First one, then two, then three, then four, … then millions are at the door.
The season for reflection has rung in. A festivity that presents the process of consciousness, and becoming conscious in all its forms, positive as well as negative. This celebration and the mutual handing over of material goods has increased over the course of centuries, so that the actual consciousness for Christmas - in many places - has disappeared from people's minds. The majority celebrates and practices a planetary economised rape orgy, as a symbol of a profligate lifestyle of its consumer society or throw-away society. Not because of their way of life, but because of a lack of, or an insufficient circular economy, where their consumption of natural resources, by far, exceeds the planet's natural rate of resource regeneration.
In many rooms of shining dwellings, annual tragedies occur. Gifts that you don't need or don't want are ultimately stored on shelves or in drawers and are forgotten as dust catchers, unneeded. Do the majority of people remember the gifts presented to them or the beautiful moments we spent in convivial company, with food & drink, with family and friends?
“Taking ‘time’ for each other, is ‘more precious.’”
For lack of time, providence-failed parents try to shower their children with gifts that, as a substitute for love, cannot fulfil the child's maturing process. A lack of attention and a lack of exchange of experiences hinders the human consciousness process from adequately perceiving and understanding the environment as substantiality. The maturation process, as part of wisdom formation, builds, as generational development, the civilisational progress. Thus embodies each generation its own childhood, which, through life experience and accumulated knowledge, should become wiser.
The devotion to contemplation is thwarted by Meccan homages and visits to relevant places of pilgrimage. Or in other words, a celebration of mammonism, with the attendance at corresponding temple oases – symbolic, moralised rituals of submission with servile "promises of loyalty". Although some know better, untruths are still sold as truths - "for hard cash" - and therefore declared as reality. The gift giving ritual - representatively - has a completely different origin. This symbolic gesture, which was celebrated by the reformer Martin Luther from the 15th century onwards and thus found its way into Christmas festivities, was associated with the hope of the incarnation of wisdom, in a newborn child.
Christmas, which is celebrated in many places on the 25th of the last month, goes back to "Sol Invictus", the Roman cultic sun festival. A solstice celebration, which, due to confessional motives of the Roman emperor Constantine, changed from the year 336 to Christmas. The star, as the star of Bethlehem, never existed as presented, but was borrowed from an astronomical constellation – with an astrological background of interpretation – which occurred around 7 BC.
In modern representations, this cultural hybridisation matures as a true situation that, as an emotionally embellished perspective, is attempting to embody an illusory event. Many call him Christ, "the Anointed One" - from Greek "Messiah" - which goes back to an anointing ritual for dignitaries of past oriental high cultures of antiquity. It is not the person, but the messages that should be reflected upon. Like the branching of evolution, light knows only one way ... forward! Has a beam of light ever been seen, bent like a bow, returning to its source?
Insecure by their own mirror image - the image that shapes and creates the being - everyone carries their own confessional message with them, in which the heart is aware of what actions the hand will perform.
Give each other the gift of “time”, as a moment of pleasure ...
"Take your time and try to think, for only those who see, are able to understand."
My Dear, Pure,
The day is passing by, and is starting to show off … his second phase. As been my face, so that you can see Me … as well your heart, to feel Me. Staying in front of my window, touching gently the hand’le … so that I can start, to sing for You.
The frame, is pure white, the vibrants … transparent. It is those resonance frequencies floating through the air, but, the clearness of pure light, can only be seen … through the vacuum of the universe. That’s, where I am, to lay my eyes on You. Releasing my vibrant voice, into the glare of the sunset, I … I see you, resting in the meadow, as my notes are touching you. Your eyes, pointing to the sky … where you are already looking for Me.
A few birds passing by, where you are not interested in. You are just seeing Me, where I show you my heartbeat … through the lights of the weather clouds. Like being the lightning of my thunderstorm … being far in the distance. Speechless for your ear, but powerful enough … to enlighten You!
The lights of the hedges, and the glimmering of the supposed treetops … are indeed … appealingly attractive … but your glance, rises higher. In a place, where you once used to be, next to me … in the moon's light, shine.
Sometimes they call You, al-Fadschr, the blushes on … as the known one, Sūrat al-Fajr … or smooth simplified … Paradise. I, … am I the feather? Or am I … the messenger? Or am I the One … with many names? … I … I can’t tell you, … because I am … the motive, of your feelings.
“I am just born … to give joy … and to give pain, to those … surrounded with darkness.”
My light can only be seen … far in the distance. But my eye … is close to you. Then, which one is it, there are so many? My eye, is the moving one. Visible between those countless possibilities … where I once, came from.
We walked once through the wood and through the grasslands, where you are … already calm and peaceful laying, in My cradle. Encircled by blades of grass and flowers, presenting the colours of me, as to be the rainbow, of your imagination.
I could fly … and in a blink of My eye … staying next to you. To take and to hold you … in my arms ... feeling comfy … inside my wings. I see you, and I notice your breath … it’s warms and whisper … climbing to the sky.
- A short moon story -