#BlogBattles, Stories..., Uncategorized

Ashes to Ashes…

“Ashes to ashes, dusk to dusk…,” began the pastor at the graveside service.

“Umm… excuse me,” interrupted one of the mourners (the only one there, in fact). “Don’t you mean ‘dust to dust’?”

The pastor looked confused for a moment, before understanding smoothed out the lines of his expression. He smiled warmly at his only living guest.

No, no, no…,” he chuckled quietly. “Why would I wish that fate on anyone?”

“Because that’s the way the service goes…?,” answered the mourner, a touch of snarky in the implied question.

The pastor waved off the comment, his usually placid expression fully restored. “A simple misunderstanding is all. Easy to see why it might happen, though, isn’t it? They sound so similar!…”. He paused for a moment, thinking.

Have you ever played that game where you try passing a word around a circle of people to see how it transforms? I think it’s called Telephone, or something similar. This is kind of like that; someone heard ‘dust to dust’ instead of ‘dusk to dusk,’ and others kind of ran with it.” He smiled again. “A silly game, a silly mistake, but enlightening in the end.”

The lone mourner looked confused now… “Are you serious, pastor?!… No! You can’t be.” His tone sharpened as his sensibilities rebelled against the offense. “A person is dead here! This is no time for jokes or games! How dare you dishonor my great aunt this way!”

Dishonor your aunt?!… Oh my, never!,” he reacted automatically, the mere thought of such completely disorienting the usually serene pastor. “I adored Agnes! She was a wonderful woman, who lived an extraordinary life, right here in this little town! Did you know she never left this place?…” He paused, but no answer came on the warm spring breeze…

I thought not,” added the pastor, smugly. “Well, Agnes, dear soul that she is, believed that this little town was enough. Always. When others grew up and moved away, she stayed. When the man she loved moved to the big city to make a name for himself, she stayed behind, promising to be here if he ever came back… Of course, he never did…” An almost sad sigh slid past the pastor’s lips…

And yet, in spite of all that, I never once heard her complain. She was content here, keeping her parents’ farm going after all the others left. It was a struggle, of course, especially after her parents were gone, but she carried on. That was her way. And if she lost most of the farm over the years, who could blame her? She was alone, and aging, and really… what more could she do?”

The pastor stopped talking. He looked at the young man standing at the grave site. He looked a long time, a thoughtful expression upon his face…

“What?!,” snapped the young mourner. “Why are you staring at me?!”

The pastor sighed deeply. “I was just looking for a trace of your Aunt Agnes in you, but…” He shook his head mournfully. “I’m afraid I just don’t see it. I’m sure she would, of course,” he hastily assured the young man, “but her gift of seeing the truth of others was always stronger than mine. I learned a lot from her over the many years we were friends, but never enough, I guess.”

“But then, isn’t that the point here?…” He waited patiently for a response that would never come. Sighing deeply, he continued…

It’s all about transitions, young man. Birth is a transition, a dawning of a new form. As is death. And it is in those twilight times, when shadow and light begin to balance out, that we see the truth of things. Outlines become stark in the growing and fading light, revealing the boundaries between…”

“Your aunt welcomed this transition, whatever changes it might bring. She was ready to move on into a new form of being. I will miss her, and our time together very much…” A single tear slipped down the pastor’s cheek…

Did you ever get to meet her?,” the pastor asked the mourner.

“Um… well… no, not exactly,” the young man began.

The pastor held up his hand to abruptly end the awkward explanation about to spill from the young man’s lips.

Never mind,” the pastor reassured him. “I understand. You’re here to liquidate what’s left of the farm, and you came to pay your respects. Enough said.” He turned back to the grave and lifted his arms, palms up, as if beginning to pray. The young man bowed his head.

