At the present moment, of all the exact locations on the Planet, somehow you are at this particular spot, here and not at another. How did this happen? How can it be? Why here and not there? There must be a momentous difference, or why would this be so? Or does it actually make any difference what is right-side up or upside down? To whom does it matter?
At this point in fictitious time, you are eating from this pot of soup and not from another.
You are called by the name you are and not by another. You still do not believe in: “Hey, you!”
Had the choice been yours, down the line, you might have chosen another name for yourself, and sometimes someone does change his or her name, yet, what does that change? Anything, everything, something or nothing? What does it matter? Does it matter?
What would you change if you could, or would you? If there were no going back, would you? Who has the temerity, you ask yourself.
Sometimes it feels to you that you can only be a rocket that randomly landed on Earth. From where did you come, and now, where are you going, and what on Earth are you doing or not doing in the first place? It does seem as though you are carried by an unseen hand, and other times you feel your existence is a mirage, some kind of sleight of hand that has nothing really to do with you. You just happen to be there, reason unknown. A happenstance.
Because toast pops up from a toaster, does that make toast as if it popped up by itself? For what purpose? To what avail? What difference does it make if the toast popped up or not? What is the significance, and who can know it? You feel full of presumptions that you do really take stock in.
You feel full-blown by the wind, and there is no relying on the wind. You never know where it will take you, where it will put you, when it will pick you up again and what surprises the wind has in store for you.
At the same time, you may feel you are a random impulse from somewhere or nowhere. You may not even feel like an impulse, more like a stick in the wind or a bird on the wing who is impelled to fly north or south depending upon the Sun.
Sometimes you want to flee somewhere, if only you knew where. Sometimes you are wrested from your very own grasp. Do you or do you not have say over where the wind takes you or how far?
You wouldn’t mind being a prisoner of Love, yet you may feel more like a runaway from Love or a has-been on a dreary corner that, inevitably, has to be of your own making, as bizarre as that may seem.
What corner are you running to, and you wonder if it is any concern of yours whether you go right or left or, perhaps, or if all paths lead to the same destination regardless. How much does it matter if you are a kite or a bird, and, yet, you know it matters deeply, and that you must know this, so help you God.
For now, you keep turning pages. Yes, that could be the extent of your purpose, to keep those pages turning, and, somehow, by golly, you keep churning the butter of the world, and it is good, and Life is sweet, and Life is a search for the right track to be on, and you succeed in alighting on it! Hallelujah! You are a Successor to the Throne. You are a follower of the Light as far as it goes. You have become Bright Light. Bright Light is thy Name.