Absurd meaning of life (without whiskey) E-Book

Philippe Gregoire

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 390

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

We sink deeper and deeper into the viscera and tormented moods of this young man who lives only on dreams and adventures, and occasionally sex and romance. Unless it's the other way around... Out of generosity he gives us everything. Aren't we all the same with our imperfect human emotions? How good it is that he takes us to visit our shadow areas that we too often deny, making us incomplete beings... From isolated lands to lost lands, he gives us his intimate secrets, full of his old lives and their emotional scoriae. Thus, from roads to routs, he will find the goal of his long quest and will marry underwater for what he has finally come to seek - deep love - in the purest protocol of the Atlanteans. In short, we enjoy ourselves, we want more, and here is the rest! Keywords: Sex, adventure, reincarnation, past lives, vicious family ties, liberation, and...er...sex again. EXTRACT : Lesson of the day: how to defecate quietly, at the back of the boat. Sit down on the back railing, making sure of course that there is no one watching you, or your ego may take a hit, the position is so immodest and shocking. Pull down your underpants, securing your hands firmly to the railing. Slowly move your buttocks back to the point of no balance, and make sure there are no greedy gulls hovering behind, who, thinking what is about to fall is food, might.. .finally it is better to avoid that. Also be sure that the rogue wave will not come to affect your hazardous balance either, take a deep breath and push hard to quickly eject the materials that are stalling, or feces. As a dead poet would say: "It is good to hate our ridiculousness by cheering up our testicles". So for the toilets, it will be bare ass, defecating in free fall at the back of the boat, women as well as men. Everyone giggles with stifled, yellow, embarrassed, childish laughter...

Leseprobe

AUTHOR'S NOTES

This book is the second part of the incredible adventures of this young man who goes in search of himself.

It is the sequel to the first book " Absurd meaning, Love pursuit", written in March 2022.

Absurd meaning of Life (without whiskey), going down a little further into the viscera and the depths of the hero's soul, therefore into the baggage hold and the powerful emotional reminiscences of his current life, or of his previous lives that shaped his being.

PREFACE

This book is the second part of the adventures of this young man who goes in search of himself.

As in my first book, I relate my comments 20 years later, based on my experience and especially on my current awareness of these ancient facts, of the being I was at the time, of the path I have travelled, of the lessons I have learned.

So let me add to this story some conscious thoughts on the facts of the past, because in the place and time of these adventures, I must say that I was living much less "in consciousness" than now, I was only a young adult full of testosterone, dreams and creative madness, and my world was not conscious as it is now, twenty years later.

During these adventures at the time, I did not think about my past lives which could guide my choices here or there, I was not aware of certain patterns inscribed in me, repetitive or not, I did not know that thought-forms attached to emotions brought up from past lives could have an impact on what I was living, I knew nothing about what touched the subtle and invisible world. I sometimes spoke to the Gods, whom I imagined as energies coming from the Universe, good and beneficial to me. Like nice mythological entities that wished me well.

Therefore, forgive the fact that I speak a lot about myself, that I write in the name of my inner voice, but I think that we are all the same, with the same emotions, the same doubts, desires and wishes, and I hope that, through my experiences and especially the exposure of my thoughts, the dissection of my inner feelings, I will allow you to live what I was living at the time, aware of the fact that few people dare to take risks and to act as I did in those times.

I invite you, by proxy, to a beautiful recreational journey, inside and outside.

Enjoy your reading.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Bangladesh? What a strange idea!

Cotton fields, and dirty weather

Escape from the darkness

First steps in India

Dream bike : Royal Enfield 1968

My friends the Tibetans

Direction Nepal

Not everyone is ugly…

The Annapurna Caravan

And Anna purned

I'm Thai.

The most beautiful island in the world

Life is crazy...

I'm learning the trade…

Professional

Would you believe it?

Love story

A day in Paradise

Underwater Wedding

Delicious routine

The Indian Ocean

The Maldives

1. Bangladesh? What a strange idea!

Slow awakening. The wispy layers of my last dream fade feverishly, and I slowly regain awareness of my world.

New noises, new smells... sheets, walls, where am I?

Oh yes, this is it... I'm in this hotel with a funny name I can't remember.

I am resuming the course of reality created yesterday.

I arrived in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh.

What the hell am I doing here?

What on earth possessed me to come here? I knew deep down that it might be a mistake, one more, or rather a difficulty on my way, an extra thing I was adding to my life that I sometimes create in a rather complex way.

Well, I didn't fail.

I wanted to challenge myself, like: "Are you able to cross Bangladesh?", knowing very well what my little Jasper on the right shoulder would answer: "Yes, of course! Easy..."

