There is a precise spot where I place myself, a place that is not geography but a settling of the soul. It is not a refuge, nor a trench. It is a sort of way station, an observatory suspended above the clamor of the century. From here, the gusts of immoderate enthusiasm for every new futility leave me cold, just like the laments for a lost Eden that never was. Time, we know, has its own gait, an inexorable motion that is not a straight line, but rather a vortex, a spiral that coils upon itself without ever repeating. To believe that every novelty is progress is a naivety of apprentice sorcerers; to reject it outright, a blindness of moles.

I choose to inhabit this present with a kind of engaged detachment. An interior distance that is not scorn, but lucidity. It is the only transcendence granted to me: the awareness of being a guest, a soul in transit that journeys through the ages without ever surrendering completely to any. In this perpetual balancing act, in this equilibrium that trembles like a strand of spiderweb in the wind, silent contemplation, the pure act of prayer even if secular, become anchors. They are the weights that keep the ship of the self stable when the storm of the ephemeral rages all around.

While the multitudes plunge headlong, collectively intoxicated, towards every new abyss the marketplace of ideas proposes, that mute dialogue with what is eternal returns me to the possession of myself. It is that solitary practice that offers me the necessary coolness not to be swallowed by the tide of conformism. It is the act of remaining upright, of preserving a verticality of the spirit while everything else becomes brutish and flattened. It is the only, tenacious link to that which, in the cyclone of change, never fades.

       〰️ 🤍 〰️

🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅

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