Take 3. How many email addresses doth one need? How many journals, in either electronic or paper format? I've yet to reach an answer to that...and having a proclivity toward hypergraphia, it's not likely that I'd be a very objective judge, is it? One often doesn't find an answer not sought. I seek it not. What I DO seek, however, is a sense of direction. I, who can never get lost, am IN the lost-and-found, yet the "found," part eludes me. I am not frantic, but rather pensive. I fear that I will be like the character in that long-ago-read short story: a man who waits for something earth-shattering and life-altering only to die--his life frittered away while waiting--seemingly for the proverbial Godot--never realizing that although he didn't recognize or acknowledge situations, people and opportunities as THE THING he awaited, that he WAS alive. But I ask this: was he? That's rhetorical; for who am I to judge, elucidate or even ponder, when I'm no less paralyzed by the notion that if I move, or blink, or fail to pay close attention, that I might miss out on something for which I've been waiting all of my life (so far). Dang...it sounds so hopeless when I write it out. Is this the malaise that has haunted me? I claim aloud in the light of day that I am not lacking...but there lingers a yearning--a hunger that has yet to be satiated all of these years. Always something has been missing--is it only a self-deluded failure to accept "the truth?" Am I only the fleshed out version of the man in the story?Don't know. Having always been of the mind that I will see what I believe (how many times have I indeed proven that to be true with my own tainted powers of perception?)--I have always quietly lived the tenet found in the passage of the book of Matthew, specifically: "If ye have faith as that of a mustard seed, nothing shall be impossible unto thee." I have held this as close to me as, no, closer, than the name I call myself. Afterall, I am not particularly attached to any one or combination of names. My identity is not tied to a word. But my ability to see what I believe is unflappable.
I am rambling.
The Harvest Moon doth arriveth soon.
What will I sow? What have I reaped?
I yearn for peace in my soul. I wish that I could finally forgive myself for all of my transgressions. I would like to treat me as I treat others, comfort me with kind words that flow so easily toward another, and yet I virtually flog myself daily--who is writing through me now? This is not my tone--I recognize it not. Not unfamiliar with waking up in physical locales not necessarily travelled to by this "me;" not unfamiliar with pouring over posted missives only to marvel at the wittiness--and being perplexed with how said missives derived from my own hands--I am completely conscious of me at the moment. But am I restored unto myself, or channeling? Frankly, this is a bit disturbing. Don't get me wrong, I am not afraid. In fact, I often find that in hindsight utterances or writings have carried prophetic truth--wisdom not heeded, sadly, more often than not--and this feels like one of those times. Have I awakened a tulpa, the Domovoi, or my guide? Have I simply stirred a portion of me that has been dormant for awhile, awaiting for an opportunity to unleash a torrent of thoughts lest the spigot be turned--whatever the case, I am enthralled. If I could only find an appropriate outlet--and by that I mean, one that feeds my soul and my belly at once--I think I might risk breaking out in happiness--having the luxury of exploring the mysteries I seek. I am not unhappy. I am not overjoyous--perhaps afraid that what I secretly harbor might be robbed of me were I to display it too openly.
Goodness me, why am I not in bed? I KNOW that I rarely sleep more than 3 hours--but I had promised myself that I would try this night to sleep a bit longer. I never want to go to bed. Actually falling asleep hurts--I am too aware of the process of travelling down the tunnel, while soaring with a violence, not unlike a trembling rocket still tethered to its launching pad--until I crash into the calm pool that surrounds the churning whirlpool of a waterfall's landing, I am nearly torn apart by the sensations. Uh-oh, I can tell that I am once again procrastinating--I recognize it, and know me so well, having spent so much time with mine own solitude. I wouldn't have been so distraught as another, methinks, were I to have been locked up in "the Tower." Maybe I was, in fact...but that discussion is not for now--not for someone who is trying to fulfill the simplest of promises to get some sleep.
So, Mother Moon, belly full, holding onto the potential of prayers answered: shine on me this night and illuminate my dreams. Great Spirits and others, let me remember my dreams as I awaken in a few hours.
As I will, so mote it be--this or something better.
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