The pastor, realizing this, turned to address the man once more. “It’s ok, son. You’ve done what you came to do; you don’t need to stay any longer. Agnes is still smiling, even if you can’t see her beyond the veil…”

“But if you’re looking for a quick sale, I’m sure the Jones’ will be happy to take the old homestead. That’s pretty much all Agnes had left, and Ned Jones, her neighbor, had bought most of the rest of the farm already. Probably pay a good price for it, too, if you push him. Some developer wants to come in here and build a resort for rich people – you know the type: big houses, a gated community, expensive coffee places, the works…”

The young man hesitated only a moment before nodding curtly and turning away. “Thanks for the tip, pastor. Please carry on…”

Resuming his prayerful stance, the pastor began his service again… “Ahhh, Agnes, you were right, as usual. Everything changes in Time…”

“Ashes to ashes, dusk to dusk…”

(933 words)

Standard
Reflections

Random questions…

As a dying person, is it better to tell loved ones it’s coming, or allow them to be shocked when Death arrives?

As a loved one, is it better to know it is coming, or to be shocked when Death arrives?

I ask these questions because of conversations I had yesterday at a family funeral. The now-deceased person had long been dealing with a chronic, eventually terminal, disease that everyone knew about. However, his condition was much improved, and his “terminal” prognosis appeared to be temporarily on hold. He went to the hospital for a “final” routine surgery, where “complications” occurred, leading to an antibiotic resistant infection, which led to his “untimely” death in a matter of a couple days. His surgery was so “routine” that most of the family wasn’t even aware he was going in for it (the patient having deemed it non-noteworthy in the greater scheme of things).

Everyone was shocked by his sudden and unexpected demise, in spite of his chronic health problems…

All except one, that is. A single family member who had been told by this patient last year that the doctors had predicted only 1-4 more years for him. The patient had sworn this family member to secrecy, choosing to live what remained of his life free of the “specter of dying” and all that it implied. The family member kept silence faithfully, even after the patient’s “unexpected” death, choosing only to share that info with me after the fact, and asking me to also keep that knowledge from the rest of the family. (I guess he needed to share the truth with someone, and that person needed to be removed from the inner circle so as not to taint the family view of the deceased one. My suspicions are that the family would be very upset that such info was kept from them.)

I asked these questions of some at the funeral, and unanimously they felt it would always be better to know than not know. Any feelings about this out there in blog-land?

Standard
Essay, Reflections

Surrender…?

I know it seems counter-intuitive, but sometimes you have to lose big before you can win. Sometimes you have to let go before you can move forward. And sometimes, you have to surrender before you can be empowered.

I learned that mostly through getting sober in a 12 step group. Being a stubborn lass, I often push myself well beyond my limits, convinced that “if I give up now, I will never get back in the game.” And too often, that has proven to be true.

But there occasionally comes a time when I know I can’t continue, when there is simply not enough left in the tanks or the reserves to carry on. There are times when the battle, for survival or supremacy, simply isn’t worth it anymore. And times when even my wild imagination cannot fantasize a happy outcome, no matter how bizarre and impossible I allow the parameters for “success” to become. The question is knowing when that is…

Hello, Time, my ever present nemesis…”

Because letting go of something that isn’t working (at the right time) may ennable you to notice opportunities you would otherwise have missed; aka the other door or window that appears in the vacuum. Or it may allow you to accept help, whether it comes from other people, some Divine influence, or a quirk of fate. It certainly forces you to re-evaluate your place and your priorities, perhaps leading you to more realistic and attainable victories. Such re-orientation brings new strength to bear in the struggle, new hope, new goals to pursue. It reinvigorates the life you are presently living, however diminished that might be from the one you were pursuing…

But giving up too soon is a cop out, a failure, a loss of momentum; it makes you a quitter, rather than a winner, no matter how successful your “lesser” life becomes. Surrendering too early makes you weaker rather than stronger, presenting as a failure of will rather than an unwinnable contest. It creates a sand pit, a muckhole full of regret and “what if’s” hungry to suck you in at your first hesitation during any subsequent efforts. It is a loss from which you never truly recover…

So, how do you know where that line is? How do you figure out the timing of any surrender? Do you just push on, bruised and broken, until your only coherent thought is “enough, already!”? Or do you push on after that, preferring to err on the side of trying too hard, rather than quitting too soon? Do you literally press on until death drops you while still in harness? (Romantic thought, yes, but unrealistic, as the body usually stops functioning well before death actually comes to claim it.)