Well, now that I'm here, I'll have to start, and with good will, because today I feel I'm lacking some.

I arrived yesterday from Mandalay in Burma and, after the chaotic exit of the airport, I looked for a decent place to sleep.

First contact with the people, the crowd, the anthill. But I feel too out of place... Today, I have to go for it, face all these new faces I saw yesterday, show my face to everyone.

I'm in the right place. I have to go...

My guesthouse is a few blocks from the city centre. A taxi dropped me off late yesterday. I didn't really see what it looks like outside.

I feel like a weight above me... I can't put words to it yet.

It feels dark, oppressive, something heavy... I'm not at the party.

It is Tuesday, April 12, the second day in Dhaka.

I went for a walk today, and it's... how can I put it... rather confusing.

Few women, mostly veiled, and I don't really like them. Lots of men then, almost all identical. Tall, thin, skinny, black hair, like their eyes and their look.

And when I say "a lot", you can't imagine how much.

I don't remember the exact figures, but Bangladesh is one of the poorest countries on the planet, and one of the most populated too. So there are a lot of people outside, everywhere...

Personally, it scares me. I already don't like crowds, but here, it's impossible to escape. Especially since I'm the only foreigner! So everywhere I go, there are crowds in front of me.

This morning I was nervous about it, although I understand them.

They were all there, clumped together, looking at me, without saying anything, without noise, without exchanging between them. Like zombies... Scary!

And what can I say? "Get the hell out"? No.

"Get out, leave me in peace, leave me alone", either.

They just look at me. I am their current hobby. They have nothing to do, so they watch the stranger, captivated. Or dead, I don't know because no one moves or speaks.

I think I'm going to have to live with this oppression the whole way through this country. Go ahead Phil, live with this constant pressure, you who don't like to be the center of attention, or be in the spotlight. Well, I think you've got yourself a good challenge!

Thursday, 9am: I found an old travel book on Bangladesh, certainly forgotten by some other tourist, in this shabby hotel that hosts me. There are some sights to see in the capital.

I'm going to move today, I've got ants in my legs.

It's funny because I'm in a Muslim country, it's new to me, and there are ways of doing things... totally new.

Like eating with one hand, the right hand.

First of all, yes, we eat without cutlery. They don't bother here, everyone eats with their hands. Wow... where am I? In Africa with the Zulus? That's prehistoric.

Well, after the first few minutes, I get used to it, and I would almost say that I like it. Usually we eat dhal, lentils with rice, and chicken or lamb or beef. It all mixes together easily and I can make a ball out of the rice and the other food, and push that ball with my thumb so that it fits easily in my mouth, without getting it all over me.

Well, I don't have the thing yet, and for the moment I'm happily slathering myself with food, like a baby would.

Some men look at me with laughing eyes, others don't give a damn. It takes a long time to get to the point where you can eat by creating these balls of food with one hand.

Yes, one hand, the right hand. Because the left hand is for wiping your ass.

Or at least to wipe it with the water jet that is in every toilet, next to the bidet or the hole.

So, you learn your lesson well: you wash your buttocks with your left hand, and eat with your right. And not the other way around, eh... Otherwise some people will have a good laugh in the restaurants!

This crowd! All the time, everywhere, the crowd of the great days!

Except that here, it's every day the big days... And all of them always stuck to each other. Like at the post office, at the counter.

Normally, we Westerners stand in a single file and wait. Here, no, they are pressed against each other, their faces directed towards the opening of the counter, and they all speak at the same time.

So at the beginning I push a little, I push back, I swing from right to left to make sure my private space is respected, I play with my buttocks, but what the hell... I don't care, it's who goes first. And I can't do it, I wasn't brought up that way, I can't and won't fight and push everyone around to have my say or my space. For them, it's the normality, chaos is the rule, it's crazy...

To think that this country is flooded every year, that the misfortune always comes back for this people who live at the colossal mouths of some enormous rivers, which inevitably overflow during the annual monsoons.

Poor people. Karma, fatality, why do they stay here, on this earth that takes away theirs every year, during the great mortal parade of the waters?

Why are you reincarnated here, in fact? How can this be?

On this precise fact, I think that our higher self, our consciousness, follows its normal evolution, and therefore, from incarnation to incarnation, it is supposed to offer us more and more enriching experiences for our ascension.

Why should we incarnate in Ethiopia and experience hunger, thirst, and total destitution, if we have already lived them, if the experiences that these difficulties gave us in the past have already enriched our consciousness?

Wouldn't this be a logical and coherent sequence, from life to life?

