My
Life As Rebekah
Approaching
life from the beginning, I am captured with the ability to have an
imagination where I can dream endlessly. I have been given the
unsought gift of the pursuit of knowledge, where there is no limits.
In the depth of my heart I burst from the seams with readiness to
soak in a life where I feel no pain, but peace. I feel the blood
running through my veins, creating a heartbeat that has a rhythm
filled with a song that tells a story. A story where thinking
is life and it is effortless. If I live a life worth
living, then what is this life? My life is a branching
paradox with layers of singular mythological stories, an
unbalanced equation of matter and chemicals shrunk down to a neuron
or a microbe impossible for the naked eye to see. I am a
homo sapien with a Genesis on a lifelong journey
to a Revelation. A human being with moral
value that has a fate in the abstract, the constant never ending
loopholes of elite problematic possibilities and the misfiring
reality of stories and words screaming for release beneath the
surface of my breath, falling into a creation longing to live until
death do us part. Living and breathing, I feel the touch of my
own soul, the vibration of love offered unconditionally without a
thought. To have a feeling is unforgotten It is
more than a touch, it's life running through your entire being from
the top of your head to the soles of your feet permeating every
cell in between. The transformation in between
equals the middle that creates a shape of the Da Vinci man, a
circle telling a true story of a living, factual human
being. It's an irrevocable, unequivocal romantic
behavior and physical action shedding light to the destination
of my own fate. A pronounced euphoria, and verbatim
repetition starting from infancy and leading to youth,
being the center of gravity. This is the magic in the middle.
The unity of wholeness, the peak of your best that forever longs
inside the analytical mind. A dynamic energy addresses
the human psyche, where the seat of the soul lays his head on
the pillow of a peculiar pituitary gland. The softness of a
reassuring voice kneels down to whisper in my ear that today is the
day where life is to never end.
But
where there is an end, there is a new beginning. As I lay
there, feeling the sensation of my soul leaving my body and the
heartbeat drop to a silence, now I've naturally become cold
and paralyzed to the feeling we call death; but death is
everlasting. The ending genre of life, the corpse and
beautiful escape of epic and love. The freedom
of being a human being. The mythological
stories that produce justification of integrity and faithfulness that
falls like a tear drop from one's eyes.
The
love, the hate, the promising, it's like a weeping willow tree that
continues to grow, accept, forgive and never forget the knowledge
that has been portrayed to one's heart. Like the Black
Beauty moment when a horse has all four feet off the ground at the
same time, forming a perfectly shaped heart signifying being
completely captured in timing following balance of an untouchable
moment. It's
the feel of a rawhide Reata
rope in a cowboy or horseman's hands as he prepares to throw a
loop. It's being hypnotized by the big eyes on a beautiful peacocks
tail, as it stops you dead in your tracks.
I
am not in limbo, I am at life approaching the end of death from the
beginning. You manifest in your own tenacious prodigy.
The impulsive stigma to be or not to be is still a life
everlasting statistic. Always fearfully awakening the
intuitive moment of knowing that death is at the horizon of your
subconscious. Lost for words and being frozen in the moment when a
beautiful blue butterfly flies into the sky leaving you to feel as if
life was worth living for. The stillness of nature, like
water under a bridge as your body has a keen since of ability to
adapt and adjust to acceptance of what is. The cries that
leave the human eyes coming from the pit of true heart, and knowing
that being saddened by one's death is okay, because dying a free man
is more precious. The Angel of Death comes through and
lifts my spirit right from my body like a seizure you have no
control over. Feeling no pain, but the touch of a
God. A reassuring kiss from your lover that cares for you
so deeply, the warmth of your children surrounding you on your dying
day, the peace that lies within one's deepest heart. Death is
peaceful, and easy, but life is beautifully harder.
This is my story, this is my song. It's
the gory but grotesque moment when a gladiator piercingly cleaves
another mans head from his shoulders with his sword, and penetrating
his skin, spilling his ruby blood upon the sand and taking his
last breath away as he is hemorrhaging at the base of his collar
bone. In this, he is saving himself from slavery.
On that day the world saw a slave rise up to become even more
powerful then Caesar himself. At that brief time, the scales of
life were for once balanced. Indeed there is victory in death
itself. One man's death opens a door way to another one's birth.
Consequently, I notice how life changes you on the inside in ways you
never thought it could, like the incredible anxiety I get before
giving a presentation, or the minute you're caught up listening to
the clicking and ticking of an old antique clock. The twinkling
in a mother's eyes watching her little girl's strawberry curls
bouncing in the wind while she plays ring-around-the-rosy.
It's not the beauty and the beast, its the beauty in
the beast. It's not just the Christ in the Christian, it's the
example led by the Christian within. It's the Father, the Son, and
the Holy Ghost. It's the supernatural in reincarnation. Common
sense is like finding sane in the insane. It's the touch of a
baby's finger tips and the outline of their fingernails, the
memorization of one's face, the blush on your wife's cheek or her
soft pink lips that lay against her profile, the kicking life inside
a mother's womb carrying her child. It's the fight to survive
and the light at the end of the tunnel. It's the shirt off
your back to someone you don't know. It's the southern humidity
that lays across the surface of a pond, the crickets calling their
mate and the frogs resting on Lillie pads.
The
taste you get from a honeysuckle flower on your tongue and the
lightning bugs giving light to a dark adventurous trail. It's the
emptiness you get when a glass is half full. It's the magical
moment a big brother rocks his baby sister to sleep, singing an
old hymn called, “Peace, Peace Wonderful Peace” just
to bring calmness to her saddened heart. It's the Fountain of
Youth, the history in the making. It's the unfair, sick,
unjust, merciless, masochistic incestuous act of rape, forced
upon an innocent human being. It's signs and symbols. Like the
symbolical moment a father notices the tiny embellishment of
lace on his daughter's veil before he gives her away.
It's for better or for worse, sickness and in health. It's the
echoing sound of a Celtic violin providing healing to a wounded
heart.
I
dream like no mortal ever dares to dream. Like a light house
shinning bright for ships to see at the time of twilight standing
close to the sea. A
prestigious realm outlined like Orion's belt, twinkling in
the dark of the night. It's the dangerous diagnosis, the
pathogenesis, the etiological decaying of life, the picture that
paints itself, the hierarchy that empowers one within. The
burning desire to feel life leaking from the pores of your
subcutaneous tissue. The moment your beloved draws you near,
close to their skin. Beginning the dance with the tango, and ending
with the fox trot. This is the Circle of Life, the never
ending chase of acceptance, the opposite of superficial, the
genuine sincerity. The act of forgiveness and the letting go of
someone's hand, knowing that this may be their last moment of
life, or better yet, your last moment to live. The narcissistic
mirror image of one's self, feeling the trip of ecstasy and seeing
the unseen image of your own soul. You are only inferior to
yourself. Life is originally ritualistic. It starts and ends
where it originates.
Life
is the transmigration of souls; there is no death and only change.
It's the philosophical, mundane call to adventure. It's the
trail of tears. It is the precedent behind every action. It's
Mythology!
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