Sitting here in the half-dark I think of you. It is quite difficult, this non-remembering. I keep hoping for guidance, some sort of sign … a little glimmer to let me know why this is, or what I came to do.
My eyes well up with inner fluids, I do not want to cry. I wonder if I’ve suffered some type of stroke, remembering grandmother after hers, as she cried for what seemed no reason at all.
I watch the world fall deeper into chaos, and I hope it is an illusion and that it is simply being seen now, more than before, and actually not worse but on the mend.
I worry at times that the human race has failed itself, even through all of its brilliance. Life suffers even though we possess great capacity for healing, for loving. We’ve been taught not to think, only to ‘do’ as told … to conform to an ideal imposed by someone else, by many others. Listening to our inner voice ~ beaten out of us, if not physically, then by mental manipulation. Some folks are so good at coercion they do not even know what they do (and then some are fully aware), and would adamantly deny any responsibility for what they give to the people around them, what energies they birth into the world.
The cycle of birth and death keeps moving ’round, but I see little improvement. Technology advancements, yes, but not without a price, for the suffering of the earth and all on it are being given as payment.
There’s got to be more, there has to be a way to end the cycle of pain. But how? How, when so many will not look into their own hearts and ask the tough questions? How, when the accuser will not flip their blaming rhetoric and ask of themselves if they hold any part of it, if perhaps they’ve contributed somehow to that which they abhor.
If I say that person is a real asshat, I must also ask myself if ‘I’ am an asshat, for I know that only a reflection appears before me. So I try harder to change what is within me so that I may see outside myself, with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears, something more loving and kind.
I ask questions and get no response. It’s as though my voice is a figment of imagination, somehow not real. I wonder if this is how the angels or guardians or guides feel when people fail to heed their advice, frustrated at the absolute avoidance of rational ideas, a purposeful ignoring of the inner nudges.
Determined I grow this connection, for I know this is where I go, and here … it seems no one cares too much. Perhaps it is all a figment of imagination and the work I do doesn’t exist. I am actually a dream … a dream in my own mind, a myth of my own creation.