I was watching a show the other day, some apolcalyptic, end of the world scenario, where different factions fought about the best way to save the world. And as those “in power” argued amongst themselves trying to one-up each other, a doomsday cult grew up among the common people. The common folk accepted the inevitable end of humanity, seeking love and comfort from each other, while dreaming of how some other form of life (better than the plague that humans have become) would one day rise up to take our place.

Sound familiar?…

But then some renegade science geeks found a way to possibly save humanity, risking all to fight against the powers that be to achieve their vision of possible survival. And just when it seemed they might have succeeded, against all odds, the doomsday cult interceded with an act of terrorism to destroy that fragile hope, and the miracle device they built. Apparently, having accepted the inevitable end, having properly surrendered and found peace, they could not now accept that such an end might not occur. And so they acted out to make sure it would…

Have we, as a species (the masses, not the elites), surrendered our “power” too soon?

That’s the question haunting me today. For I believe I have accepted that humanity, or society anyway (as it is currently structured), is doomed; it simply cannot be saved. Nor do I believe it should be. Too much damage done over too many centuries, too many repeated failures and mistakes, too much proof that “good” can never truly triumph over the “evil” that rules. So, like many others, I wait for the inevitable end, the collapse of society as we know it.

But that end never seems to come, does it?

I mean, all the indicators are there – climate change, mass extinctions, vastly disproportionate allocation of resources, constant discord, increasing violence, an absolute refusal by those in power to change course, and an inability for the common folk to make them. Doomsday cults are a dime a dozen, and the major religions all seem to be preaching “end of days” scenarios. Countless apocalyptic dates have come (and passed), and more are predicted ahead. Most people seem to agree the “end is coming”; it’s really just a matter of when…

And yet…

And yet we keep on keeping on, limping through each day crippled but not dead. Individuals and entire species die off, while new individuals are born and live. Microscopic life forms are thriving (at the expense of others, of course). The sun rises each day on a planet more polluted than the day before. The moon transits through her phases, bearing witness to growing sorrows. But life, and more importantly here, society, continues. Why?!

I believed people who said the economy would collapse. I believed those who said humanity would turn on and destroy itself. But it hasn’t happened. Yet. And that’s a problem for someone like me. Why?

Because every day is a struggle. Because I want nothing more than to lay down my “coping tools” and give up. And I suspect I’m not the only one. But we can’t do that. Not really. Because if we give up too soon, we will only increase our suffering, but not speed up our relief. We won’t die, at least not right away. And while we wait for that, we will lose everything we are barely holding onto now.

I, personally, don’t like how it feels to be homeless and hungry. I’ve been there (long ago), when I was stronger and more physically capable, but I was still miserable. I can’t even fathom going through that now! So I continue to drag myself to work, day after day, juggling bills I can’t actually pay off, waiting expectantly for the day when these struggles become meaningless. But that day never actually comes…

I watch people I love struggle the same way, knowing how little I can do to actually alleviate their pain, because I have none of the resources that might actually help them. And I know they feel the same. I’m starting to feel just a tad bit envious of every death I learn about, knowing they, at least, have escaped. It’s getting to the point where I’m no longer sure if the “grief” I experience, the tears I cry, are to honor those who’ve passed, or to lament the fact that I haven’t!

And those doomsday predictors have all had to “walk back” their predictions, claiming now that we will not pass from this place with a boom and a flash, but with a whimper and a slow rotting away. Maybe in my lifetime, or maybe three generations away! The end, however inevitable it may seem, is not necessarily imminent…

“Time, my old enemy, you have a wicked and cruel sense of humor!”

Is giving up even an option anymore? Is there any chance that surrender could hasten the end of this war? It doesn’t seem that way to me, but perhaps I’m missing something here. Please feel free to enlighten me…

Standard
Dreams, Reflections

The Labyrinth

Trapped in the labyrinth in last night’s dreams

being tested, repeatedly.

All different scenarios, but with the same goals:

to get me to own my own shit.

I tried to engage the people I met

to recruit them toward helping me.

But every one turned their backs on me…

After all… it wasn’t their shit!

