An Excerpt from a Letter

The whole letter is too personal to post, but I can post this:

I know I need to think positively and create my reality into something so much better. I just choose to stay a little stuck. Stupid, I know. I don't know what my deal is. Maybe I'm just in rebellion against being here in flesh and blood. I can't figure out why I agreed to incarnate this time...must have been for a reason. Be damned if I know what it is.

I had a dream when I was 7 years old. I was in a barn with a huge black stallion (I was reading the Black Stallion series at the time, as I recall), and an old woman came in with a shotgun to kill the horse. As he reared up in his stall, I ran in front of him and took the shot in my neck; falling to the ground, all went black and faded away. All that was left was me, my existence, in a soft, dark, comfortable place. I was floating in inkiness, breathing deeply, fully relaxed and happy. Pure happiness, pure peace, and connected to absolutely everything. I could hear voices in the background, news from around the world, personal conversations, even random thoughts of others. I had the thought that I maybe should focus on a particular stream and learn something, but then I also realized that none of it mattered....it was all unreal, just games we all play, and so nothing was worth latching on to. I dimmed the voices, turned down the volume by refocusing my thoughts, and went back to my blissful state for what could have been an eternity. I loved it.

Finally, it happened. I felt my feet, my young, seven year old feet. I was returning to the mold, to the cage, and immediately raged against it. The fight only slammed me in quicker, and I regained the feeling of my body from the bottom up...feet, legs, knees, hips, ribs...until, eventually, I was back in my bed with the covers high up under my chin. I refused to open my eyes for the longest time, and then, in an act of defeat, opened up one eye to the scene of my bedroom. I've had plenty of bad mornings, but that was one of the worst. To be surrounded by everything, to be just a drop that's part of an endless, beautiful ocean, is blissful. To be that same drop, abandoned on the rocky shore with bird dung, is awful. I have never been back to that place since, and for thirty-six years, I have missed it.

As lovely as life is, there is something much more wonderful beyond this place. I think I've been kicking my heels against this three dimensional reality in open rebellion ever since.