The Host


It is evident that all the enormous human knowledge in all its extension and depth, accumulated in books, magazines, manuscripts, discs, tapes, networks, internet is absolutely useless to answer the most basic questions that anyone with two fingers can face. pose.
Questions about what I am, what I do here, what life is, what sense it has, what the universe is, why it works (not how), what it is here for, what function it has, what laws exist in physics, as it knows an electron as it has to act, what is time, what space is, what they serve, what is death, what is behind death, what is behind all this, what role do you have as a human being, etc.
No matter how hard you look, you will only find opinions, occurrences of some or others who think, often interestingly, to give an answer that is fair, what a coincidence, what they sell.
It is the flea market of philosophers, priests, religious, shamans, monks, spiritual teachers … everyone sells what you want to buy. They have everything. They sell hope in exchange for faith and money. Any peregrine or even magical explanation makes it available to you with more or less initiatory paraphernalia.
Out of that market are those who, having not found an explanation for anything, simply deny everything.
And, in between, masses of people indifferent to everything, doing like bees in a honeycomb. Living a life without meaning, being part of a whole that you do not know.
Much humans like to proclaim themselves as the «kings of creation» when there is truly no where to grab them.
What kind of king is one whose body is the product of the combinatorial of four sad molecules that, by virtue of electronegativity have the tendency to come together in one way or another and that, when many people make bodies like theirs.
What kind of king is one whose mind is populated by small creatures that are dedicated to catch, to gain weight, to help reproduce and expand them to follow their path.
A body that is not yours.
A mind that is not yours
A body that they do not control.
A mind that they do not control.
A body whose architects are the genes and a mind whose inhabitants are the memes.
Human means made of earth, of mud, of humus.
Obviously not, that ground is not made.
The human being has nothing human.
We should call him a host.
Be Host.
Host of genetic parasites and cultural parasites.
Parasitized to the bone.
The Host, when he thinks what he thinks, thinks in words. That is, their memes, that is, their parasites.
The act of thinking for humans is to set their parasites in motion. The act of communicating, of speech, of expression, is to take them for a walk to see if they mate with other parasites of the neighbor and thus we have more parasites to take home.
You will not go to bed without knowing one more thing.
And when the hosts becomes transcendental and sits down to meditate, what he sees is how rich and varied the flora of memes that parasitizes him is. See how they arise, how they run, how they come out of attention, as they call their friends, how they incite him to do things, to say things, to transmit them …
And this is the king of creation?
A sack of parasites?
Look at you, you’re sorry.
If you are not even able to control your parasites, to think without them being those who think you, to think without words, to see beyond, to have a clear mind of any thought you do not deserve even the name of person.
Hold on to that everyone you know is the same as you. And I’ll tell you yes, but not everyone is like that. That there are people. That not all are petas.Subhumans that swarm whose function is the one of reproductive decoration of infections of all type.
Petri dishes.
Not everything will be trees, flowers, animals, blue skies and sunsets with rainbows.
There must also be the one who shits them.
So … How do you want «human» «knowledge» to answer even the smallest?

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