Through the window, the final battle, a classic struggle between might and right, myth and legend, flesh and light, past and presence turns my direction. It is time for me to choose and yet, I see both sides. I have absorbed conflicting arguments, attempted to sort fact from fiction. A system that relies on honesty is easily corrupted. Where lies the truth?
I try to hold it together. As I see it, we are more than our systems, but our systems control physical reality. Our systems manipulate emotions. Our systems scramble the rational mind. When our systems fail, the light of Truth loses its capital.
My body tingles despite my training. Despair shivers my bones. Outside, I watch flesh destroy flesh. And yet, I see no difference between the forces. How do they recognize their enemy? No colors separate their tunics, no distinct spectacles shield their eyes from the glare of each other’s sun.
They rely upon vibration. Vibration expresses all they seek -or reject, as the case may be. We are a community obsessed with resonance. We are resonators and non-resonators. Here draws the line of battle. Credit may shred credibility, diet may dissipate bone. Bottom flatline, it is the essence of you, your soulness that verberates you into whirring light or empty echo.
When a star dies, its light seeks a carrier to energize. Regrouping its energies, it rises within a morning so glorious, those surrounding it absorb its light, its essence- or not. And there lies the problem. Those surrounding it may absorb its amplification, rising to a high vibration, expelling light for all to see; all are not sympathetic to such resonations.
Cries of anarchy rise from those not basking within this expansion. Such unprepared, those left lacking, fester resentment of the internal kind. Their eyes observe swaying grasses and cloudless skies and overworked hummingbirds, but envy has disabled their internal organs. They wallow in negativity, generating cages of steel to parrot opposition.
That young woman leaning into the window glass oscillates as if, prepared to flee, plans to caste off skin like chards of glass. She appears familiar.
Past her, through the window, sparks explode between enemy lines, emitting a perfume like melting flesh. A helmeted youth, glowing like a beam, grabs hands with a wee one whose natural frequency is the same as his. This child grabs hands with another and another and together, their line speeds toward the skirmish, baring chests and breasts from which radiate bolts like blasts of lightening.
The bombardrd opposition shake forward and backward, side to side, rocking and swaying, rattling and flapping. And yet with one breath, their unit suddenly becomes still as righteous steel.
I see my mother and my world implodes. She is long dead; how comes she to this place? She of tradition; she of warmth; calm though intense; vibrating light; my mother steps to the center of stillness at her left and static at her right, arms extended, erect as a sage. Pure white hair flows to her waist.
Then, as I had suspected, I am no longer observer of the girl leaning her gaze upon the window. I am the girl. These legs throwing off chunks of fleshy chards are my legs. This pulse spinning my body through the window to follow the woman centers my body, motivates my soul. I am the one trembling, throbbing, flowing out and up like ocean waves in a cyclone.
I am of the light; this is obvious as I expand toward the Orion Nebula. Yet, what is the nature of my Truth? Did this decision rise within me or was it exuberance at seeing my mother’s beloved spirit, at experiencing her unique heartbeat that raised my vibration?
Does it matter?
Tears do not wobble my rise. I ride ocean waves, glide through dust clouds; carry my light home.
About the Creator
Thank you for taking time to read my stuff. I love writing almost as much as I love my people. I went back to college and earned an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults and often run on that storytelling track. Enjoy!