It is that time, my son. It is that time, Mother. You have walked down many different roads, but now it is that time to enter this particular path.
When you were young, you went where you willed yourself to go. You laughed at the suggestion that you believed yourself to be immortal, but you didn’t know death the way you do now.
Nothing makes a man so meek as the realization that he is completely powerless in the face of death, and now you know this meekness as well. As you were in the beginning, so shall you be in the end. If only you’d had the patience and the heart to be this way in the middle, then perhaps you wouldn’t be fearing the judgement of the higher forces.
What is it about being alive on this earth that can make some folks willing to go on living at any cost of pain, and cause others to seek out snuffing their own lives when the slightest of ill winds blows their way?
You can’t declare that you know who you are until you’ve walked down this particular path. All of the books, movies and happy songs you sang seem to be so far away as you ascend into the tunnel with the being of light.
It’s like you are forgetting everything, but you are pretty sure there will be someone at the other end of the tunnel to help you remember it all.
How many days did you waste away, just loafing by the sea with a book draped on your knee and a glass of sugary sweet booze in your hand? How many people did you carelessly dismiss as being unfit to be your friend or your lover?
You might get thrown into the lottery, and wake up tomorrow as a dog, or a profoundly crippled little boy. You might be an ogre of a man, or a hairy woman, or a teen cast in abject poverty. Yesterday you were somebody great, and you actually believed that your greatness was due to your own efforts, and tomorrow all those efforts will mean nothing to the culture you inhabit. In fact, you might become quickly shunned, teased, mocked, raped, stoned.
You don’t know.
You prayed to a higher deity once or twice when you were too scared to walk down the hall to the bathroom, and prayed to your mother’s God when you were facing the death of your spouse. You try to pray now, but the words don’t come.
What are words, anyway?
There are so many words tossed carelessly about. You can go a lifetime writing millions of words that nobody will ever read; or say the wrong two words at the wrong time in the boardroom and lose your entire career in the blink of an eye.
You can make so many different promises and deals with God that you know you’ll never keep, and never think that any consequence will come of it. But, you can take a million lifetimes to repair one misspent life, one life spent being wretched and evil toward humanity.
Men and women who find their voices become like gods on this earth. They are promoted quickly through the ranks of the tribes that they move in. Those with strong voices can also quickly become hated by the silent masses who look on with envy. In the flash of a group consciousness shift, a beloved leader can suddenly be hung, shot or nailed to a tree.
You can move through an entire lifetime without a voice of your own, and find yourself creating more evil than good on this earth, just to be heard and recognized for a little while by other members of humanity.
But when the day comes, and it has, the words you made and the words you tried to take back will all be gathered up and placed in the great weights of karmic justice. Are you fit for heaven or hell or earth again? You can’t believe any of it. No, you absolutely won’t. But, come now, the time ahead no longer belongs to you and your voice. You cannot move as you wish, but you move apace with your angelic handlers.
It is that time, my son. It is that time, Mother.