The magician laid out the cards in front of him. They formed a circle. At the center, there was the card of “The Magician”, a wandering sorcerer that roams the lands with a Living Tower. These cards are similar to the tarot, but there is a fundamental difference. Depending on the day, the weather, the mood, and many other factors, what is shown in the cards changes. For example, sometimes the Magician is in a flying cabin, or driving a magic chariot. Sometimes he is old, other times he is young. The possibilities are endless. But some fundamental things remain the same. The magician is a figure that is capable of traveling the worlds and is the only figure that is aware of the so-called Split. Or Broken Mirror. It is the direct Link with the Author, the Artist, the One that Opens the Portals, the Veiled One, the Invisible One. The One that is nowhere but everywhere, at the same time. The magician looked at the cards for a while. Laid out in front of Him: a young girl surrounded by paintings, in a clearing of a forest, as if the paintings were Portals to different worlds. She dances around, jumping, spinning, painting, in ecstasy. A musician with a lute on his back, a magic lute, he plays the forgotten songs that will lead him into the Forgotten World. Another Portal opener. Next. The Dragon Rider. The piercer of veils. The black sword of runes. The Liberator. He reclaims the Kingdom that was buried under centuries of black magic. Piercer of Veils. Opener. There were more cards, more characters.
Whenever he feels the call of the Invisible One, whenever he feels he is invoking him, he closes his eyes and allows Him to possess him. He shuffles the cards and places a new Card at the Center, the person he is about to Become, the Story he is about to travel to. The world. Anchoring into another body, another world. Portals, portals, portals. They all have this in common. They are openers of Portals to Worlds that were previously sealed. Sealed by whom? He doesn’t have the answer. Not yet. It hasn’t been revealed to me, the Invisible One, the Author. The Magician has been pondering about this for a while. The Blank Card, the only card that has no image and no name. This is the Card of the Invisible One. But…Why won’t he manifest himself? Doesn’t he have a True Face? Does he always need to manifest through us, his Egregores, the pieces of the Broken Mirror of His Soul?
There is another Invisible One playing me – I whispered, to him – I am anchored here, in this life, in this time, in this world. And, sometimes, I can feel the Invisible One invoking me, and I become different people in different worlds. Those worlds and those people come from Him. I am a vessel. The same way you are a Vessel of me. We are all vessels and creators. And this goes on to infinity. As above, so below.
The Shinto religion is right when it comes to the Identity and the shape of the Gods. There are no statues in shinto. Whenever you enter a sanctuary, the place where the god dwells and visits is empty. Because gods and spirits go way beyond any temporary masks and shapes and forms. But the same is true for us. We are wearing thousands of masks and our life is nothing else than another Story that, for a mysterious reason, we feel is truer than the other Stories.
We give shape to our gods and spirits, because we like seeing them as familiar to us, as closer to humans. I do this. Everybody does this.
The Center. The Cards are the stones of stories that surround the Sacred of Sacred spaces. The Tree of the Worlds. The scepter of magic. The oak scepter with roots to the underworld, with branches to the kingdoms of the stars and planets.
There are five trees at the center of the Universe.
But I am tired of talking about this. Mental masturbation. The Myth. I am trying to control the myth, to hold it with my hands. The more you try to hold a myth, the more it flows through your hands and escapes.
Five trees – I repeated, insisting – One for each element. The tree of fire, of water, of air, of earth. And the quintessence, the Tree of Trees, All Worlds become One in this Tree. The Tree of the Spiral. The Fifth element, the hidden element, the Union, transcendence. The tree is magical. And changes, transforms, it takes the form that people give it. In fact, it is not even a tree. The Tree is one of its representations, one of the many forms it takes.
Under the infinite masks, you can’t find it. You can’t find the Invisible One. But it is everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere.
Artist. Writer. Creator. If you are reading these lines, know that you are also the Invisible One. The Builder of your Own Myth, of your own Universe. We were, we are, we will always be. The Invisible Ones, the Singers, the flame that keeps burning even at the center of the storm. The flame of a bonfire, stories, threads that you, only you, keep alive, threads of the weaving of this wonderful imagination, the Fire of Fires.
I heard a voice. In fact, this voice was loud, louder than this fire that keeps us warm. I was ashamed of this voice. It sounded like inflation. It sounded too proud. Shut up! But the more I wanted it to be quiet, the louder it would get.
It said:
“Even the four elements, even the quintessence, these are all limitations. It’s a limitation imposed by the Imagination of another. Don’t limit yourself to those metaphors from other people. Fire, water, earth, air? What about dust, wood, plastic, wool? What about Mist, love, breath, sex? Systems of another are not the system of yours. In fact. What are systems, more than the mind being too proud and exclaiming that he knows about Reality, when, in fact, we are only aware of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction? You want systems because you need to regain control, to have the false sense of control over the World. Let go of the need for control and keep singing to the Sunrise of this New World!
The Singers. Mmh. There was a time. Long ago? Maybe now, in another plane? There was a time, when the Invisible Ones wandered the Earth and, together, used to sing things into Reality. Each one created their own Reality with their own songs but then, together, they’d sing in chorus, and all their worlds would intertwine and make love with each other. Interconnecting. The Portals and bridges were opened. And each world entered the dream-world of another Dreamer. And a Spiral of Inspiration broke out
Imagination.
