AUTHOR OF THE IMAGINARY

Writing about an author famous for his fairy tales was a pleasantly received challenge, not that I knew them very well, and was thus endowed with a special advantage.

The certainty of inspiration was really a competitive advantage, and I was not surprised; it had taken me many times before, making me write admirable articulations, which, morbidly, I had not yet dared to present to any of my beta-readers.

When it took me, I knew it was a guarantee of a full service job, hair, beard and mustache.

Blown away by it, electrifying those thousand gigabites accumulated in my neural connections, I immediately felt like a best seller author; so many fans, blessed by reading, not only because it involves them but mainly took them away from the lethal-lethargy of spiritual ignorance, grateful for the knowledge they acquired from the person-of-life;

Living ennobled by the work of evangelizing people, in a house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, decorated with replicas of Frank Frazetta, ceramics ordered according to his paintings, some on some side walls, others at the foot and over that ancestral oak table, long, waxed, shining, silky, without even a splinter, heavy!

With that deep view of the blue horizon In front of it, the oblique apex pointed by the lateral mountain range, the sound of the wind and the fauna coming from the crown of the surrounding forest, under the plane of the glazed room, that preceded the veranda, that surrounded it; on all three sides there was vision of the freedom, around me the glorious spoils of the endless battles, which would last for some time yet, above was the protector.

Authors serve to evangelize something to someone, it can be benign, not so or eminently evil, clear or subversive.

Ahhhhh the authors!

How much power they had in their minds, in its words and in their writings!

How much good could they do? How badly could they engender in their minds?

They depended on who provided their inspiration, what spirit blew them, what purpose was the most lively.

What works! What characters! What situations! What apexes! What solutions! What conclusions!

And the lessons Wooooooooow! ...

The most superlative, among all the of fairy tales authors, for me, was the one remarkably fought and relegated by crowds to obscurity, sometimes even to execration, and often to subversion of his words, but vigorously read and trumpeted every day more, by a small flock, that receive from him more besides what it read;

The number one author of the Hebrews, the stronghold of the Jewish people, read in the languages ​​of the four corners of the earth.

Snatched up by him when reading my first story, I’ve gotten exerciseds all my senses, I’ve felt the fullness of inspiration, through supernatural revelation, irresistible and vital communion!

I loved him passionately forever.

When invited to the challenge of writing about one of these authors, I got up impelled by the feeling of wanting and being able to exercise the art that inspired me.

Write! Write! And write! How I love the gift.

Undecided, however, to start work immediately, but unstoppable in my feelings, I went to the bathroom and I swiftly let the icy jets of the big and efficient shower rain down on me. It was my main subterfuge, the most handy remedy, both for great excitement, as for anguish in great depression, but also, and simply to minimize my aging, lowering my temperature and pressure and simultaneously making me delight in the most delicious thinking mode.

During the hot or cold days, there were several showers moments, from three to six, lasting five to ten minutes each, daily I invested a lot of time in bathing and the colder it was the more I appreciated it; Stretching my arms up, exposing my armpits and all over my side, fifteen seconds at a time, a long minute raining on my forehead and face, then the rest, but simultaneously many thoughts, many ideas. It was the target.

I thanked God, conscious and obedient: For everything give thanks, I learned.

It sounded religious, to the ignorant so it sounded.

Someone got the idea of joining two gases to make the delicious liquid, adding to it all the mineral salts that were dragged along its course, and I would not guess that he was worthy of gratitude; no way.

For the wise, gratitude was the niece of love, and giving thanks was the exaltation of a vassal to the Universal King.

Many baths were sometimes in the middle of the night, when I still use to became one flesh with my wife; Now feminine is the summer night and hot is it undesirable embrace.

My bathroom, in that dreamed house, would also have a view to the beyond ...

His presence was felt sometimes as a breeze, in most of times as something indescribable, but desirable, believable ever;

So, even before the first paragraph, I felt free from the uncomfortable armor of plastered religious reality, to the endless field of the spiritual flexible imaginary; I read and the spirit which permeated those heavenly articulated sequences, anticipated me. It was expectations about expectations, more than simple cognition, it was sublime revelation, it was a gift!

It was exogenous, transcendent.

Not everything was in the written words, but in the power that impregnated them, that hovered and operated over them; I had never drunk water like this! But more and more upward I keep diving.

