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Psykiske sten


These are strange times, before the crossing.

Before the last line and after the big standstill. In the portal time of in betweenness and inside outness it always catches up to point at unfinished business. It shows up in dreams and plays another string on my heart.

There is nowhere to hide from what it is one wants released. To no longer carry.

Letting it go can be surprisingly painful just as well, which I suppose, is why cures sometimes are harder than the disease, and make people choose to carry on their burdens. Unwilling to part with them. They become narratives and identities. Without them, we don’t know who we would become.

Is it perhaps really a latent but clever projection because of inhuman and unbearable grief over a fundamental loss of the one masculine who truly carried the Light of O, the one who had the ability to let is shine through his words, his eyes, the touch of his hand? Being in his presence and near would heighten all one’s own senses and spark one’s inner flame.

Strange memories that are impossible to have, perhaps from a collective, perhaps from my own, dance upon my inner sight, and I remember him. I remember the desert. I remember the Rose and its vibrant color.

I know why we are unhappy still. I know why there is still an unbalance to living here. It is still active. The injustice inflicted upon us all, as we all still pay the price for those events. Because the events of that day, that time, that Man are done again and again and again. I don’t know why it hasn’t stopped, or why we are unable to spot that injustice in our everyday deeds.

The reminder of the wisdom of the Broken Heart triggers the obvious pain; the walk alone and without the masculine light, one grieves any and every loss of a loved masculine, whether they left, passed or failed to deliver or become, yes, but the loss is double, because you realize you looked for it outside yourself, and understanding it was never there, you become curious to why the heartbreak continues years on, questioning why the wound never fully heals but rips open at certain events, times, seasons, mature and wise enough at last to know that something doesn’t add up in this equation.

That you are faced with tracing the grief back to its origin, back through your own heart and interstellar. There you find it residing.

In the shadow of your ability to connect, so that every time a masculine touches the heart, this emerges. The memory of Him.

It is time to integrate this Light truly and fully within. To let it fill that part of the heart chamber, where the projection and grief still has a space.

To shine throughout the whole Heart. The healed heart. To love on. Forgive and live. Heart open. Light being. Love singing.

Peace breathing. Joy bringing. Balanced. Healed and whole.

All One.

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