The general mood the prevailing culture shows us is annoyingly uncomfortable. With degrees of despair, with apathy, indifference and... depressive sadness that arise from the anchorage of preconceived ideas that did not know how to evolve, that did not want to change.
And so, the overall mantle is... "hopeless".
The Praying Call -from the Creator Mystery- shows us how spitefully egomaniacal this vision is; that yes, yes, it will give thousands of examples of catastrophes, dramas, terrors, horrors, yes. And without trying to place a balance in which virtues, projects, fantasies, illusions, joys, confidences, pacts, promises stand out... it would seem that none of these exist: "it weighs little".
Yes, the conscience of humanity has become heavy, it has become a quantity, it becomes a story of cases. And to open any information supposes to hand over… hand over disasters, threats, deterioration, deceit, tragedies.
It seems as if the weight of matter is amassing, constricting. And the consciousness of life is hijacked. It seems that there is no blue of wakefulness. As if the stars of the night do not exist. It seems that the smile was over, or forbidden!
And the sample is of personal despair, of inability to achieve those achievements that each one of us manufactures by culture and... desire.
The outlook becomes grey. The density of weight.
And it is said in popular slang: "It's just that this is too heavy". "This experience is very heavy for me". "Living like this is very heavy". “It's just that history weighs a lot"... and long regrets weigh heavy.
And from the Creative Mystery, the Prayerful Call warns us of this current that drags, that crushes... flight, fantasy, possibility, dialogue, harmony, coexistence, "entusiasmós".
And commitments begin to weigh. And the promises weigh. And the solution for the weight is flight, the forgotten promise, the vulgar, everyday venture of transmitting the relief of despair. Transmitting the relief of despair.
And under the Prayerful Sense, one might ask: Where is the childish play? Where is the mischief before the law? Where is the roguery of... the new plan? What happened to the fragrances of the projects: "cigarette paper"? Where, where is that youthful dynamism of strength, of agility? Where did the adult castle, which he made with care and attention, go? Where is the longevity of the story, of the experience, of the knowledge?
It seems -it seems- that all that is "over". In the culture of terror, all that is over. The only thing left is to survive in the most... satisfying way.
But the long-awaited hopes become daring nostalgias... impossible to believe in.
The Prayerful Call warns us of those textures of atrocious pessimism. And it reminds us that we are like kites... that we are like alive kites… we “live” when fly; that the wind gives us breath, and the Creator Mystery holds us with guidance.
Pessimism becomes heavier and heavier and thickens what is called "reality".
It seems that nobody remembers that there is a breath, a soul, which is what gives, to the heavy, to the material..., the consciousness that it exists, the consciousness that it is there.
But that seems to have been forgotten, and the idea is held -though not concretised- that what is heavy, dense, real, is consciousness in truth. That any other texture that is not measurable, weighable, visible, touchable, fixable, easy manipulated... does not exist. Thus: a consciousness of saw, of jack plane, of stridencies, which drags.
And in those moments of poise, when we don't have to keep ploughing on in pessimism, a joke appears, a joke or something that takes us out of that lousy version of life. Then we can realise that the breath is there. That it is not the heavy burden of the body -of what is called "body"- of bones, muscles, tendons... That the soul is there, and the spirit is what gives configuration to the weight. But not so that it weighs on the sorrow, but rather in the gentleness that leads the being to contemplate itself in the possibilities: in the small leaf that emerges between the bricks that neglected their union; and there it emerges as... "furtive".
We are called to pray when everything becomes dense; and when we must illuminate, with illusion and fantasies, what we really are: an imagination of the Eternal. Images that were filled with earth... to conform as mountains, as stones... so as not to deny that matter that, in truth, never is, but is the compressed breath, configured and shaped, as a stage of being... "As a stage of being".
If we are breath of the Creator Mystery, if we are imagination akin to the Unapproachable, we are not a heavy burden.
We are not a burdensome experience that must go on enduring!... enduring what traps it: the laws that the being establishes, of life, from the gravity that holds us to the "final destiny"... -a sham-.
And so, with this terrible consciousness, the being breaks and breaks and breaks and breaks and breaks... the frequencies of communion, of adhesion, of tuning...
