with mean­ders and man­groves inside which dreams are fight­ing each oth­er in an atavis­tic struggle.

I don’t know if I am dri­ven by strings or by habits too old to under­stand. My thoughts seem both ran­dom and auto­mat­ic, pup­pets or puppeteers.

Nep­tune is pass­ing through the celes­tial cir­cle of my birth. The plan­et feeds and enno­bles my natal Mer­cury for a few more months. My astral chart is the only map whose roads I know, but I do not see any des­ti­na­tion. My exis­tence is a frac­tal among many oth­ers, a drop of water that is no longer one in an ocean that is indif­fer­ent to it. The monks of the East nod in silence. The West­ern philoso­phers raise an eye­brow and nev­er low­er it again.

I must dis­ci­pline myself to stay awake ; only my con­science can dis­tract me. The rest – what my sens­es pick up and drink in – forms a spec­ta­cle seal­ing my words.

I wish I under­stood my past’s chival­ric and karmic route ; I wish I could make a sto­ry of it and be proud, nour­ished and con­tent. But I don’t know what’s clump­ing in my thoughts. I stand there lis­ten­ing to the ghosts and the sen­sa­tions, and I am told I must for­get them. I am in no hur­ry. There is no rush because the film of our life is no match for the abstruse math­e­mat­ics of the whole of reality.

I mea­sure my hap­pi­ness, and it does not fill a glass. That’s why, each time I bring it to my lips, I refuse to drink it, already hap­py to taste its promise.