The “answer” was always the same –

some version of “letting go”

or “moving on”

and leaving them on their own…

Until every twist and turn within

became almost predictable.

With me saying, “yep, yep, yep…”

And starting to speed up my steps.

One of the advantages, I suppose

of so many years getting to know

My self…

And then I woke, relieved at first

that the tests were temporarily shelved.

Only to roll out of bed to intense physical pain,

brought on by the questionable weather?

“What the hell is this about?!,”

I thought to ask myself.

“So much progress made today,

and this is the thanks I get?!”

***

So much I’ve learned in lifetimes here, but one truth remains elusive: how to find real relief living in a 3D shell residing in a 3D hell…

I mean, truthfully, every day here is like every other, as predictable as the dream itself. I wake, quite often feeling physical pain, just to prove it’s not a dream. Drink coffee. Clean myself (maybe) or have breakfast (maybe), but those are the only variables with which to play. Dress myself and head to work, to “earn” my way in this world…

Then it’s off to visit friends sometimes, or maybe a trip to the store, to buy those necessities a 3D body requires (like coffee, and food, and clothes). Then home (at last!) to see my cat, who’s waiting eagerly for his treats. More coffee, and a chance to sit (finally!), to catch up on some emails, read some blogs, or maybe watch tv…

Until I’m sleeping where I sit, struggling to stay awake. Why? I have no real idea. Maybe because to sleep resets the day, so I can go through it all again…

And once a week work offers me a check, a “thank you for showing up” gesture that I appreciate. So one night a week includes a trip to the bank, to put my UOMe into a talking machine. But there is nothing owed to me, when all the math is done, as I am just a temporary holding station. For two days later, I guarantee, I’ll be on the internet, paying bills, all honestly owed. And my IOThem’s are always more than UOMe’s, you know.

So it’s back up for another day, another round of all this stuff. And I can find no real escape! Trapped here in this vicious cycle, monotony day by day. Predictable as the labyrinth within my dream, but without a clear path to follow. Not even the offer of a dead end path, down which I might willingly wander. If only for the change of pace…

My mind is free to wander, of course, and it very often does. But the body remains trapped here, unable to “move on.” And while I realize that I have much here to be grateful for, and perhaps more than I deserve, the truth that haunts the background here is, “who wants to live in a cage?”

***

“Why is this?! It makes no rational sense!,” I scream in my frustration.

“There is no logical, reasonable, spiritual explanation that even remotely justifies it!”

For if reality is my own creation (and I believe it is),

and if I am capable of manifesting miracles here (which I believe I’ve done),

then there is no way I should be physically trapped here in this place!

The body is just a vessel, nothing more, nothing less. Is there any wonder why I’m often self-destructive? I know I’ve earned every pain, every ache, with the bad decisions I’ve made. But seriously, self, this is the worst “joke” I’ve ever played upon myself!

And no, I’m not looking for outside help or explanations here; I “get” what the labyrinth expects: my shit, my problem, my dilemma to work out. I’m only writing here to record the steps I’ve taken, leaving breadcrumbs to mark my way. Taking note of all the other scratches, marks, and indicators of the many times I’ve passed this way. This one part of the puzzle has me stymied, to be sure, but I’m certain (absolutely certain!) that there must be a way!

Every other test I’ve faced has involved letting go, or moving on, so how do they apply? Other than the obvious which would be to simply die? But even that solution is not available to me, at least not at this time. But with time now proven to be irrelevant…

“Damn! And I’m right back where I started!” Once again…

And the labyrinth chalks up yet another win…

Standard
Reflections, self-discovery, Visions

Immortal memories… Confession or Myth?

*( for Sha’Tara…)* These observations are all based on “memory” which may (or may not) be “true.” Memory itself is often faulty, morphing to better suit how we see ourselves, or how we think things ought to be. When carried with a diagnosis of schizophrenia, they could also be pure imaginings, as “reality” itself morphs to fit my expectations. But keeping all those caveats in mind, here is what I can recall… ūüėÄ

All my life (this life) I have been haunted by “visions” of other times, other worlds, other lives. Mine? Or someone else’s? I’ve never really been sure. They come and go, triggered often by whatever may be occurring around me. Some are outrageous, seemingly pure fiction, making me reluctant to share them at all with outsiders, except as stories to read or share around a communal fire. Others are muted, seeming “less” than they feel, overwhelming me with a sense of significance, while not revealing anything apparently relevant or important at all. But through these “visions” of other times are certain Constants…

1. “I” am always female, even if I am not human.

