Of Myth, God and Romance

Voices I Hear

Breath of nostalgia
Breath of nostalgia

Inventions of the self


Briefly I speak in the 3rd person here to inform that my protege, my personality is but a finger of her higher self, me, the 3rd person in the storyline. I am the higher self, the 90% of the totality being, while the finger of myself is but 10% in the dense clay of opportunistic physical planet adventure making propensities. LR, I shall call her, short for Laughing Rain, has recently encountered a former acquaintance she had known in another body of mine, in another time period. It did not go well to meet, however, I/we, are assured everything shall be in divine order, or otherwise apparent thereof, shortly. With that, I'll utilize the brain she is using now, in joining her in this prose like story, I hope, for your reading pleasure. Namaste, we are One.


She, my protege, can no longer pretend to enjoy compliments of illusion's nature. Love brings but contempt unto it's possessor, she was programmed. I am the one above, I am the watcher. You would like me if we met. Introductions over, I tell the story of her and him; a common story but with it's own twists and turns.

 He said his women were easy to get whilst she waited in shadow for just one to find him that could satisfy. Those who are too proud are protected from a gracefulness that could ruin their aspirations for glory, or so it was said. Glory getting was his God. While heavenly angels bore furrowed brow to observe his ruffian nature. It is true many of us have much drama around ourselves.

Love is Truth

Are not our words all borrowed to cloth our nakedness?
Are not our words all borrowed to cloth our nakedness?

The mind must speak through the heart

In the meantime he was entangled in glamour and myth where all but the soul-less esteem the froth laden vow, later fed to sustain the hidden beast in the lake of fire, where lovers all come to sacrifice the beloved, doing what they promised not to do, namely, to kill each other in the name of thirst for love, whatever. Every town, every individual in every town was either screaming for love, or learning to give love.

The pity of fame is that they will say she did not write this, as they have said he did not produce his own works. Who are they? They are the world collective and in the mirror of time they are but ourselves.

LR sends compassion and forgiveness to the glory seeker, but no more than this.



Why should we believe in something sight unseen? For this is what he would ask of her. Only God can ask this of any person. To believe in what is not seen.

Must we learn how to pretend? These are her questions not without merit. 

Are not all our words borrowed in haste to clothe our nakedness?
It could well be in the garden of Eden, it was not a fig leaf after all that covered the two, but a contrived word placed upon the dissimilar genitals and a shame that what was one, was now divided and each individually had to find the way back home and yes, to oneness again, with each other and with God.

To LR, yet to the world he said all she had heard was true and not merely suspect. The crowd knew, but they loved on, as their desire was to make of him a savior from their own impotency. He did not become a hero willingly. It was only, after all, a tune.

To whom do you sing?

If not to those without a song?
If not to those without a song?

The rapist of Chastity

Get a life he would utter. But sir, to whom do you sing if not to those without a song? A most hearty protest would be his lot. Becoming the reluctant messiah was not what he had envisioned when incarnating. It was true, he was no messiah, but the crowd had need to make him that and thus his struggle began and has not ended.



He was still their Robin Hood, forcing others to act with generosity all the while he wanted for nothing, having kept back a portion of the spoils of war for secret larder, he would regret all fine thoughts to bequeath the unworthy & adorn the crooked with righteousness, whilst his children went hungry.

He felt he must fight the good fight while she took the road of least resistance. The two would never meet in the middle but it's not that efforts were not made to do that. 

Whose choice would he wrest and whom would he injure remains, like the man, a mystery except in her chambers LR makes apologies to friends whose toes got walked on whilst he pursued her, not to enhance her spirituality, but rather to gain her secret. Her secret, though offered, would be derided.

Thus ended a possible affair as a sigh of relief escaped her soul. She had thought of a one night stand often enough having a flirty side, but she could not relive past mistakes, having turned celibate many years hence. Love, nonetheless should not have to be enshrouded in secret trysts but blazoned against a backdrop of glittering stars, or in a gentle breeze accompanied by a lone bird call. Should, could, did and done are all different facets of our living lives.


Still the crowd was heard to shout my king! My king! For want of what he saw, that they did not. There was just enough truth in his words to whet the appetite for more. But there was only this, a tune, a tune my Lord, if you would, to shorten the hours that are lived in hell. 

Sir, you indulge yourself, said she, in seeking my company. She was not a dream figure such as he that had been self made.

True, she is on display, but surely not for sale. 
True, she came to his dream but to exit in haste. It is true, not all women have their hand upon the man's wallet.

