finger tip in I get a rare thing, a hard, dry crust.
"It's a fungus," he said, "I used this cream.
I echo the cream with a methodical trial and within days the fungus disappears. I have time to reflect on the situation. Obviously, the fungus was screwed. I feel sorry for him. Fungi I like them. At first when I did not know what they were, and like any ignorant connected them with vegetables, seemed the most boring thing of this world, and did not understand what was the fascination of, say, the Smurfs with such things as umbrella ( maybe mushrooms which were hollowed out to convert them at home, perhaps for that reason always seemed so happy.) But when I learned that fungi were plants, which were closer to animals than anything else, began to fascinate these heterotrophs immobile souls of Buddha.
But the magic that brought about my not reach the point of allowing them to be fed now with my body. At the time of reflection, my mind jumps up and start thinking about what I say. In my body. Not I, but my body. How can you make such a difference?
Our quiet life in the ordinary world is based on several axioms that we have learned one way or another and define our experiences. I think one of these axioms is the difference between our self and our body. I do not speak of the dichotomy philosophical mind / body (and his third term, the conceptual bridge between the two: the pain). But something else maybe more deep.
We are so used to distinguish between individual conscience and our bodies, it is very easy to escape mounted in a cloud of semantic ambiguity every time something like a fungus invades us. It is hard to understand that this fungus eats away at us us. Not our body, but to us. We have been taught to separate ourselves from our body when it is damaged when it is cut, bleeding. We are prepared to avoid the fact that this body is a vehicle of flesh which supports life, but in fact vehicles are nothing but meat, no brakes, which are directed towards a solid wall.
Animals, virus and disease gnaw at us from within. That sore on your foot is yours, the bacteria in it you chew, you're the sore. Your conscience is but the accumulated sum of multiple pustules.
If we thought thoroughly daily in these reflections, so obvious in itself, our life would be full of terror and darkness. Now terrified me until I find a mosquito bebiéndome, and I wonder, what other dark entities waiting to empty my existence?
I eat, I burn, I drink and smashing my being under the asphalt. Dam I myself, for my only aim is to possess, own flesh I am, I inflated my belly, pain in my intestines, the medicine consumption and depression penis I check every morning to bathe. All that I am. I am. Here I am in my blood, my wounds, I rot. I've won the game against the fungus, but not the mosquito, not the anonymous bacteria that comes to my hand after greeting another person, and that led to my mouth without wanting minutes later. This bacterium is now me, and I have intentions to destroy. My personal Cracoucas.
Just as things are imbued with terror, recognizing the evidence that I am my body and other experiences also acquire a new nuance: food , drinking water, whereby sex penetrate, bite, lick and squeeze it to other existing ...
PS: By the way, that of the Smurfs and hallucinogenic habits was not serious. Know-poet smurf, Smurf-carpenter-tontine Smurf, Nanny and Papa-Smurf-Smurf, Smurf-up philosopher, but I never knew of the existence of Smurf-Smurf-paranoid schizophrenia.
really do not think they consumed poisonous mushrooms.