2. I “see” and use time differently; “time” being merely a means of ordering events, not written in stone, and easily re-arrange-able. A corollary of this Constant is an obsession with all things time-related, as I struggle to reconcile my sense of timelessness with the rigid standards of my current lifetime. This includes a sense of immortality and an unrelenting idea that aging and death are unnecessary, even in human form. (Though I clearly haven’t figured out how to make that work yet! Lol!)

3. A deep and abiding sense of “loss” and a vague, undefined sense of “hope” that somehow (must!) justify that loss.

4. A need to “hide” in plain sight, to remain anonymous, even when my ego craves attention…

5. A sense of purpose, even if unknown, often accompanied by enforced repentance (where I am the enforcer); a certainty that any “punishment” I draw upon myself is well-deserved, even if out of context.

6. A sense of waiting… for some time, some clue, some event far distant when All will be revealed.

In addition to these Constants are certain Patterns that repeat. For example, almost all occur in the northern hemisphere of Earth; I have no real recollection of having spent time south of the equator, though I suspect I visited once or twice. Mostly my time here has been spent in North America, in the Ohio basin and around the Great Lakes. I do have many memories in northern Europe as well, centered around a “home” feeling in the area known as Scotland, but I am certain I spent time on the mainland as well (none of which was pleasant, I might add, carrying feelings of terror, dread, sorrow and regret).

I also tend to remember many of my “deaths,” even now recalling and judging the least miserable ways to die. (The easiest way I remember is electrocution; one of the worst ways being drowning.) Along similar lines, I am downright phobic about torture and “zombies,” a very specific form of undead. I can’t even watch such scenes in movies or on tv without cringing, walking away, or changing the channel.

The mere sounds associated with torture, or seeing the tools used, will send me into a nearly blind panic. I can only presume that “not being able” to die, having some sort of regenerative capability while suffering some such cruelty is behind this “irrational” fear. I often speak of Death as a friend who abandons me, as a goal that eludes me, etc. Even in this current lifetime my friends all joke that I cannot die, only suffer eternally…

I have had multiple dreams about death (in this lifetime) arising from some flesh-eating disease, and perhaps my fear of zombies relates to this. Or maybe it is a memory associated with leprosy, or something similar…

I have an awareness of the stars, though no desire to go out and travel among them. I prefer the terrestial beauty of life on this planet. I tend to look up into the night sky, taking note first of moon and planetary positions, then finding the constellation of Orion (when possible), followed by a search for the Pleiades. My search is always the same, and always in this order; a habit I cannot break. I feel no kinship with Orion, though; rather it is a sense of wariness that causes me to seek it out. My love goes out to the Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, and though I often cannot find them in the night sky, my heart feels both joy and sorrow when I do, usually obscuring the image in a blur of tears…

I also have a fascination with “magick” – not illusion and subterfuge, but a true altering of reality to meet one’s needs. This is coupled with an interest in science, where all such magickal happenings can be explained. Quantum physics is both my nemesis and my mentor, drawing me in with potential and possibility seeming to match my “understanding” of how things work, but eluding me in technicalities I will likely never fully understand. But I suspect they are the “same” principles, ultimately, where magick is the intuitive grasp and use of quantum physics’ very real laws and processes.

So here’s what I “remember” of my life as an alien (not from Earth, but here nonetheless)…

I have no clear idea of how I appeared to others. Perhaps there were no mirrors and that is why, but I can only “see” myself from my perspective looking down. I was tall, willowy, with outlines that wavered inconsistently. (Not fully present, or a shapeshifter, perhaps?) I wore a long robe of natural fiber, off-white, which seemed to glow in the right light (or I did), mostly at sunrise and sunset, moonrise and moonset, transitional times usually.

