👤 Wayne W. Dyer ✍️ If you are living feeling obliged you are a slave.

Democracy is not the natural ally of individual freedom, but rather its structural enemy, a "decivilising" force that encourages short-term thinking and erodes social capital.

True power no longer manifests in the executioner's striking gesture, but in the humble and continuous writing of exams, assessments, reports. It is the documentary trace that fixes the individual in a web of knowledge and turns them into a case, a number, a profile. This piece of paper, seemingly harmless, is the most modern cell: it does not limit physical movements, but defines social identity and destiny.

True mastery is a silent work. It manifests not in the heroic intervention on what has already happened, but in the patient, daily weaving of a state of harmony. Like a farmer who does not wait for a drought to dig a well, the wise nourishes the roots, not just prunes the dry branches. Their attention is directed to the slightest signals: an altered rhythm, a faded color, a balance that shifts by a single degree. In this active and gentle vigilance lies the most potent force, one that neutralizes chaos even before it takes shape. The most effective cure is therefore an act of prevention, a creative and constant act that builds health as one builds a work of art, layer after layer, in the quiet awareness that the true danger is not the storm, but having neglected the foundations when the sky was clear.

The Mask and the Skull. Three days that nail man to his enigma. Every year, at the end of October, a foreign swarm invades the West. Plastic skeletons dangle from balconies, grotesque pumpkins challenge the night with their vacant grins. It is the pagan rite of a society that has repressed the end, preferring to puppetize death in a saraband of sweets and costumes. A night of escape, where fear is stunned by the din. But before the noise, there was silence. Before the mask, the bare face of contemplation. That vigil was not a scream, but a whisper crossing the parched fields. A recognition. The darkness is not just a place of specters; it is the matrix of everything, the womb from which one emerges and to which one returns. To refuse it is to refuse half of oneself. Then, the dawn of the first of November tears through the mists. It is not the pallid light of hagiographic saints, of worn-out holy cards. It is the violent glare of those who have lived. Truly lived. Of those who have scored history with the blade of their actions, leaving a trail of fire that still guides the living. It is the celebration of human potency, of the hero, the genius, the woman who changed the course of things with the sheer force of her existence. We do not honor passive icons, but those who wielded life like a luminous weapon. Finally, the quiet of the second of November. The streets empty, the noise recedes. In the cemeteries, it is not the marble rhetoric of monuments that speaks, but the damp earth, the faded photos, the fresh flowers. That ancient gesture, lighting a small flame, is not a tribute to defeat. It is an act of defiance. A declaration of war on oblivion. That flickering light says: "Persist. I am here and you are here, and this fragile light is proof that nothing of what truly was is lost." It is not resignation, it is a form of stubborn, peaceful resistance. Three days, a single truth carved in flesh and time. The night of false terror to exorcise fear. The day of light to remind us of what we can aspire to. The day of remembrance to affirm that the only true end is oblivion. Everything else, burns and continues.

Sorry @Tim Bouma #safebox works? Because I can't receive more zaps ⚡️