Indskydelse

I was stuck somewhere between wanting to nap and wanting to write.  Words were rushing through my head.  Not mine. Like a madwoman I rushed for paper.  Grabbing a notebook. ..more like a planner, I thought that will do. I started to write. . As I was inebriated,  and time was slowing down,  I made a discovery I always had a hunch about.  I always said, about my giftedness,  that I am dyslexic but my brain moves fast. This is true. I saw the words swim, both after I wrote them, and while I was writing,  as if some invisible force were trying to keep me from understanding. While another force was fighting to help me write the truth. My truth.  The truth of the universe.
I didn't waste time with introductions. I knew God or an angel was dictating and a force of evil was fighting me on every word.

This is why the ten commandments were written in stone.

Yes.

Because they couldn't be burned.

Yes.

And why I am writing in a planner, because I always read them before I throw them away?

Yes. We need you to remember.

And why I write notes cockeyed and randomly placed.

Yes, but it isn't random.

I wrote, the meaning of life is to find your gift  purpose of life is to share it.

A quote I'd used in class this week.

Then I wrote, I know my gift  because of my passion.

What are you passionate about?

Words....literature,  love, and learning.

That's the secret.

To what?

To everything.  I laughed, uncontrollably, because I saw, in an instant, the truth, and it was so simple it seemed silly to write down and my hand couldn't move fast enough. Some words were such a fight my handwriting looked like someone suffering from schizophrenia. 

Is that because they're struggling to write what you say? They're hearing a message and can't get it down right?

They're taking notes but aren't writing the full idea because truth comes so fast?

I felt the universe shake it's head enthusiastically.

And why some artists say they write better drunk or high. Why we like that feeling?  We hear you better?

Yes. Anything that slows the mind. Yoga helps, walking helps.

I knew I was getting into dangerous territory here, following a rabbit hole of disconnected ideas, and that sharing them could get me locked up in more ways than one.

The point of all of this is to experience ourselves.  So writing time is time with ourselves,  our true nature. For we are gods and goddesses. Angels and demons fighting a spiritual war over our own soul. The war is this:

I have to write. But I have to slow my mind down to do it. It is my passion,  therefore  my gift,  therefore my purpose.

Things and people who try to keep me from it are doing evil. The point of that evil is to make me fight for what I love.

If God is love and he commanded free will, he wants us to chase our dreams, because that is how we get to experience divinity.

Writing is an important part of this. We are creating worlds in our sentences.  Readers are living in those worlds. It is how we share in the universe and dance with ourselves. This is free will. This is freedom of speech. 

Literature is a compilation of mystical ideas, words, and associations from divinity.

We know things etymologically that have spiritual implications.  This is why wisdom is simple,  too simple to grasp. Writers share their divine inspiration. 

That's why we invented fiction,  so we won't be locked up or burned at the stake for having visions anymore. 

Writers are prophets.

Lauren Hill was right.  Everything is everything.

Kanye and Eminem are right. As we are authoring, we are expressing our godliness. That's why they are so adamant and shameless in their pronouncements.  They are both gods, and we, sweet Brazens are goddesses.  Writing communities are sacred. We are being goddesses, recognizing the goddess in each other.

Metaphor, satire, rhyme and repetition are tools to share the mysteries of the universe.

Sharing our ideas in other languages is sacred too.

That's why evil leaders burn books, devalue literature and art, and amplify barriers among people of other cultures.  Because there is magic, too, in our idioms.

The translation of words is stuff of the sacred too. We are all right. Homonyms,  words with multiple meanings, variances in translations,  these seem like obstacles to understanding truth. But sometimes they are clues too.

Love is true communion. Making love is communication. 

We miss communicate all the time.  We right, write, rite.

We hear (t) right. But we right it wrong.