Sometimes I feel as if I have fallen out of time. There’s an email from a new friend and I see the sparkles of a life I am destined to live. It takes me into a vision then dissolves leaving me to my present moment, wondering if I am delusional or simply connected.
How many times do you need to be reassured before you know that your gifts are real? Is it not so much a matter of numbers but more about who tells you you’re fabulous? Or perhaps the truth will never sink in and you will live out your life in doubt, forever questioning whether you deserve it or not – all that effortless being.
I am an oracle. I see-feeL-hear and know things that need to be expressed. The adventure I am on is a particularly exciting one. Every day a new reality, every moment an invitation. Stimulated by curiosity and undampened by pauses or storms, my life is a brutal honesty that really does see nought but the beauty of souls yearning to touch and feel, to smell life’s romance, to taste joy, and breathe poetry like wild wild flowers.
Instead, you are oft afraid. Afraid to look silly or be misunderstood. So, you fill up the spaces with music and echoes of conversations you don’t even know you want to have. Sometimes looking confident is important. So much so that you forget how to be anything else. How to indulge your innate curiosity about living for the sake of being present to each and every sensation.
You feel rude and imposing when being yourself, when indulging your fascinations. You apologise for the way you laugh, the way you look when you cry, the things you want for yourself. And then you realise there’s no way around it. Life is nothing without joy.
Happiness is a series of surrenders to feeling the fear and doing it anyway: to telling the truth, to asking for what you want, to walking out to the edge removing your cloak and shining, unashamed of your innocence. The rest of your exploits are dust upon the surface, floating in the air. Suspended in time, the dust mesmerises you. Settled on the surface, in the creases of ornamental trinkets, the dust annoys you: makes you question your own ability to care for things, to deserve things, to know what represents you. The dust distracts you with busy work. It asks you to go over your possessions, your photos, your windows into other worlds you might explore if it weren’t for all the dust.
“I must be” you ponder.
I am what I am, and there is no other way for me to know God but to be a moment in time. A child embroiled in the art of life, singing and staining the world with all that lifts my heart like so much faith. An oracle who can see-feel-hear your beauty and communes with your soul. An empath who knows you long to feel loved, I dive deep into the fear of all that open space that is being made for me, and know that I must be.
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