The Still Voice (from the brown leather journal during one of my visits to Ireland)
4.25.2002
There is life in love and there is love in life. So why do we cry? Why do we not look to life and let it smile back at us, filling our hearts and souls with that which is the substance of all that is? Why do we torture ourselves by looking for that which is already within us? Why do we resist that which is readily available to us at any given moment?
A day was passing badly for a man, a man who was caught in a cyclical pattern of slipping in and out of reality, moving back and forth between the delusional material world to the world of spirit. This man, who was caught up in the anxiety of trying to split his world into two distinctly different planes of existence, the spiritual and the everyday physical world - one day deeply spiritual, the next chasing a material dream – found himself walking the streets of an Irish town while, with each step upon the cobbled sidewalks, feeling the pangs of anxiety whose catalyst was the spotlight shed by the opininons of others in judgement of the character who felt himself a fraud all the many years of his life. Then, before the next step could fall upon the cobbles beneath his feet, suddenly awoke to the voice that was gaining strength daily in his being – the voice that comes welling up from the unspoken still-world of the soul and spirit. The voice came forth from the soul of the man knowing full well that no longer could it remain still and silent, for it knew that it was finally time to push the lad that one last step from the delusions that drove his anxieties into the one true reality of along the east coast … [I was distracted by something and didn’t get a chance to finish this journal entry]
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