NOEMAYA

Hey stranger! Have you forsaken me? Who has forsaken who? The only way to see the man in the mirror looking at you is by looking at him first. That’s the nature of our relationship with the divine, at least a mature relationship. The immature, childish way—the way of the exterior form of all religions—is suited for immature humanity, where the divine is separated from it and plays a protective, active role, and man stands in the position of a victim, its child, only to beg for mercy and forgiveness. The new man, the one who’s crossed the rope and survived the wasteland of the last man—he takes the leash and tames the gods; the nature of his relationship with the divine is interiorized in the face of his recognition of a fundamental non-difference and non-duality in this relationship.

There was once a master storyteller; he crafted the most elaborate and engaging stories that mesmerized and hypnotized his audience into identifying themselves with the characters so intensely that they forgot their real selves and outside lives. This storyteller became so good at what he did that he himself fell victim to the lure of one of his stories and became so identified with one of the characters that he forgot he’s the narrator. Everyone—the narrator and the audience—all got stuck in that story, and since then no one has emerged back from it. The story keeps going, the music keeps playing, and there’s no one to stop anything, for everyone is dreaming, including the narrator. No one is real anymore. The true reality, the one above us which housed the narrator, is now empty.

That is to say, the life and the reality you imagine yourself being surrounded with—the people who hurt you, the resentments, the crushed dreams, abandonments, the bullshit promise of YouTube gurus, overnight transformations, neuroplasticity, the promise of freedom—all this is naught but a story that’s being spontaneously fabricated and flowing out of the now; it’s the bullshit you yourself produce and you yourself buy. Eating your own projections, like a snake devouring a prey that’s its own tail.
If only you could zoom out enough to see the camera rolling, the setup and the stage and the props that you call your life and your possessions—that’s the true freedom: to see that all is already done and unified, that nothing needs to be done, that no one and nothing is out there, even the “out there” isn’t out there. Nothing was ever created, as there was never a need for it. Only then it’s recognized that the new man was the only man.