The White Tower of Deception: Humility

¡Hi Steemians!

On many occasions I have felt in myself a rather subtle resistance that has impeded the full enjoyment of great experiences. This reflection is what I want to share with you today.

Without giving more detours, let's start ...

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The White Tower of Deception: Humility

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I remember a very delicate wall that looked with great eyes, and in which were carved the venerable faces of monastic saints, ascetics, wanderers, intellectuals and literary characters, all of them covered by a Christian shadow of suffering and renunciation. Above this white and small structure, standing on a small white brick, I could visualize all the mundane pastures, and lost no opportunity in shooting poisoned arrows of judgment at all the men and women who amused themselves in the mud while I, for my part, barely touched the leafy spikes of the field.

With the passage of time I was reaffirming the dream. From my white and light tower I was cultivating the rejection, the superiority and the alienation of the natural world, discriminating beings for vulgar, grotesque and unworthy of the angelic dress that possessed me when entering the dark room located at the top of the increasingly monumental tower. Without a gesture to the sun, only the silver nights nourished me with the necessary pallor to plow, like those distant and renounced engravings, the belief in democratization, in the better world, in equality, in tolerance, in feminization, in castration and acceptance, in negotiation, in inclusion and peace.

The Tower. Salvador Dalí. 1934.

"A man who lies to himself and believes in his own lies, becomes unable to recognize the truth, both in himself and in anyone else, and ends up losing all respect for himself and others. When he has no respect, he can no longer love, and he ends up yielding to his impulses, indulges in the lowest form of pleasure and behaves like an animal satisfying his vices. And everything is produced by the lie -to others and to oneself-”. The brothers Kamarazov. Fiodor Dostoyevski.

Gifted with the beautiful color of austerity, I avoided, not without first dedicating myself to the right suffering, the pleasures of the people. Puffed with steam of cloud, I tried not to desire the goods that he made so happy to everyone, choosing the worst rag, the worst pigsty and the worst treatment to the body. To this battered and deformed vehicle that I tried to capture through sensuality and pleasure, I responded with pain and hunger, with a smiling satiation of repulsion, as those venerable masters of white towers in books, speeches, sermons , songs and interviews told me, all of them pointing the way through his left hand.

I remember that my first teacher was a drawing in a catechism book, a man with long hair dressed in a stretched robe that hid his bare feet. This man with a sublime smile pointed sinisterly to poverty, renunciation and obedience. I remember my pitiful teacher teaching morals and ethics, a beautiful lady in her weakness. I remember great teachers enlightened by the candle of the academy promulgate on the equality and the rights of the destitute and discriminated against, they said lacerate by the poor and beggars, said to know the innocence and creativity of the infants as well as the sincerity of the politicians. These towering ones showed me their own white towers. There I saw great renunciants of life, wonderful men and women suffering, creators of movements, struggles against wealth and reason, great shepherds of people delivered and submissive to consider themselves unworthy, wrong and guilty. I also remember requesting a rescue as everyone. I remember that the ransom had the cost of my right side, not ensuring success until I had renounced everything, except listening to the words of the white gentlemen.

The Great Tower. Giorgio de Chirico. 1914.

It was thus the creation of my beatitude, of my superiority based on poverty, on the whiteness of renunciation and the condescending smile of my own misery. Thus began the construction of the white fortress that separated from me the abundance and experience gained by virtues and noble convictions..

Through the small peepholes in the tower, everything was plausible: any measure, any speech, any event was smiled because it was considered gain in innocence and not idiocy. While I admired the social struggles from my confinement, the dryness of my own concrete was impregnated with the persistent mosses that did not give up to live even when I considered death alive. I loved to see my own insistence on dying reflected in the masses. I also remember the cold, the loneliness and the birth of my shadow with each external illumination; I remember hating the light for it and having cursed every floral breath, every beautiful feminine curvature, every virile manifestation of life. I remember the fear of ascending to the dark bedroom of the white tower, as well as the dread of the color of the sky.

"Who stole the life from you? Who turned you so against you? Who was the thief who shaved your teeth. Accepting just virtue". Naiads, Cassadies. Fleet Foxes.

Gradually, suffering and eaten by the insistence of life on me, I was deaf to the songs of the birds and could only hear the metallic language of the iron culture, the power and hatred of the resentful for ascending to the force. Insanity and misery were known to me as means to control the unworthy, to the human baggage that pretended to celebrate stupidity without knowing the suffering, the real pain of the men of the white walls. I did not care. Through the cracks in my tower, I watched the constant advance of the shadow of desires that tormented and beat me constantly, while, at the same time, I was always stabbed by a furious heart, by a repressed and unstoppable creative nature.

I remember feeling scarce, imprisoned, without power while the little recognizable engravings of the renunciants called me to the complete surrender to the white gentlemen, who were in a condition opposite to mine: they looked vigorous and smiling in their large and opulent Towers, while driving and convincing everyone that misery was social redemption and the divine plan, while their angelic costumes were transformed into bloody garments of animals.

The nostalgia of infinity. Giorgio de Chirico. 1912.

Dying, in the last breaths, watching the change in the skin of the sorcerers, my heart released a last cry of vitality that echoed in me as reminiscent of a charming smile, of a pure and revealing light that, like a soft kiss, It impregnated my body with heat and it came out like a tear from my stunned right eye. That cardiac scream echoed throughout the tower, whose foundations seemed to fragment at the same time that it reminded me of the pastures and the mud of the creeks.

"Everything oozed deception and pretended to make sense, happiness and beauty, when it was nothing but concealed rot. The world had a bitter taste. Torture was life.". Siddhartha. Hermann Hesse.

I remember opening my eyes and seeing the dark ruins of the construction, except for a white brick that had been the first to support me to ascend, being also the one that gave the forgotten name to my nonexistent white tower. In this brick you could hardly see a word that when reading it out loud, it broke the element in my hands.

Such is the eternal resistance that was opposed to the perfect experience of reality. Such is the subtle creation of deceit and illusion that caused me death in the dungeon that was named by the false virtue of Humility.

¡For the Love of Life!

I deeply thank the readers and the community of Steemit by the impulse.