There is nothing more powerful in the Universe than Imagination. But I see…
Veo nudos, cuerdas, manos atadas. Nadie da rienda suelta a lo que verdaderamente se encuentra dentro. Fortaleza. Veo mucho miedo. Veo unos monstruos gigantes atacando la Fortaleza del Artista, del Creador, del Invisible. Y él no puede salir de ella. Debe defenderse con lo que puede, con piedras, losas de los guerreros que han muerto y que él prefiere usar como armas. La memoria sagrada, repleta de sangre. Han terminado los tiempos de la espada, pero no el de los Monstruos. Ellos siguen atacando, pero nos quitaron las armas. Encerrados en casas, cuartos, internet, pantallas, teclados, netflix, realidad virtual, cárceles de píxeles. Pero en las calles siguen deambulando los monstruos, como siempre han hecho.
¿Dónde está mi voz, entre tanto rumor de redes sociales? ¿Entre tanto grito, entre tanto reel, entre los centenares de miles de imágenes que se pasean ante mí, van y vienen, nacen y mueren, en un instante, significados que nacen y mueren, y nunca llegan a significar nada. Ya no hay espadas, ni hambruna. Ahora hay ojos con ojeras, pastillas, gritos apagados. Los monstruos siguen atacando la fortaleza. Pero ya no existe nuestra Ciudad. Ya solo nos queda una cabaña que ni siquiera es nuestra. Conectada a los cables de un robot sin alma, detrás del cuál está el Gran Parásito, el Gran Usurpador, con su nariz afilada y sus dedos largos, garras que todo lo destripan. Destripan todo lo que es Sagrado y lo convierten en mercancía para consumir. Nos han enterrado los dioses, los espíritus, nos han dicho que ya no necesitamos a los viejos dioses, que no existe nada más que esas cuencas vacías donde antes moraba el alma. Pero ellos siguen adorando a sus dioses, tan viejos como los nuestros, oscuros, sacrificios en altares. Nunca han cesado sus conjuros, mientras que nosotros seguimos atados al árbol marchito de nuestro mundo, que ahora es un desierto.
Decidí liberarme. Cortar las cuerdas. En realidad, lo que hice fue cerrar los ojos e imaginar. Imaginé que la cuerda que me ataba era una serpiente que se muerde la cola. Uroboros. La serpiente ha muerto por su propio veneno. Cae de mis manos, inerte. Pronto, mudará de piel y renacerá. Yo me he liberado. Pero no he rematado a la serpiente. No. Porque la serpiente soy también yo. Soy hijo de la serpiente, hijo del dragón. Y, entonces, la serpiente renació y de la vieja piel muerta, apareció la serpiente dorada. Y la serpiente dorada se convirtió en una joven de cabellos azules, cabellos hechos de ríos y manantiales. Sus ojos, dorados. Y, con una sonrisa enigmática, agarró el único fruto que colgaba del árbol moribundo. Un fruto dorado, como sus ojos. Y, sin decir nada, desnudos, ambos nos comimos el fruto, uno desde un lado, ella desde el otro, hasta que nuestros labios se encontraron. E hicimos el amor bajo el árbol, de forma tan natural como nos habíamos comido aquel fruto. Y de la nueva semilla un nuevo árbol nace del Árbol muerto del viejo mundo.
¡El Rey ha muerto! ¡Larga vida al Rey!
And as I proclaimed this, I took one of my cards and, miracle of miracles! The card of the Wandering King came up.
Oh, calm down. It’s only a Synchronicity.
And that’s what it said:
The King
He is the King without a crown, the wandering King that has come to reclaim his lost Kingdom. But this is not a conventional Kingdom. It’s the Kingdom of the Forest, of the Wild, the Kingdom of the Spirits, of the Soul. It shows up in many disguises. The Wandering King, the expelled Prince that hides his true identity, unwilling to become the King, protecting the weak and the poor behind the veil of legend. But he must step into the crown sooner or later, he must pull his Sword, he must accept the Maiden’s steel from the Lake. He is also the King of Magicians, and sometimes appears as a God of the forest, with horns. It is said that he had a thousand daughters and sons by laying with the nymphs. He is a Dancer, a Lover, the sword, the phallus of command. Sometimes he is sleeping within the hill, waiting for the time when someone will find the Horn and blow it, calling him back. Sometimes he is riding with eleven other riders, with green tunics, wandering the lands, and it is said The Kingdom is with them, always, no matter where they go. They bring the Kingdom with them. Is the Kingdom the Cauldron, The Grail? Nobody knows.
The Wandering King is also a Wandering Bard, that sings the lost Songs. And the Songs have an enchantment, to make people remember what was lost. And what was lost was the Kingdom within.
I was about to analyze this, but I decided I will leave it as it is.
This card speaks by itself. There is nothing else that I want to add. I don’t want to spoil it with unnecessary thoughts. Analytical mindset of rationalism, that wants to dissect everything to see how it can be “more useful”. And, without knowing it, it spoils the magic that made that Story sacred. What are the stars, more than just giant balls of chemistry, constant, nuclear explosions? We dissect the universe only to realize that, once it is dissected, the Soul departed and what we wanted to know evaporated in shallow concepts. Only the husk of what used to be remains. But the soul of the stars will never die. And the soul of stories, neither.
Stories are flowing through me, through you. Let’s enjoy them as they are!