The Hermit

Citrinitas

I didn’t know how to define the Protagonist very well in the past. All I knew was that I had survived, even momentarily, because of her. That’s why I idolized her.

She was strong; if she cried, it was out of rage, never out of compassion, sadness, or pity.

And if she cried like that, my friend… If you were the cause of those tears that tasted like hell, you’d better run as far away as possible and pray that your resentment didn’t follow you because if it did, you’d never be free from retaliation.

And does any human being ever learn through love? I think they prefer punishment.

She, who for years took the lead even though she wasn’t the actual protagonist and downgraded the other to the role of a mere Extra, she was the queen of my consciousness for many years.

But I’d never tell you who she really is because this way, I have the right to change her as I please, at my own whim, depending on the adversary.

Isn’t that how things work here? Like a fighting video game where I choose the best character depending on the skills, I need to deal with a specific opponent?

Well, she will be whatever I want, depending on the character you give me, which is never fully revealed to me either way. 

I can tell you that she is a hidden adventure for those who don’t deserve to see her. She is who I solely was for most of my life since the other had been drowned by her.

This is the information I can give you at the moment, but I will never tell you who she truly is because that’s how things are done in Flatland.

Isn’t that what you all want?

I didn’t want to return to the depths, to regress into an animal, but indeed, they suspect the good faith of the Hermit, who, as Zaratustra said, is neither a bear among bears nor a bird among birds.

And just as he carried ashes to the mountains and then wanted to bring fire back to the valleys, I tried to do the same. I understood him; if I were part of that crowd, I wouldn’t mock him.

It was too much to keep to oneself. The urge to share love and the wisdom of new discoveries is immense, and when it doesn’t fit inside you, it must be expressed.

Science, before being science, was occultism. After all, a fact doesn’t create itself. Someone needed to think, understand, or perceive something still hidden to bring it into the light of the factual—knowledge that was still latent.

But how many witches had to be burned alive for discovering the medicinal potential of plants so that today's traditional pharmacies, selling capsules and injections, could benefit from such knowledge?

But who do you think you are?

Nietzsche? Jung? Jesus Christ? Buddha?

I will not stop thinking just because the citizens of Flatland think it’s arrogance to be the image or likeness of the masters, even though that was their crucial intention. I will not stop thinking because arrogance, in this sense, implies a lack of humility, and humility in this context is entirely related to religious dogmas, which preach obedience and acceptance.

I’m far from acceptance, let alone obedience.

I laugh to myself when I think about why this is happening to me, and at the same time, I cry for not being understood.

Could it be that all my logos is with my animus? Even if I gave him all my eros?

 Has he left nothing for me?

Ah, because they don’t have access to my world, they paint whatever picture they want of me. They get confused because they can no longer find my protagonist, or they don’t see her anymore seated on her old throne of majesty.

I am not a pile of books read or the discovery that came after identification. First, I identified, and then, unable to explain even to myself, I went after the discoveries and the books.

I wanted to prove to myself that I was wrong and that this was probably a psychosis—yes, that’s the term they use for all occultism that precedes science.

But the problem is, the more I discovered, the more I read, the more I sought evidence to contest everything I’ve been experiencing, the more references I found, the more I understood that it wasn’t something exclusively mine, the more I saw the synchronicities, and the more I saw that they went through the same things, repeating the same mistakes—those being the mistakes of wanting to be understood.

What are these triads?

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Pandavas, Kauravas, and Krishna; Camel, Lion, and Child; Ego, personal unconscious, and collective unconscious; Extra, Protagonist, and God?

What was people's incomprehension upon learning that Kafka was now an insect?

It’s the same incomprehension of a people who crucified Jesus.

It’s the same incomprehension of the people who mocked Zaratustra when he decided to leave the Hermit’s cave, saying God was dead.

The problem is that people associate God with religion, and religion was only created as a strategy for social control.

Probably those ignorants who misinterpreted the Bible and other ancient wisdom brought by many realized it was useful to them. They distorted the real intentions of the masters, using those texts in favor of ignorance for their own benefit, and used them to control animals easily led by their fears, as they are predominantly driven by survival instinct.

Ah, I just wanted to descend into the valleys with my fire. I just wanted to be the three-dimensional figure that can be understood even while living in Flatland. I just didn’t want to be crucified; I just wanted to show my child freely to the camel or the lion without risking my life.

It wouldn’t be a problem if it were egotistical since, in the proper doses, everything that exists here has a function and shouldn’t be wholly eradicated. But I tell you, this desire isn’t about seeking recognition or reward.

It’s the profound desire to reconnect with people and leave the Hermit’s cave. It’s the desire for a better world. It’s the need to be understood.

It’s just that, having lived in this cave for over a year, my solitude now also hides a hint of loneliness.

But it’s as complicated for me as it is for them. It’s hard for me because I see them without masks and need to pretend I don’t know anything while everything is absolutely clear and evident to me.

I have to pretend I don’t know my "friends" stab me in the back because they envy the authenticity, spontaneity, and joy of living of my child, and they still manipulate others to make them think the second option is always better than the first.

However, my dear friend, I was never interested in competing. But even if all you ever wanted was to prove to yourself that you had to be better than me, don’t worry, I’ll hand you the winner’s baton because, after all, I’m not interested in places of competition, much less at second places, let alone prizes that can be as manipulable as traditional systems—or perhaps even today’s voting systems.

What’s difficult for me isn’t competition. What’s difficult is having to pretend I never know anything because the last time the same thing happened, I innocently asked, but the truth was denied to me—it was denied several times. Then I realized it wasn’t wise to confront the veiled lie, that I had to content myself with keeping some of my truths. But just because I had to learn to pretend didn’t mean I had to keep them close to me, and that’s why the Hermit always returns to their cave.

It’s also difficult for me to know that my animus has always loved me. It’s hard to see the love in his eyes and have to turn my back on him to respect his desire to keep that love just for himself, whether out of fear of living it or any other fear. It’s challenging to have to learn to pretend I don’t see or feel anything. However, it’s the only way to live in Flatland, and that’s why, once again, I retreat to my cave.

It’s also difficult for me to know that there are those who try to confuse my pattern reading by presenting different metrics, which can come from various places. However, they don’t realize that this, too, is a way to read them.

These people use my thoughts and ideas as prostitutes and as prostitutes who aren’t even paid for their work. Behind my back, they talk about me, oscillating between biases of judgment and admiration, but never return to tell me what they truly think.

I don’t mind the criticism. I just wish I didn’t have to pretend.

So, even feeling anger at the wounds of manipulation and injustice that have always pursued me, I cannot rub my truth in everyone’s face. I need to lie and pretend I don’t know anything because now I prefer silence over innocently asking someone something absolutely clear and having it denied to me again.

Besides, it’s also difficult for them. Because they no longer remember their child, buried under the layers of the social mask, then they cannot recognize mine. And so they distrust the Hermit, and that’s why this Hermit returns to their cave.

But please, don’t stop visiting me, come here. 

Come here to diagnose my kind of madness, only to walk away wondering if the truly mad one is me.

Come here because while I’m in this cave, at least I have the right to think as I observe all of you, and at least while I think, I don’t feel alone.

Thiara Màtos. 

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