Each stretch was a dose of dopamine, occitocin, serotonin and endorphins together, and a lover of a strong drink, as was I, flirted with the addiction. I drank, drank and drank, without getting drunk.

HE did this over the centuries, only and sovereignly with a few chosen ones, whenever and however he wanted, making us bigger or smaller, making us all characters in his novel, making us read possessed by his love, sometimes personified , admirable, palpable, and adorable in his own spiritual person.

HE used to make us write: "Come to me The Word of the Lord saying "

What empathy! What an eternal purpose!

Even the Egyptian mother of all Palestine recorded for eternity: You are visible God; because she said: Didn't I look at the one who looks at me?

He first revealed to us what was written with invisible inks, then he knocked on the doors of our hearts, asking for permission, instigating us to open the brain’s door as well, suggesting that we don't lose the connection.

He masterfully taught us to always be connected to HIM!

What made us want in the heart, left us prone to let it electrify our notion; We were soon removed from fear, we were no longer afraid; It was like tasting a very ripe and sweet persimmon, cobbled from so frozen, sliced ​​by a heavy, large, sharpened knife, available next to us, in an inexhaustible quantities, fruit with attractive red skin, pigmented with that white coming from the oxygen on the frozen , giving an idea of ​​sugary candy, the refreshing sense, after the surrounding saliva, the heat, the penetrating flavor, full of nutrients, prophylaxis and healing.

Why not eat an extra slice, why not let us heal? Irresistible!

I fell in love with that being that gave rise to the male human and cloned the female: The Father of Creation!

Over-excellent, omnipotent, unrivaled best seller, and I inherit his genetics.

While in his writings he told me how he had created the human being, and much more, in my brain, I saw and the more my urge for excesses made me want to see, the more I received.

As an elected and distinguished spectator, endowed with a peripheral and spatial vision, I saw that extraordinary being, for the current standard; He was the center of my attention, amid the lush garden landscape ...

That face had I’ve never seen, it was like no other!

Shiny red hair, smooth and curly, proportionally large, pleasantly rebellious, white skin, as if there was no blood flowing underneath, then the eyebrows, also red but darker, broad, some white strands, perfectly calculated to frame those deep blue eyes , like two original sapphires, which left me stunned to laugh inside, fascinated by his wide smile, declaring the luminous whiteness of all his teeth.

The smile expressed the anticipation of his pleasure by the power he would exercise, he will perform the masterpiece of his creation, the replica of the CREATOR.

His neck looked like a colonnade, supported by trapezoids like roots; shoulders, chest and belly were matrices, arms capable of supporting more than the weight of the earth, they were finished in perfect hands, which moved, seeming to touch the molecules of pure oxygen, around them; Hands of an experienced craftsman who he revealed to me to be, standing on bare feet, on the short lush green grass, contrasting with the reddish ocher earth, wering white linen, gold and silver, to work in that sixth day.

I awoke from admiration at the guttural tone of his voice.

- Let us make man in our image and likeness!

My attention was then directed to the spiral that was beginning to move the soil, gaseous, muddy, dusty spiral, rotating the first molecules of the primeval dust. It made them rise in a spiral of rays and increasing but decentralized diameters, with the power to suck as roots, and selectively and productively raise all the components.

Easily and simultaneously he let me know that somewhere, outside the garden, there was already a huge cemetery, full of giant bones and haunted by the spirits of fallen angels.

The privileged and intelligent view allowed me to see microscopically, and in awe I was delighted with the dose I received.

It was possible to mix in the organic amalgamation each micro bio joining one to another and all to each mineral salt, with its shine and peculiar molecule.

In the midst of that gaseous vortex, which now reached three meters, they swirled and replicated their replicant.

Then comes the micro sparks of stellar color, from outside to inside the spiral, when the core was formed, and gradually covered, plate by plate, using an original sculpting technique.

Then I saw the very fine nerves, veins and vessels coming from the skull, carrying a liquid that gave them the water green color, in a varied shade of green, sewing all the bones and forming the organs, sprouting from each cavity ingeniously and geometrically projected, entrenched themselves, vigorously at a breakneck pace, stopping suddenly to generate eyes globes, teeth,  viscera and organs.

Throughout the formed body they operated programmedly, inerrant.

Soon the tendons and muscles were generated from inside the bone to the other part, where they were entrenched, so the flesh grew over these, and the skin over the flesh, and the red hair begins, and the powerful nails.

