Day Of Reckoning

*Note: Notebook revealed. I ask and it is given. It must be, say the non-physical entities that hear such entreaties. It's all here. Every word. Every word written in my very own hand. It was written a long time ago. Written, uncensored from the Source of my Soul. The Soul of Knowing. I cull it now for my own wisdom, my own direction. I cull it for that which I will choose to transcribe here. It solidifies me somehow, reanchoring me to that which I must do to be True to myself in all my intricacies. I don't need to put it all here. Though the outcome is this Now that I am living. All the words from a different time when we were with different people, searching for a way to live and be and feel and think and need and want and grow and laugh and love...it's all here. The Struggle never changed. Right from the first, it always remained the same. So, how many times will you throw yourself at the brick wall of denial til you realise that there's an unlocked door right there in front of you. If you'd only take a breath, look up, take stock and make a different choice. This entry is in honor of the memory of that choice.

It was a day of reckoning. It was a day that truths unfolded. Examining the creases in wonder. Seeds of life concealed in the dust. Open to the pain that leads from good-bye to today.

On the day of reckoning.

"What can I do for you," you asked? Tentative, soft, leary, I reply, "Let me give to you." Giving is so much better, so much easier than taking, wanting, needing. The part of myself reserved for you; do you want it? Perhaps it's not all that you think you want. What do you want? All of me? All of me was never available to you. What do you ponder? That you get more from four hours spent with me than from four days spent with another? Condensed and intense, real, vital, visceral, poignant. No time to waste.

What we once were was lost in the mundane; lost in the struggle to find a comfortable way to revolve around the other part of our lives. Where was our intimacy? No blending could happen. I was always on guard and truly felt stifled. You'd get so mad when I said you were clinging too tightly. That you were too possessive, claiming me as some kind of prize, driving uncomfortable wedges between us. There was so little music. So little laughter. You felt claustrophobic; too many animals, too many kids, too many people.

Nothing is ever easy for the likes of us, deep, introspective people, is it? I imagine you, like watching slides made up of conversations threaded together through time, sitting, waiting, watching, wondering. Searching through a sea of faces for someone to connect with, somone who will have the courage to see you as you really are and extend their hand to you, invite you to come out and talk, really talk. "How do you FEEL? What are you THINKING? What's it like to BE you?" I see your eyes, so intense, feeling the familiar ache of disbelief that people can be so disappointing. Always hopeful, positive, believing in the best impression, the blush of first revelations. It seems most people are dissatisfied with this. It's like sitting in a boat on a calm sunny day, lazily dangling your fingers in the water. But what happens when the clouds thicken and the rain starts?

You're not like most people.

I had this dream last night. You and I were traveling together. You'll love this. We were on a motorcycle. A big one. I was driving. We were clad in black leather from head to toe. Saddle bags with our stuff were attached to the back. You were snuggled up behind me, resting your leather gloved hands on my upper thighs. We were warm. We were silent. Mile after mile, the thrum of the engine like a mantra to press on. And we did, night and day, until I became tired and we stopped in the middle of nowhere. We stretched and squeaked while we yawned, stiff and saddle sore; content. Still, we were silent.

Then we entered this place....a diner-type place with a cute, private home attached. They offered a B&B deal so we thought we'd stay the night. We ate and then got our stuff from off the back of the bike. When we entered the inner sanctum of the Family, there were small children everywhere. The Woman, the mother, was viscerally disapproving of us. We couldn't relax. She was oozing disapproval, jealousy, hideous judgement the like of which we destest, you and I. You got mad, like you get, grinding your teeth, your eyes on fire. You said you were leaving and that you would drive.(You always feel better with food in you.) I was so tired, but I knew we couldn't stay there. All the children were sad to see us leave because they liked us. This fact made the Woman even madder. It was then that I realised we had been traveling for a long time searching for a place to rest. A place where we could relax, be together, be ourselves, without having to deal with opinions, judgements, emotions of other people. We were searching for a place where there were no responsibilites outside of the ones we had to each other, a place where we could fit together like the two puzzle pieces that we are without somebody else trying to pull us apart. So, we would continue on our journey, night and day, together, until such a time as we could find our way to our home....

*Footnote: It was a dream. But it was more than a dream. My dreams are always so much more than dreams....