A Love Letter to Myself

For in and out, above, about, below,

‘Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,

Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,

Round which we Phantom Figures comes and go.

–?The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

Sometimes I think most of us remain infants in these clunky adult bodies, trying to survive in this big, mighty world. There are parts of us still yet to be loved, facets unawakened to the knowledge of our greatness of spirit, still untouched by that which is needed most: to be seen, to be heard, to be understood.

But the journey to the self is a complicated one, it is by no means clear-cut or steady.

There’s no map that charts out the long voyage, those lonely continents, those isolated patches that remained adrift for years as one tumbles through life, allowing circumstance to happen to you, rather than through you.

Patience, patience, patience, they say. How tedious. How boring. How clinical. Why must one have to?wait? Why can’t self-awareness be manifested sooner? Why does one have to battle the dragons of self-doubt, fear and self-loathing to stand face to face with who we really are?

That’s the only way it works. When you do the ‘work,’ on a consistent basis they say. When you continue slaying the dragons; in your sleep, in your dreams, in your waking life...

But once you’ve crossed the path, you emerge wholly modified in a brand new avatar.

You’re changed forever.

And once your spirit is allowed to descend into your being, gently nudging away the ego – or rather, ‘containing’ it – you experience a paradigm shift. Preconceived notions of the self, your external world, all limiting perceptions are done away with. Synchronicities, coincidences, effortless manifestations unfold. You fall into yourself. You’re the ocean, endless, free, free, free.

It was you all along – the hero, the victim, the child, the lover, the savior, the friend, the lamplight in the dark. It starts and ends with you. You know now.