Terrestrial flesh generated from the earth, by the one who is celestial, whose flesh is formed from photons, the initial raw material, as he once recorded in his most recent annals, revealing to his little children: I am the light that came into the world.

He made me abstract and understand more than I naturally could, leaving me inebriated by the joy, caused by the full knowledge of the Author of the Imaginary.

The epitome of the eternal spirit that surrounds the entire universe of its material creation, the personal synthesis of the invisible power, the fullness of the divinity, materialized, uncreated, immortal, the original being, was replicated, celestial flesh, like the angels.

A little smaller than the angels, he made a replica of himself, precisely and preciously, methodical, gradual, wonderful and powerful, I could see him before my reading.

Then all the apes and other animals, coming from the fifith day, praised the Creator, surrounding the human being.

I was still enjoying the mental vision, when then he gave me another amount of mental information.

Something much more important that made me anxious and alerted me to what he called "Operation of Error", which would come upon everyone, but which only the unwary and sloppy should suffer.

HE shared with me his sadness and his anguish for what he foresaw.

Fantastically, it allowed me to see what would happen over thousands of years, after that glorious day until another great and glorious day; Not millions, not billions, but millennia later.

He showed me that some irresponsibles and inconsequentials, beings with genetics from chimpanzees, intelligence, perception, but bestials, irresponsible empiricists, that would fatally refute him, listening to unfounded, unsustainable fables that proposed inexplicable creations, credited it to some unknown and inexplicable forces of the universe, a universe of created things independent of a creator.

Those who would refute the truth and take pleasure in the lie, which is iniquity, listening to the creature more than to the written instructions and fellowship of the Creator.

He revealed that he would quench their thirst for subversion, for wickedness, for incurable stubbornness, which generated their rebelliousness to the voice of liberty, voice of truth.

He revealed to me that he would shake madness in their minds one last time, weakened by the irresponsibility of ignoring history, which made them disregard the divine greatness that surrounded them.

I was afflicted with the pain of the vision of the world crowd, surprised at the “H” hour, amazed, terrified, trampling in disarray, stumbling, unbalanced by the discharge of disappointment, spiritually deepened.

 They went from one side to the other but with their heads down, without direction, shoulders outstretched, without motivation, those who knew the reason for their rejection.

Others maddened screamed and ran, as if plagued by the slope of the plane they were on.

I understood that he was so determined for all those who lightly discredited the truth, written by the prophets, the apostles and many other altruists later.

So that they would suffer a loss just on that day, when they thought their redemption would happen, for them to repent, but bitterly and to judge better what they should believe.

Confused and neglected on boarding their salvation, those crestfallen should now have to prove their definitive option and decision, in the toughest test, which would require their ultimate testimony, costing them their temporal life, for the sake of eternal life.

Thus, they would be provisionally judged, because they first took pleasure in the iniquity, generated by false prophets, despite their proximity to all the records written by the Author of Truth.

HE reiterated to me what I knew in my heart, that the sentence was recorded in the second letter that Paul, of whom I am namesake, wrote to the Greek people, from the city of Thessalonica, in the chapter 2 in verses 11 and 12; And elsewhere more.

I was surprised when he showed me the whole strategy created by his rebellious servant, the Antichrist, to deceive and justify the proud at heart, the superb wise men of Emperor Constantine.

My mind brought up the image and excerpts from the saga written by Jerry B. Jenkins about the Day of Redemption and those "Left Behind"

He made my heart glad with the vision of how many more people we could get rid of the spiritual suffocatin-mask of this lie, ingeniously implanted by the enemy of our souls; Mask with real splendor, but a lie, full of false flickering light.

GOD saddened and vilified by those who said they were wise, smeared with the stupid neglect with which they distinguished Him, and dispensed to his writings, was taken to the corner of his ring, and forced to repay with the knock down, by his justice. Alerting them to the knock out must come, to hit those who persevere in the error.

To write about a remarkable author of fairy tales, I had to evoke the most daring, the most articulate, the most insinuating, the most suggestive, the most present; In short, the master of the masters of authorship, the author of his imagination, by the power of his word.

The best and the oldest among us, the ghost writer of Moses, of the psalms of King David, of the proverbs of his son Solomon, of Micaiah, of Isaiah and of Jeremiah, the only one who seemed credible, even after reading his fabulous abstractions: Christ! The living king of my people, Jewish people!

Lord Jesus! From now on, forever and ever.

AleluYH! Amen!