In exile, pain grows. It awakens another within us, more secret, buried deeper, and tosses salt on this open wound. It uncovers a face of the Self, and discovers at the same moment the abyss, bottomless, unbridled, endless terror, the dreadful desert of being.
The road dips and rises from the unconscious to the conscious. Upon taking to the road, man comes back to himself. Barely returned to himself, he adores himself and becomes fascinated with himself: he is his own prisoner. Emerging from the unconscious is his destiny; falling into fascination with himself, his distraction; remaining its slave, his exile.
Slave, man goes absent, forgets, and forgets to project. He no longer questions, or poorly. From deep in his night, he clings to himself. He forgets the path and his dual progress: the original, that returns to the source, and the final, that returns to the ocean. He neglects the path of his life, and the passing of time will obliterate everything.
This fascinated ego, incomplete, shackled by its chains, stranger to its source, ignorant of its end, abstract, isolated, ridiculous, does not hesitate to take itself as the supreme reality. It pursues God outside of itself, and becomes a tyrant.
The tyrant aspires to absolute power. The yoke that it imposes, those who serve him are called exilers. The lovers of liberty, who keep a close eye on the heart the transparent home and refuse to be dominated by the tyrant, they are exiled.
The truly sovereign Self, thrown far from its transparency, is actually the exiled of exiles. It alone can see the exilers and the exiled as the two faces of a single tragedy the acts of which play out on the inner stage.
As long as the fascination lasts, as long as destruction, the arbitrary and indignity reign, you and I will be exiled. But if the true Self is the exiled of exiles, who knows whether it will not lead us to the exile of all exiles? Who knows whether this exile of exile will not then be the key to our wandering?
Sayd Bahodine Majrouh