What would we learn if we continued to live in hunger and fear of death every day for several lifetimes in a row?

Except for family ties, what would the conscience have to learn from a previous life lived in the same way?

Let us not forget that life is a great game, and that the Luminous Gods (as I like to call them) or the Creative Forces of Light or of the Universe, know how to push us to play well, by placing us or by inciting us at each reincarnation to live in an environment favorable to our evolution and our blooming, and thus to allow us to continue our ascent on the path of the light If it is true that groups of souls reincarnate together, then, therefore, we always have karmas - or karmic ties - to adjust with one or another of our former companions.

But experiencing life on planet Earth is not just about weaving, repairing or exploring the bonds between people. It offers the opportunity to experience other feelings, such as security, trust, fears, the goals we set for ourselves, the connection we create with nature, animals, etc.

That is why I think that if I have already lived a life poor in everything, if I have already suffered from famine and thirst, if I have already experienced destitution, like a monastic life for example, why would I live that again, what more would it bring me?

Unless I messed up in that previous life and have to relive the kind of experiences that such a life can bring me.

My consciousness certainly wants to experience deeper and more complex links or knots now, by incarnating in a modern society, where hunger and thirst have certainly disappeared, and where much more complex karmas than those of hunger or thirst alone are tied up.

Connections are more complicated in a big city where everyone has everything, where no one suffers physically anymore, where toxic, exhausting, torturous, harmful relationships can develop. I think it's fair to write that when people are starving themselves, they don't have time for this nonsense. It's a sentiment and bond of rich societies to vamp each other with subtle power plays. The predators we all know are not from poor countries. The prey, on the other hand, may be...

Family ties are more complicated than in a dying tribe deprived of everything, and I only have to look at my own life to understand where the biggest karmas are that have been created there, and with whom.

My immediate family.

Exclusively.

This father I never knew, my mother who mistreated me without ever trying to repair or apologize, and who missed her destiny, my sister who distanced herself from me when we were so close as children, these are good karmas, very tense, very powerful, that will have to be adjusted, repaired, mended in the next life.

And I must say that I did not expect it, but really not.

I thought that in my life, the big karmas would be created outside the precious inner circle, that of the close family.

No way! On that point, in this life, I did not fail.

Daddy, Mommy, my dear sister, be sure that this is only a postponement, we will meet again in the next life to settle our stories and the serious differences that we will have created in this life.

Surprisingly here, it seems that karate is the national sport.

I see a lot of young people in the streets wearing their karate uniforms, with their coloured belts according to their level, and a lot of karate schools.

I walked into one of them, with my precious brown belt in my head, and I felt a bit at home. Except I wasn't. And I was a distraction, with everyone watching to see who this daring stranger was who came so easily into their dojo...

What rigor! Everyone seems to walk at a pace, they shout, they throw "kiaiii" at the end of the movements to anchor the chi energy with a maximum of power, from the center of the belly, at the level of the navel.

They are all skinny, and study hard.

In fact, I think it goes well with their religion...which doesn't mess around.

Oh, hell no, we don't fool around with Muslims! Rigour and discipline, that seems to be the national doctrine.

Visited the textile and handicraft market, not far from here. On the way, I stopped at a bakery for tea and a local snack of bakarkhani, which is what everyone eats, once settled. It's a kind of bread, a bit bland, that you dip in tea. It costs nothing. In fact, it seems that everything costs nothing. Or that nothing costs anything. In short, it's cheap.

Once again, mostly men... But where are the women?

A few tourists, not many compared to Burma, and even less compared to Thailand.

But it's a fact: you have to be crazy, or a little bit stupid, to come and visit one of the least organized countries for tourists, with few restaurants and places that are welcoming to pleasure-hungry visitors.

Now I am both...

The men are holding hands, they seem to be brothers, or friends, or lovers, they are so stuck together. It's not easy for me to understand these codes. It must come from their religion...

I realize that it's going to be hard to find chicks I'll like. How am I going to do that if there are few tourist girls, and the locals are all hidden or invisible under layers of veils?

Well... my Philou, where did you get yourself into again?

The clothes market is incredible. Everywhere mounds of scattered clothes, stalls run by families or saleswomen, like "all the clothes that Europe doesn't want anymore" arrive here. It's such a mess that I wonder how they can find their way around, which one is mine, which one is yours, people take, put back, pay or not, I can't tell.

It's tiring, though, this noise, these ants constantly on the move. I can't wait to go back to the hotel and leave this capital, which is too noisy for me. There are still things to see, places that are certainly beautiful (although...) but I don't feel it... too poor, too many beggars everywhere, too much misery that hits me, flogs my sensibility, makes me uncomfortable.