I was here studying Earth’s wildlife and plants, learning Her ecosystems. I remember being amazed at how orderly it was all arranged, the symbiosis achieved by many species. It was then, perhaps, that I began to think of the Earth itself as being sentient. I also developed a deeply abiding sense of love for trees. Even in this time I am drawn to trees, often stating that I wish to be one. They have such a strong sense of community, of empathy, a wisdom gained through hundreds of years of life, passed on to future generations in amazing continuity. Perhaps it is that Earthian form of immortality that so appeals to me, as well as their innate desire to be of service to All life, in whatever capacity they can serve. Even in “death” their usefulness and blessing remain, enriching those they serve immensely (a truth deeply felt by those who survive in northern climes, whether acknowledged or not).

I was immortal, at least in the sense that I could not die by natural means. My race had regenerative capabilities, and immunity to most microscopic invaders. We had learned to enhance that ability, only growing to maturity, then maintaining that “peak” level of performance. There was something in our blood, a sentience not our own, that could be communicated with. It could also be “shared” for short term emergency purposes by an injection of our blood into other host bodies. But the Blood itself could not replicate or survive in a species other than our own (or at least we had not yet discovered how to do so)…

As a result, we were a peaceful people, valuing life (all life), driven by the accumulation of knowledge and wisdom. Since we could only “die” by catastrophic means (or violence sufficient to overwhelm the Blood’s ability to heal), we were deeply anti-violence. We also grieved each death as a loss of wisdom and community, felt keenly and personally, for all that would not now be achieved.

We worked in tandem with another alien race, more agressive and warlike. I, personally, had little contact with them, working in a field of study that only mattered to them in terms of results. Always looking for resources to exploit, I found them very “unlike-able,” although such judgements would have been anathema to my way of being. It was a constant challenge for me, learning to “love my enemy,” though we had no truly acknowledged “enemies.” Still, I never trusted them, and often blamed myself for both my failure to accept them as they were, and my failure to stop them from pushing through policies detrimental to the indigenous life on Earth…

I also blamed myself for “turning a blind eye” to what was happening. Like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, I hoped that what I did not acknowledge did not, therefore, exist. I was wrong about that…

I place my presence here (my arrival) at some 19000-21000 years ago, but time is such a vague and inconstant concept for me that those dates probably mean little. Perhaps that is when the “rebellion” took place, rather than my arrival, and that is why the time period sticks out in memory…

I know that I was not alone in my resistance. I know that others opposed the exploitation and experimentation taking place. I know that others found the courage to stand up against such policies, in spite of the consequences. And I know many died as a result, both human and alien, and that all were significant losses in my heart; losses I felt keenly responsible for…

I could not take up weapons for the cause, but I could work to destroy the portal through which we travelled, trapping most on the other side. It was an act of betrayal so profound that even now I cringe to think of it. But I truly believed it must be done, and I accepted the consequences of doing so.

(As a side note: when I returned at last to the scene of my crime last year – the Serpent Mound in Ohio – so much of this came rushing back. And I was appalled at the disrespect such sacred ground had attracted from those “happily ignorant humans with good intentions and a total lack of history”. For they have many theories of why the mound exists, and few ring true to me. For me, it is a graveyard, a place of death, a scene of betrayal where a great battle took place. It is also a reminder of so much that has been lost, and a warning of how easily those sacrifices can be forfeited. For while I was there, I passed humans seeking to re-open the portal so many paid so much to close! And I was angry beyond reasoning, truly wanting to hurt them all! It required much discipline to move beyond those rage-fueled impulses to discover that perhaps it is, indeed, time to reassess my position; to at least consider I may have been wrong before, or that the time has come to let the battle continue, without my interference. But it is hard…)

When my self-imposed exile began, I chose to continue my work, learning about this planet and attempting to foster peace and healing wherever I went. I moved around a lot, though mostly within a confined territory, choosing (once again!) to ignore what was happening outside it. I knew others (alien others) were also trapped here, but I purposely avoided and ignored them, leaving each to find their own way on this planet. I never even bothered to try and find out how many were here, avoiding many places where stories abounded of alien encounters. I believe today that guilt, shame and fear drove me, not being able to peacefully reconcile my betrayal of others with my upbringing. And I remained immortal for a time…

