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Rating: The true poet is the Saint. The others who write poems are apprentices of the immediate. Hypocritically, we use the euphemism of labeling them "mystics," but we rationally frame them as people not in contact with reality, not to say simpletons.
Little minds, what reality? The one induced by the slavery of the system that makes us reason like goods? The sense of possession has indeed caused its permanent damage. Saints are in contact with the reality of the here and the beyond, they live the invisible which, indeed, we do not perceive, they are in the act, in the thoughtless. That's why we misunderstand them by saying they live among the clouds.
Indeed, it is so, they are consciously soulful of being close to the Grace of God, the communication they use is closer to the eternal. Why should they care about collecting medals when they know perfectly well that death is evolution and one goes with a pocketless suit.
The considerations that deceive us simplify our superficial vision, duality and monetization distance us from appreciating the "boredom" of Paradise. While for us the biological vehicle (the body) is continuously elevated on crumbling altars by ego and vanity, Saints know they are not this body and they put roles back in place by repositioning the carcass to the function of "carriage."
Being also incarnated, they express feelings in an impersonal manner, often resulting in being inhuman, cynical, and unapproachable. Those are our "blind spots" that judge when they discover how miserable and petty we are, a nice own goal, congratulations.
A passage to sainthood also involves feeling saintly and believing it, then, once divine caste arrogance is resolved, one moves to a bum-like laziness à la carte of The Fool of the tarot, the number nothing. Therefore, before reaching understanding to not put on airs with fasting, deprivations, retreats, retentions, conscious sufferings, random blessings and various isolationist columns, one must pass through the fire of indignation to launch onto the path of thoughtlessness, abandoning deserts and solitudes and placing oneself in the eye of the cyclone of the club of chaos that is humanity, riding surrender with the trump card of "turn the other cheek."
Mystifying the mystic is not for everyone. We leave the "Catholic religion Spa" the devilries to mix sainthood with semblances, creating a carpet of "good feelings" where the high-ranking churchman on duty intervenes to exorcise "his way" the stray sheep on duty. And here's the "mea culpa" packaged, which made the fortune of the "Holy Roman Church" with the fat account in Switzerland.
And the flesh becomes radioactive, infected by psychic whisperers, and resistance to sin excites the astral parasites to an eternal annoyance on the material plane: "I will return lousy, I will return"... Vade Ultra! Come on, we don't get bored with the repeated temptations that "evil" condenses for us, after all, this is life, we must endure it to the end, fellow "drunkards."
A mind-blowing movie for how "fun" it is and then with that apocalyptic ending paced by the "final dance" of an irresistible instrumental rock 'n roll where we sniff that there is no escape from eternity. We move forward... we must.
"What is this Apocatastasis?" Mah...
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