At times I find myself carrying the weight of multiple worlds on my shoulders. Stories with parallel timelines that I weave to keep me warm during winter.
But when it comes time to shed the layers and romp around naked in the sunlight. I’m faced with a pre festive choice. Either way, these robes, these stories, are going to burn, whether by my own hand or father sun, less I be so stubborn that he cast me a blaze to free me from my self imposed slavery.
I find that I can, with a smile, allow the fire of my awareness to reduce these layers to ash. Dissolve the feelings. Willingly cast it into the flame to distill and coagulate a key.
Rather than carrying the stories, which are heavy, I can simply carry their essence.
It’s not the key, nor the door, no the room, nor the expanse beyond what I know that burdens me so, but what meaning I assign to them.
It all means that I am loved.