I'm moving tomorrow.

I managed to find a map of the country. I have to go west.

On the map, India is not far, but there are not many trains or buses, it's still not very developed. And people certainly don't have the means, that would explain why there is so little transportation.

It's Saturday morning, day four in this strange and oppressive country.

I can't get used to it. This poverty dries my heart. It screams out its empathy for all these wretched people every hour. I have frankly never seen anything so pathetically unfortunate.

Not many people seem to be comfortable or happy, or quiet.

Except for the children.

The looks are downright black. But the worst part is that I don't see the little sparkle that would normally reside behind those black eyes. It's empty. Nothing. Nothing moves behind... It's as if the wires in the brain don't touch, there's no contact, there's no spark.

Hello? .... Anybody home? Not all floors have Wi-Fi, I think...

Sometimes I feel like shouting that, when I have 15 or 25 people standing still and staring at me, when I'm waiting for a bus for example, one that's far too late for my taste.

Dantesque vision that these zombies frozen at three meters of me, without life, without noise, without speaking nor commenting what they see, me.

They stare at me as if I was an Alien, and the minutes pass...

And I shout inwardly: "Go away! Go away! Leave me alone!" But I can't. How can I, since I don't speak their language, and I would lose my composure, I would lose everything, including my dignity. So there's nothing to do but to put up with this, this heaviness, and take it without flinching... Life lesson.

Already four days of oppression, in this strange, heavy, heavy atmosphere. I feel bad, but I have to go on.

Besides, I like a bit of comfort, sleeping in cozy beds, rustic but nice rooms, going to nice restaurants and discovering menus full of good and beautiful things, being able to visit nice cities and having fun almost happily... here, everything is the opposite.

What the hell am I doing here, what?!

Met some young people this morning in the hall of the pension, they arrive from India. We exchange banalities on what they have just lived. It smells good the strangeness and the colors, it is perfumed of unknown powerful odors!

Franco and his girlfriend are here to visit the country, and like me they are wondering what the hell they are doing here.

We decide to take a walk this morning in the beautiful palace district, along the Buriganga river. There is an extraordinary 19th century palace, residence of the nawabs of Dhaka, with its emblematic pastel pink facade that gives it an unreal and sweet air, with its dome and its period furniture. At least, if there is not so much to see, it is cool. Everything is furnished more or less sparingly, one feels the lack of means in general because everything is done simply, without frills or extravagant bling, for a palace that was certainly of a crazy beauty in its time.

Quite a few local tourists, and finally some women who are not veiled, as if the more affluent women could afford to show their hair. Hardly any tourists.

A sick thing then...

We are sitting on the terrace of a café. Well... a terrace, that's a word from modern countries. Here, we are rather on an anarchic throw of tables on a corner of sidewalk crowded with people, dozens of twisted plastic chairs scattered in the middle of this chaos, and people in clusters, talking loudly about everything and nothing, in a general din and hubbub.

Nothing to do with a Parisian terrace surrounded by geraniums and well-behaved people chatting peacefully. In addition, many animals of all kinds come to chat and crash in the groups. This ranges from cows that interfere in the discussions, to more or less skeletal dogs that are there to catch the few pieces of bread that are bathed in a muddy flowerbed, a few goats that have something to add to the noise, third world pigeons with just enough feathers to cover their thin bodies, and one or two rats that pass by quickly enough not to be eaten by the dogs.

Atmosphere "we don't know if we stay or if we run away in long strides"... It's dirty.

We sit down where there is still some room and order a beer and two lemonades.

And there, we witness a surreal scene: two dogs, who had just copulated in the crowd, in the center of everyone, could not detach themselves, their sexes still fused, as if they were belly to belly. They were standing there, bent over, ass to ass, each one on his side, trying to leave but unable to, their sex united, twisted in an abnormal direction for the male... They stayed like that for about ten minutes, among the crowd, a bit embarrassed, a bit hilarious, in a perceptible shame, where nobody could help them.

Eaten on the way back to the pension, chicken dahl, the classic meal, for a pittance.

Tomorrow I'm moving, and that's good, I have to move towards India, because there are too few pleasures at my disposal, I feel like wasting away...

2. Cotton fields, and dirty weather

I'm bouncing from side to side in this rusty van that carries me and my comrades to Pabna, a small trading town on the road to India, about 300 km from Dhaka.

We cross fields where miserable people live, it stinks of poverty for miles around, we see that there is nothing, never anything. My western eye looks not only for some beauties, but also for some comfort, restaurants, shops, villages that look like something, but... nothing, there is so little that I can't get rid of this feeling of embarrassment that kneads my heart.