But the day did come when my immortal life on this planet ended, though I’m still not sure how. Perhaps I was murdered, or simply gave up the will to continue when my “blind eye” strategy backfired once again. For I saw much violence come to destroy the terrestial life I had nurtured and encouraged, and it was a whole new level of betrayal; like taming an animal with gentleness and respect, only to see it tortured and destroyed when it approached others in trust. I was responsible for that misplaced trust, and I saw the horror in their eyes as they discovered that themselves, too late to prevent their decimation and suffering…

Upon my death, I must have chosen to return in human form, though I remember feeling shocked (and secretly excited) about having done so. That first lifetime I remembered much of who I’d been before, retaining memory, knowledge and wisdom. But I would soon discover all three fading, with each subsequent life lived, creating a sense of urgency in me to recreate immortality (or timelessness) in human form. Until all that remained of my alien identity were those Constants and Patterns I mentioned. This is no doubt why I speak of “devolving” into human form; not so much a judgement of worth, but a measure of knowledge and wisdom lost through successive rebirths…

When I speak of having “retired” from the life-death-rebirth cycle, and my subsequent choice to come back at this time, I do not know if that retirement refers to my immortal alien life, or a completion of a human journey. I suspect, however, that both may be true, and that I have returned now because that portal may re-open soon. Am I here to stop it? Or finally face those I betrayed? I have no certain answers either way. But I am here to bear witness to whatever happens next…

*** *** ***

I have at times in this lifetime (and others I suspect) found “followers” behind me on the path. They are drawn to me for reasons even they can not elucidate, but it always involves learning or guidance in some form. I, myself, am always reluctant to encourage this, knowing in advance how it will end, for it always ends the same – betrayal and abandonment, for no rational reason they can recall. One day we are friends, and all is going our way, and the next day they will turn on me, naming me a hated enemy. When pressed for some explanation, their answers will be incoherent or not forthcoming at all, usually involving brainwashing, or magic, or some accusation of an imaginary crime, which leaves me standing there (alone again), shaking my head in bewilderment and vague denial. But I recognize the look in their eyes, for I have seen it countless times, and the name for what they feel is Fear…

I’ve even had occurances when people I’d never met were warning others to stay away from me. I have no idea why; and no one could (or would) ever explain it to me. I’m not a scary person. I’m peace-loving, gentle, understanding, empathic and sympathetic, and I abhor violence in all its forms – physical, verbal or emotional. But Fear, by its very nature, is irrational, and so all I can do is move on. Alone…

I know that every journey is unique, and each must find their own way to “enlightenment” or not. I fight the desire to judge others on their journey every day, knowing (though perhaps believing differently) that every path is taken by choice, and I cannot choose for another, even if I disagree with where they are headed. I stand by, trying hard not to interfere, when such choices will likely lead to harm, for themselves or others (including myself). And I wait…

For what I cannot say…? Redemption, perhaps? Forgiveness? A chance to “right a wrong” that can never truly be undone? An opportunity to weight the Scales of Justice, even if said justice be against me?

I know one thing for certain, and I feel it in my bones and in my heart – that Time is coming… Soon!

My personal past, the truth of who or what I am, will be revealed. To me, if no one else. And I will know exactly where I stand (at last) in the broader scheme of history…

Standard
Poetry

“Emo-ting”…

All dressed in black…

heavy bangs hung low to hide my eyes

from those soul-less zombies of society

who thrive on peering…

…and prying inside.

Hungry ghosts seeking me

to feed upon my fear…

…and anxiety.

Driven to explore…

the shadowed recesses of my mind

confronting my felonious nature

my angst and downcast eyes…

…the only outward signs.

Of the price I pay every day

for the crime of Being…

…and staying alive.

 

** NOTE: Please don’t take this too seriously, folks. ¬†I’m just exploring my “emo” nature a bit, having had the word “angst” appear in the comments section of my last two posts… ¬†ūüėÄ

 

Standard
Reflections

“Blessing or Curse…?”