And it inevitably looks for others, or hijacks in itself, as if looking for reasons for "the good execution of the rupture" -"as if looking for reasons for the good execution of the rupture"-.
And it makes one angry! -prayerfully, emotionally- that, with the splendid, the inexhaustible perspective of life!...
Not only the human one!... "Life"! Because human life is not a hijacking of others forms of life! It is an integration of all of them! A milestone, a small culmination in the Creator Universe!
It is not the heavy burden of being and following. It is the breath of the sigh, the motivation of complaisance, the satisfaction of what has been accomplished, the pleasure of what has been served...; the flying wind of ideas, which flutter like clouds and await the opportune moment to come to be exercised, incarnated and realised. And with it, the amazement, admiration and the congratulated culmination.
The air is not there to suffocate us; the water is not there to drown us.
They are there to nourish us... To be the imagination of waters that run through the cycle... without fatigue, without heaviness, while the wind carries them away.
An inexhaustible Feng Shui that, in every dewdrop, in every snowflake, in every raging sea, in every overflowing river, in every thirsty well, in every violent, soft or faint air... gathers the cloud and the thundercloud, and rejoices with the lightning and sings with the thunder.
All this is not heavy… but it is there.
And it is what makes it possible for being not to be heavy; for living to be the light scent of perfume; for living to be the faint flickering of an immense and infinite star; for living to be the enthusiasm of a continuous dawn... that transports us; for living to be the inexhaustible radiance of the spark: that which lights the candle.
None of those weighs.
And this is what the Prayerful Call emphasises, in the face of this gloom, this pessimism, this weight.
Faced with the burden of History, that does not remember! It does not remember -it is curious-. It does not remember autumn afternoons. History does not remember the placid strolls or the beach games. No! History reminds us of the battle, the war, the conspiracy, the fall, the arrival, the triumph, the heaviness, rust. And so, the being becomes loading with History, and becomes dense... Unbearable.
And memory is not the redoubt of tragedy. It is not, memory, the wounding dagger of each instant. It is, memory, the breath that has led us to the distance; that has carried us... regardless of our legacies.
And if, in the course of time, the being withdraws from his exploits, and only contemplates the ruins... the need for the fresh breath that is there, but is heavy to recognise it, because it does not know how to see, because it has tricked his vision to look and take... to possess and rule... when it turns out that we are visionaries of the breath of the Love. Of that endless cycle of water, of unfathomable winds...
Conversion is needed. It requires intention and the resolute witness of decision... without the fear of transgressing the ordinary, without the fear of contravening the established, without the alert of coming punishment.
We are not thick, heavy, twisted cannon fodder.
We are not pessimisms thrown into the Universe to rot in cemeteries.
The heavy fate has imbued the liberating consciousness, has hidden it, and the being has become a convicted offender of the inexorable fate of its defeat, of its detritus.
Soon, soon dawning light arrives, the one that does not run out day after day. Always different, enthusiastic.
Why not be aware of it? Why not notice the curiosity of the eye... that looks, that sees, that imagines, that interprets? Why not fantasise about what we hear, about the echo of silence, about who knows what it will sound like and what it will be? Why not be transported by the perfume of breath? With the one we breathe and warns us of the cold, the heat, the humidity... or the refined eagerness of the flower that gives us, with its perfume, a verse.
Why not savour the anxious saliva that seeks the comfort of water, sweet, salty, bitter, sour?
Why not... why not realise the infinite interpretation of textures, when we graze, when we touch? Why not marvel at the senses, which constitute the meaning, which make up the fantasy of the being?
What grief prevents us from doing so? What fatalistic memory forbids us to do so?
As imagination… that every sense is made, charged with water and breath, we move and rinse and rinse our senses. And we envision, with all of them, the perspective of "humour": smoke and the invisible breath that gives encouragement, that gestates enthusiasm, that projects the idea, that knows how to persevere in daily innovation.
These prayerful suggestions are the ones that alert and encourage us, at the same time, so that our conscience ceases to be what it is not; it ceases being the anguished suffering, heavy and dense.
The gentle wind caresses the light of dawn. It makes us visible... It makes us evident testimonies of enthusiasm.
 Greek: "rapture or ecstasy inspired by divinity”