How can we live there?

The people I'm with are like me; in fact, we haven't spoken to each other for quite a while now. The oppression we all feel prevents us from expressing light-hearted words, from joking around, from talking about everything and anything. We don't laugh.

Fortunately, we had the good idea to rent a van for all of us, so we can travel without chickens, kids, zombies staring at us impassively as we are now used to.

Marc and Sophie, a French couple traveling for a few months in Asia want to go to the north of the country, there would be, according to them, interesting things to see ... Yeah, I want to believe them but if we have to spend dozens of hours to see some old stones, it will be without me.

I'm not writing a thesis on Bangladeshi clay for the construction of derelict temples.

Two Israelis are also with us, they also want to go to India.

Dressed like scum, I think to better get lost in the crowd or to be accepted, they are almost scary to see. A career in begging is definitely in their future. But they don't stink too much, so we tolerate them in the van.

Well, van... so to speak. Rolling heap of sheet metal, that would be more appropriate. At least it moves forward, sometimes strangely, but we progress in strange musical chords and squeaks of dissatisfaction of the engine...

We pass through many anarchically structured villages, most with mud huts and people bustling around. Many of them are in the fields, hunting down the misbegotten grass that refuses to grow here.

Always sad. Even the sky is sad.

We stop in a nameless and uncomfortable shack. We eat something with our fingers, drink a brownish water, and leave after having made our burp.

Arrived in Pabna at the end of the afternoon, in a last gasp and sputtering of the engine, which will certainly have made its last trip.

Lousy boarding house, but certainly top of the line in the area.

I fall asleep exhausted by all this drunken misery.

Everywhere the pain.

I knew when I came here that the country was ranked something like the fourth poorest in the world.

I expected it... but are we ever ready for that, for that much?

At that time, Bangladesh was not yet known for its Nike factories and the manufacture of many of the European and American branded clothes, shoes, bags and other products that it would later become known for.

For some of the people, this will be the beginning of the country's remontada thanks to the textile and shoe factories that will bring the country to a slightly higher standard of living or human decency, especially in Dhaka.

But then again, can we really talk about decency when it's more like a form of modern slavery, with these people working hard for just minimal pay, in conditions that other people would not accept.

And all this to end up sometimes swallowed up by the building which will have collapsed on these workers...

Pfffff..... always the poorest who suffer...

Not much to say, I still have this black cloud over my head. I've got to move, and fast, otherwise I'll end up grey myself.

Small, miserable town, nothing to do or see, and always this lack of comfort, of pleasures. It doesn't suit me.

My moon in Taurus always requires pleasure, no matter what I do.

For me, a day without pleasure is a day wasted, almost.

Our hotel for tonight is a pile of planks that stands up. But only if there is no wind, I suppose...

Planks mean holes.... Hey hey hey... equals staring.

But look at who? There's no one to watch tonight...

Staring, am I really normal?

But what is "watching" if not watching someone without their knowledge, often out of curiosity. Or perversion. Perversion is when you end up with your dick in your hand, which happens to me sometimes, but most of the time I'm attracted by noise and like any normal human, curiosity gets the better of me.

Especially in environments like this, old boarded up hotels, with prehistoric toilets and holes everywhere to peer into for privacy...

Many times I have found myself in showers full of holes. Breaches or crevices, often created by other humans, certainly more perverse than me.

Sometimes, as my eye went down to stick to the hole and see who was on the other side, I found myself with another eye in front of me!

And not always a man's!

Stupefaction, surprise... and laughter of course.

Sorry folks, but I don't feel any more vicious than you, I'm probably more curious, yes. And with a stronger sensuality as well, always on the lookout for a situation that pushes thoughts... sensual.

Like a feeling that nothing has moved for ages.

Wretched people working a piece of land, starving animals beside them, barely able to stand.

Nothing, almost nothing.

To eat, to do, to enjoy.

Only the feeling of not dying prevails.

What strange karmas for all these people, still at the stage where they need to sustenance just enough not to die. Must they, in their evolution, go through thirst and hunger to learn, and then reincarnate in more modern worlds or societies, to become more emancipated in subtlety, with less primary needs, and other finer and/or more complex experiences to solve?

I move, I get closer to the Indian border.

Slowly but surely.

As you can imagine, I am in a hurry to leave this country, this hideous misery. My heart is pained, I find no pleasure in my days, I see them as a race against time in which I must hurry across the country, and only to satisfy futile pleasures, without giving anything to the people.

Sometimes I think I'm selfish, always thinking of my own little pleasures.