I have a vivid imagination. ¬†I always have. ¬†Sometimes it is a blessing in my life. ¬†It aids me in all things creative, including my writing. ¬†It enables me to construct whole worlds where I can spend my time; worlds so real to me that their lessons and experiences become part of my daily growth; worlds so real to me, they are often indistinguishable from the one my body inhabits…

Which is where the curse part begins. ¬†Because sometimes, I cannot tell the difference between them. ¬†Sometimes my imagination conjures images and lessons that begin (and belong) “elsewhere,” but they are so vibrantly alive that they begin to take root here, in mundania, in my daily life. ¬†But my daily self is not so well equipped to deal with them, as is my visionary self. ¬†So trouble often follows…

Sometimes I succeed in constructing a fantasy so real to me that I begin to see signs of its manifestation in the “real” world. ¬†But luckily (maybe) I recognize it early enough to deflect it slightly, so that it manifests completely, but for someone else… ¬†The earlier I notice, the better able I am to cast it off, the more likely it will touch someone unknown to me. ¬†But it often returns to me in story form, told by someone else, every detail complete and recognizable. ¬†And sometimes, I barely catch it at all, and must watch it unfold for someone close to me. ¬†And sometimes that is hard to do…

Not because I wish harm on someone else, either, as you might assume from what I’m writing. ¬†It’s not that at all. ¬†My clearest, strongest fantasies are mostly what others fantasize about – comfort, security, love, recognition, success, etc… ¬†And yet they still bring harm to those who “benefit” from them…

I don’t know if I am actually creating these scenarios, or if I merely sense them developing, and transcribe those sensations into a story line that flows and follows. ¬†I don’t know if the impulses that birth these stories are mine or someone else’s. ¬†I don’t know if I am truly casting them off to taint an Other’s journey, or if I merely release them in time to witness to whom they really belong. ¬†And I don’t know if the “consequences” of such success stories are inherent in the stories themselves, or a reflection of my unwillingness to claim them…

What I do know, is that I have recently crossed paths with Others who are “living the Dream” I wanted for myself. ¬†Different versions for different folks, but the details of each are telling. ¬†And yet…

And yet, not one of them seems truly happy or content…

Was I wrong about the things I value?  Are they not the kinds of things that could bring happiness and contentment to me?  Or are they not working out because of some other, unforeseen, reason?

Is it prophecy or manipulation I’m experiencing now? ¬†It’s hard to tell with all that has been happening. ¬†Now that we’ve begun to see the levers and gears that operate behind the curtain of what we call reality. ¬†Now that Time itself has become quite malleable…

What I also know is that this process, which used to work so well for me, no longer serves me, and I have yet to find a replacement. ¬†I used to seek refuge in my fantasies, when the mundane world became too much. ¬†I used to try out different possibilities there, before acting them out myself. ¬†But now…

But now… ¬†I’m never sure which thoughts will play out in the world around me. ¬†Now, when I seek these other realms to explore what options I might have, I find my steps faltering, just as I cross that line… ¬†Now I practice a rigid, impulsive self-control that stops such thoughts before they fully form. ¬†Just in case, you know…

And it feels silly, really, to worry about such things. ¬†I mean, who¬†does¬†that, anyway? ¬†Why concern my self with what has not yet happened, when so much truly¬†is¬†happening now? ¬†And why care if it manifests, especially if it’s happening to someone else? ¬†Especially if it’s a “good” dream I’m making now?

I cannot be responsible for how an’Other lives. ¬†I cannot be responsible for how they use these gifts. ¬†I am not raining curses down upon them, so I have nothing to feel guilty about; all that I have wished for me, and (maybe) cast upon them, is for success, prosperity, comfort, and hope…

And yet the smell of burning flesh still haunts me, and follows me around…

Everywhere. ¬†Every time. ¬†Every day. ¬†My senses reel under its omnipresence. ¬†A memory, or prescience? ¬†Damning either way. ¬†And I am left outside my comfort zone, wondering yet again…

A blessing or a curse…?

 

Standard