Islands

The birthing into this thing we are calling Awareness has been an awful, messy process for me. What can I write about it which would possibly be of enough use to myself or anyone else for me to express?

It hurts. And that seems to be normal, for some of us. Those in the layer of experience where I live daily have stopped finding place within the scaffolding of human life. We find no fit, no ledge, within any function, task, purpose, mission. Nothing. We truly just are.

We stopped having platforms of belief, we stopped feeling a sense of social justice, or indignation at the atrocities of this world's systems. We stopped looking for places to find people to accept us, or to give us an anchor, or to include us in their circles. We see no sense in giving the energies of our bodies, souls, spirit to any past-time or occupation of humanity.

We walk best in quiet places, where green is, where the small creatures live, where humans do not rush by.

In almost solitude, we work unceasingly and persistently, reclaiming a tortured organism. This organism does not see us, does not acknowledge our difference, cannot hear the variances in our frequencies, does not know just how deeply we dive into its pain. With each dive we find another pearl, another strand of silver, or filament of gold, and kicking with more voracity than we can remember we have, push for the surface of this organism's gore yet again. Salvaged treasures are collected on the islands we have made for ourselves.

With these pearls, silver and gold we weave strings of sound, form, pattern, movement, and with deep breath and tremulous heart, toss our weavings back into the choppy waters, watching them sink, or float. Some attract attention, becoming little life rafts for harried creatures, others drop from view, perhaps coming to rest by a fallen comrade, who vaguely understanding, snatches the strands to add to its hermit home.

And none remember us. We are the soil, we are the air, we are the water, we are the heat, we are the traveling force. We are what made this place, this organism of systems, this womb. Everything is familiar to us and painfully twisted. Everything calls to us, and cannot hear us. Everything longs for us and rejects us.

Now we build more islands, create strong bridges, move sound between us. We hear each other, we see each other, we remember that we remember one another.

We cannot truly sound like this world's templates, nor flow with its Source Code, we have our own which we radiate with greater force and resolution the longer we remain here awake. Can any sense be made of what I have written? Most likely only for a very few, which is neither right nor wrong, it is.

I cannot tell the bulk of passersby what it is they wish to know, as they do not know that there is more than this and do not seek nor ask for what is beyond their knowing, and I have no desire nor energy left for delving into old systems of processing which trace circles back upon themselves, creating more layers of the same but different knowing over eons.