The French couple left on their own, they are going up north.

We didn't have much to share anyway. And the two fleabag Israelis are also going their own way, and I don't care where.

They are slightly unpleasant, even a little unsympathetic.

I learn from conversations that young Israelis, both boys and girls, have to do a three-year internship in the army when they turn 18. In kibbutz or elsewhere, I don't really know. In their country anyway. And when their mission is over, strong and full of the money they saved during those three years, they leave for a place where life is cheap, in South-East Asia.

We see them everywhere, especially in Thailand, and we can easily recognize them because they all look alike. A very full hair system, hair and hairs, abundant beards, dull complexion, between 20 and 25 years old, and above all they speak loudly and badly, are arrogant and even impolite in front of the local populations. Several times, I surprised them with gestures and words that was closed to rudeness and disrespect for the little people I met here and there.

Personally, I don't really like them, they are irritating with their natural arrogance. I even think that in the ranking of the worst tourists in the world, they should be at the top of the table and on one of the last three steps.

Between the Chinese and the Russians, of course.

So the lepers of the kibbutz are leaving, long live their cohort of bacteria and microbes that accompany them.

I'm starting to get bowel problems.

It makes noise, it gurgles loudly at night when I'm lying down, and they shout at me their dismay at what I'm going through, and especially at what I'm eating.

They are starting to release fluid and I feel a few small stomach aches and twinges.

I have to say that even though I'm careful with water, you can't escape it anyway. Whether it's fruit or salads in the tourist bars, everything is washed with tap water, and inevitably a few drops find their way into the digestive system and intestines. I think I'm contaminated.

I hope it doesn't get any worse.

As I have a lot of time, I write.

To my childhood friends who stayed in Switzerland, to my family, sometimes to my exes.

Long letters, several pages long. I have time.

With everything that's happened to me, I've got a lot of things to write about, of course.

And my mates don't really rush to write to me either.

Okay, not much happens in their ordinary lives, I understand that, but I feel so lonely sometimes that I'd like to hear from them more often.

My sister and/or my mother answer me about every three months, postage due in the next city I'll be in (I try to calculate my dates and cities carefully), and my mates don't bother to tell me about their routine life anymore every six months.

And there's my beautiful Amelie who often answers me, almost every month, at least to each of my letters. My beautiful Brazilian - who's actually Spanish - with small breasts and a dreamy ass, and with the long hair of a goddess. She's an ex of mine... it didn't work out for long, we had trouble communicating fully. I think I was a bit stuck, because she was too beautiful, too full of something I didn't have, me only wanting to have fun with the girls and my buddies. She wanted something else. And it didn't last between us.

But I like to write to her, and since she answers me every time, I continue to exchange with her, and I keep her warm in my heart...

From Pabna, I arrive in another village called Ishwardi.

AKA, one of the "shithole".

That's right, nice and simple description of this lovely place.

Right next to the Indian border. Another mile or two and I'll be done.

Took the local bus to get here, I won't tell you....

"Yesssss.... Tell us about it!"

Well, okay...

Well, you imagine the worst of the old Indian buses in a shabby state, remove some body panels, remove the exhaust pipe which is useless, add a big black carbon smoke at the back, and put about 80 people copiously crammed in.

This is a perfect local bus of the Bangladeshi countryside.

We finish the picture with people on the roof, between bundles of clothes, various plastics and mattresses, and we launch the whole thing at 80 km/h on partially destroyed roads.

There were no fatalities, a few bruises on the bodies present that took the ten hours of stoned road, some screams and impetuosity sometimes when a chicken fell on a sleeping head, but in the end, it was a very pleasant trip. Because I arrived alive.

Broken in three, but alive.

I find myself a local guesthouse next to the main street, so I can leave tomorrow more quickly.

Always the same, wooden boards to separate the rooms, few people and even fewer tourists.

Who would come and get lost here, huh?

You must be stupid, or crazy...

3. Escape from the darkness

Walking in the mist. In the grey of the early morning. That's what you have to do, and that's what I do.

I walk along a disused, abandoned railway line.

The grass is short all around, a large green area slightly hilly, it is peaceful and quiet. The cows are very thin, and they are reluctant to eat the earth because of the lack of grass.

People, here and there, go about their business.

Some are crouching in the fields, wrapped in their dresses or skirts.

Broken toys, lifeless.

And a madman comes by...

Backpack, slightly bent, panting with each step, sweating by the gallons, motivated by the sole purpose of leaving this poor unwelcoming land.

I was shown the way, by rail, spiritual, and as the crow flies, to leave the country: in about ten kilometers there will be a sort of office, with a barrier, and that will be the end of the country, I will be in India.

