There is no doubt that between thinking and feeling there exists a great difference; this is incontrovertible.
There exists great insensitivity amongst people. This is the coldness of that, which is unimportant, of that which is superficial.
The multitudes consider to be important that which is unimportant. They assume that the latest fashion, the latest model car or the question of basic wage is the only serious thing.
They call the daily news “serious”, the amorous adventure, a sedentary life, a glass of liquor, horse racing, bull fighting, car racing, gossip, calumny, etc.
Obviously, when the “man of the moment” or the “woman of the beauty salon” hears something about esotericism, since it is neither part of their plans nor of their social circle, nor of their sexual pleasures, they respond with a frightfully cold disinterest, or they simply purse their lips, shrug their shoulders and leave with indifference. This is because it is not in their plans, it is not of interest within their social circles, nor is it sexually titillating enough.
That psychological apathy, that frightful coldness has two bases: firstly, the most tremendous ignorance and secondly, the most absolute absence of spiritual inquietude.
There is no contact, no electric shock. It cannot be obtained in a shop, nor from amongst that considered serious, much less in the pleasures of the bed.
If in the moment, someone were capable of giving the cold imbecilic man or a superficial woman an electric shock, the spark in the heart, some strange reminiscence, a certain very intimate “something”, then perhaps everything would be different.
But something displaces this small secret voice, the first presentiment, the intimate longing. Possibly it is some insignificant thing, a beautiful hat in some window or showcase, an exquisite sweet in some restaurant, a meeting with some friend which later is not of least importance, etc.
Insignificant things, stupidities which though not transcendental, do have in a given moment the force to extinguish the first spiritual inquietude, that intimate longing, the tiny spark of light, the presentiment that, without us knowing why, troubles us for a moment.
If they who are today living corpses, the cold somnambulists of the clubs, or simply umbrella salesmen in the shop in the main street had not stifled the first intimate inquietude, they would at this moment be Luminaries of the Spirit, Adepts of the light, authentic Men in the most complete sense of the word.
The spark, the presentiment, a mysterious whisper, a certain something was once felt by the butcher on the corner, by a shoeshine or by the distinguished doctor..but all was in vain.
The stupidities of the personality always extinguish the first spark of light. Afterwards that coldness of the most dreadful indifference continues.
Unquestionably, people are swallowed up by the Moon sooner or later; this is an incontrovertible truth.
There is nobody in life, that has not felt a presentiment, some strange inquietude at some stage. Unfortunately any element of the personality, silly as it may be, is sufficient to reduce to cosmic dust that which, in the silence of the night, moved us for a moment.
The Moon always wins these battles; she feeds and nourishes herself precisely with our weaknesses.
The Moon is terribly mechanistic. The lunar humanoid, completely devoid of any solar inquietude, is incoherent and moves in the world of his dreams.
If a person were to do what no one does, that is, to arouse the intimate inquietudes which perhaps arose in the mystery of the night, there is no doubt that eventually he would assimilate Solar Intelligence, and thus become a Solar Man.
This is exactly what the Sun wants, but these lunar ghosts, so cold, apathetic and indifferent lunar shadows are always swallowed by the Moon. Then comes the equalisation of death.
Death makes everything equal. A living cadaver devoid of Solar inquietudes, degenerates terribly, progressively, until it is devoured by the Moon.
The Sun wants to create Men. He is conducting this trial in the laboratory of nature. Sadly, the results of the experiment have not been very good; people are swallowed by the Moon.
However, what we are saying is of no interest to anyone, much less to the erudite ignoramus; those who feel like “mother hen” or “Tarzan’s Father”.
The Sun has deposited certain Solar seeds within the sexual glands of the intellectual animal wrongly called man which, properly developed, could transform us into authentic Men.
However, the Solar experiment is terribly difficult, due precisely to this lunar coldness.
People do not want to cooperate with the Sun and thus, ultimately the Solar seeds involute, degenerate, and are unfortunately lost.
The Master Key to the work of the Sun lies in the dissolution of the undesirable elements we carry within us.
When a human race loses all interest in Solar ideas, the Sun destroys it, because it serves no purpose in its experiment.
Since this present race has become unbearably lunar, terribly superficial, and mechanical, it serves no further purpose for the Solar experiment: more than enough reason for its destruction.
In order for there to be continuous spiritual inquietude, it is necessary to transfer the magnetic center of gravity to the Essence, to the consciousness.
Unfortunately, people hold their magnetic center of gravity within the personality, in the cafe, in the canteen, in banking transactions, in brothels, or the marketplace, etc.
Obviously, all these belong to the personality, and the corresponding magnetic center attracts these things. This is incontrovertible, and anyone with any common sense can verify it directly for him or herself.
Regrettably, reading all of this, the scoundrels of intellect, accustomed as they are to constant argument or to remain silent with intolerable pride, prefer to throw away this book with scorn and read the newspaper.
A few sips of good coffee and the daily paper are splendid nourishment for rational mammals.
Nevertheless, they feel that they are very serious. Undoubtedly, their own pseudo-knowledge has deluded them, and the Solar matters written about in this insolent book offend them greatly.
There is no doubt that the bohemian eyes of the “homuncules of reason” will not dare to continue with the study of this book.
Samael Aun Weor-The Great Rebellion – Spiritual Inquietudes