"Just go straight on, over there..." in a little dog-eared English and a slightly haphazard hand gesture, like "Go northwest, and follow the crows...".

So I walk, my twenty kilos on my back, my viscera still swarming and liquid, and my firm intention to leave the country quickly and permanently.

I have never left a country like this, in a misty, gloomy cloud, walking in the countryside isolated from almost everything, and not even knowing if I am in the right direction.

You bet, ten kilometers is long, easy to get lost...

Follow this old path, half covered with moss and grass, and walk without question.

Except that questions, there, now, they're flying around in my head. With the main one, the one that comes back all the time, in a loop, in a mixture of anger, rage against myself, against the Gods, against my destiny: "What the hell did I come here for?

I pass people, who seem to be hallucinating.

Imagine the backdrop of a poor countryside, a few ragged peasants with their scrawny beasts, who see a guy coming from who knows where, carrying his backpack, mumbling in his week-old beard who knows what diatribes, seeming to rage at every step...

An Alien.

But without a saucer, and cursing his crew for leaving him there...

Two hours have passed. I'm still walking.

It's calming down a bit in my head, I'm so close to the Indian border.

By the way, what am I going to do in India?

Oh yes, to buy the beautiful motorcycle of my dreams, and to ride it around the country, to show off as I like to do sometimes, discreetly, but that people see me anyway, and wonder about me.

To appear as the dark guy who passes by, who doesn't say much, who leaves a trail of unsolved mysteries behind him...

Hey hey... so this is an interesting topic, because... who hasn't played this game?

Who hasn't been tempted to look like something more rewarding than themselves?

I am referring of course to the sweet energy vampirism that feeds so many hollow, or empty, worlds.

Because what is the show-off?

To show off is to project yourself outside, to go physically, to fill up with energy. Filling yourself with the lustful gaze of others, feeding off the admiration of your fellow human beings, feeling the pride of hearing "hooo, heyé..." as you pass by, knowing that you please, that people want you, would like to meet you.

We are all the same, and let the first person who has not tested this throw the stone at me.

It's good, it feels good, and it seems like if you could plug into an electrical device to measure your energy, there would be a nourishing spike when you show off with awareness.

You feel good in the moment, strong, powerful, almost happy.

Until we get home. Downhill...

Because the peak does not last.

That's why I like the term energy vampirization, taking energy from others to feed on it briefly, and since it doesn't last, we have to keep repeating it, showing off again, putting on our best clothes to make ourselves loved again and have the energy of others drained back to us.

Hollywood, the stars, the notoriety, the show-off, the power that it brings, it's all just an energy game for empty people.

It's only nourishing for a while.

And one only has to look at all the stars who have fallen from their pedestals, too drained by this game of vampirism. By dint of looking outside for what could nourish us, we are gradually emptying ourselves.

Like vampires.

Why have we seen so many vampire movies in the last fifteen years?

A current need for Man to observe these impulsive phenomena, to understand them in order to distance himself from them and no longer be subject to them.

When humans understand that it's just that, and that it's better to take the time to fill ourselves internally with something else, with our own energy, with positive beliefs, with luminous and altruistic thoughts, to just refocus rather than scatter, to focus on ourselves rather than on what others will think of us, then this need for social consideration will extinguish itself, and we won't need others anymore, we won't need to feed ourselves in such a primitive way, by showing off

I, who didn't really receive my share of positive considerations from my parents in my early childhood, it was clear that I would have to show off for a while to feed off the energy of others, before - the sooner the better - I understood that there were better things to do and refocused myself.

So I had my years of glory, or rather of showing off, more or less consciously, when I went to the south of France, driving my superb new sports car, I very quickly gave myself big bagouzes on my fingers (which were strictly useless, except to show off) and a huge watch on my wrist, which I never looked at, useless since the time is displayed everywhere, on our phones, in the car or at home.

These were just for show, so that people would know that I had succeeded, so that they would whisper "Oh my God, how good he is, how handsome he is, how strong he is...", because I needed it, it fed me and made me feel good.

In fact, I needed to experience it physically and emotionally, otherwise how could I have understood the invisible mechanisms behind this need? As someone who likes to experiment by myself rather than discovering advanced concepts in books, I can now perfectly observe these mechanisms still active in many people.

Just look at the phenomenon of selfies, another way to tell the world "Look how beautiful I am, or how beautiful my life is...", and thus feed off all the "Likes" received.

We've all experienced this, not getting any "likes" after posting a great video is downright disappointing. Whereas the opposite gives satisfaction.

This is energy vampirisation, we sell ourselves to be fed.

From this point of view, social networks participate in a way to the emancipation of the people because more and more people start to wake up, are fed up with these selfish attitudes, and feel that it is enough, that it is ridiculous, that it must stop, and turn to deeper things, feel the need to refocus.

4. First steps in India

Walking in the mist. In the grey of the early morning. That's what you have to do, and that's what I do.

As the hours and fatigue pass, I am in a wispy cloud as I hobble towards a dilapidated house, next to the railroad tracks, and some sort of rusty fence that has long since given up the ghost. Life is in suspension, there are only the sounds of the countryside, the birds, the rustle of the faint wind, and my footsteps in the moss and short grass. I arrive in front of the hut and call out in a nasal voice if anyone is there...

A guy comes out, haggard, suspicious and disheveled. You bet, no one ever passes through here, this must be the only border post in India that is in this state and so remote, lost in nature, far from any city.

Only leprous officials should have the privilege of coming here to finish their lives. I must have disturbed him in his nap or his daze. I spend at least ten minutes in my convoluted English explaining to him what I am doing here. He seems to understand half of what I say and agrees to give me a stamp on my passport.

I will leave under his curious gaze, he will have a nice story to tell in his village, back home tonight. A half haggard guy, who came out of nowhere, who disembarked from Bangladesh on foot, to arrive in India by this way that no one has taken for ages.... Wow!

I'm in India, that's it!

Always the same campaign and the same poverty. And I move on...

My goal now is to quickly reach a big city to find some life, the kind I like, people, something to drink fresh fruit juice, eat a lot of good things, talk with interesting people, sleep comfortably if possible, well, everything I like...

Drinking a Saint-Nectaire, accompanied by a sectarian dwarf.

A village in the distance. People look at me like they would look at a beggar coming from the asshole of the world, or a foreigner completely lost. I'm indicated a guesthouse-hotel-boarding house, I don't care, I give my passport and fall asleep for 18 hours nonstop.

It's almost mid-May, I'll only have stayed .... well, in a manner of speaking, one month and a half in this magnificent.... well, let's not get carried away, this strange ultra-poor country that won't have really nourished me, that will even have dried up my love for human beings and my joie de vivre.

A long month with a big, black, heavy cloud over me.

What does that mean? That I didn't belong?

What would I have done in this country which is of no use to me in my personal development, if I have already gone through the most pure destitution, hunger and thirst, if I have nothing more to gain for my evolution?

It seems clear to me...

I'm still as sick as ever, my intestines are wriggling all over the place and sometimes with a disturbing noise, it seems like a monster is rumbling inside me, that I'm going to give birth to an Alien, something is brewing in the depths of my viscera... my god, how unpleasant it is to be unwell, and to keep on living in inhospitable lands as far as food and hygiene are concerned...

I need to get back to a good quality diet as soon as possible.

Wednesday, the weather is fine, I wake up in a good bed. It's been a long time.

I am in a hotel in the town of Baharampur, on the other side of the Padma River, a river that overflows happily every year, swollen by the torrential rains of the monsoon raining down in the north of the country, all too happy to be able to spread out and thus leave its man-made comfort zone, and ravage the surrounding lands, gorging itself with human and animal corpses, creating more misery and suffering in its domain, before returning to its original course a few weeks later, leaving people and land devastated.

Simple breakfast, roasted pancakes, local bread, goat's milk with fresh butter, two jars of local fly jam, and I asked for eggs. It all goes down with a very black liquid. They obviously don't know what coffee is, and I suspect the cook has left some socks in a pan full of water to decant overnight. Anyway, I'm not complaining.

I'm not alone, I'm chatting with two Englishmen who seem to be on a mystical quest. They have been here for three months and are travelling around the country dressed like the local peasants, with big beards, leather sandals and cotton togas. We laugh while telling each other about our respective adventures. Apparently there is enough to do here to get drunk every day, according to their stories... So we should have a good laugh.

We part quickly because I'm heading for the biggest town nearby, and they don't seem to be in any hurry at all, too happy to be able to live on only 30 cents a day.

My goal: to reach New Delhi quickly, buy myself a legendary motorcycle, and ride off into the foothills of the Himalayas to join the Buddhist community, because it is rumoured that the Dalai Lama had to flee his native Tibet to take refuge there, with his relatives. And that speaks to me, and I want to go and join them.

Just that.

The project.

It's crazy, yes I know, and that's how I work. I always need crazy and grandiose projects, it feeds me well, stimulates me, pushes me to be stronger and stronger, and it seems to work because I know that nothing can stop me when I am in my delirium.