 LR asked; Sir why would you take a nun and tear her cloak from her? You but spit into the wind. My protege in secret marveled at a rapist of chastity.

We'll never be able to explain this to God

The key is free, but you must knock first before entering
The key is free, but you must knock first before entering

Opposites Attract

She can see you clearly only from afar, yet she has shown you in steamy embrace she was like all women so easy to get.

The two of them took no vows to be upheld, yet a king demands loyalty in the absence of reason, while denying he occupies the throne because God is absent.



Yes yes she knew who he was still she needed desperately what he would not deliver; his very name to be spoken aloud just between them. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth would do. She saw his face upon every ghost that paraded by. This did not bother him that it should bother her. He was legion. Every man was him. Every woman was her. He was everywhere but nowhere to be found.

He gave warning this would happen. He had gone to war and now returned, desiring her recognition. But why so many disguises? Each costume became more frightening than the one before. Even the ghosts began to deny they were bearing his essence. 

She had nothing to say to the ghosts. Only to him, but he revealed nothing of his identity forcing her to guess and guess and guess again.

How many words can fit into a tiny question? She would need a lifetime to jot everything down. He turned her into Penelope playing with myth. She would die without ever having found her Love, right in front of his eyes, thus he would deliver the report that she was dead while she checked to see if it were true. Pity, life is so solemn sometimes. She could not be Penelope even if he wanted that. There was just enough truth in his story to make her rewrite the story with an adrenalin rush.

To be or not to be must be the question

This was her misery, to bring him to announce himself in truth. He neither denied nor confirmed the truth of identity. If she said king, he said nay. If she said beggar, he said nay. This be not virtue for if she was whoring, it is man that has made that of her from his primitive loins. 

Recall her early words that there are four in the room where but two bodies take up space. He brushed this off quickly to remark there were legion in the room.

She was speaking of self made persons, whose images would shatter upon the viewing. Just as Penelope would grow old and become tired of waiting for the milk that never arrived. 

Every man needs a whore but would love to kill her should she mention his desire makes him a slave.

The man who loves his woman truly has made her into an angel, and this way she finds her home in God where God bids a hearty welcome to his wandering charges. His own salvation is assured through the loving act of raising her up before God, whom is in the room, even if degradation is posing and beacons notice. Of course, this can be any relationship at all we speak of, not just the opposite polarity relationships.



He promised fervently to uphold her worldly addictions while she knew where she was going, she would have to overcome what he so earnestly wished to give her. 

She kissed him nonetheless for the sake of love that could never be, that was reeking earnestness of merit and for bygone days when pleasure lurked before passions erupted crudely to break the perceptional vow. A perception can never be a bit of knowledge.

She had slipped into his dream where angels do not tread pending the advice of heavenly courtesans who agonize after their proteges, but not in great earnest and not for lacking faith in them. 

He placed on her finger a crude promise ring. He hid delicate baubles in the other hand declaring these were not hers, unless she proved to be the one. Does not a king lay claim to one dancer per night to entertain him, whilst a woman awaits only the first man she knew to return? Odysseus forgot the milk but he did not forget to give her a ride upon his wild steed.

Shades of romance! Ah, it will have to do. Not bad. Not at all, but not good either. Just is, and is-ness being.



Should it surprise him that she left before they started, knowing that he could not be true? For the man was tempted of all womankind. None of us can be true, thus we make our fairy tales for comfort. To us love is a chore only in the staying. And this he knew, for she had told him, she'd rather leave while she was in love. He pretended not to hear and changed the subject.

Though she stood before him, he said she was not the same. That she should be different.

That she should lie on his bed of misery and be glad. But sir, she has been miserable on many a bed and the more glad when released from such chore. 

He gave her all that she had become just before she died and fed her thought upon thought, melody upon melody. She willingly sought the black hole that he avoided for it leads but back to Source of whom she cannot fear. God is pleased with me sir, said she. The man was not pleased and if he were, she heard him not.

 He had done much and why now seek to do more?

He had been everything to many and why lament that a journey must end? To die is minor inconvenience? Have we not died a thousand deaths only to discover our folly that there is no escape from life? Rejoice that we live still. Sanctity must be hidden in the day which stretches infinity.

 The last great mystery unfurls the secrets this age has hidden deep, where foe & friend merge their distortions and become one, they can no longer deny they had fled the heart of God seeking adventure.

Authenticity is borrowed of God

God allows the folly for with one breath he would breath in the shadow and release a star burst. And what was comes to be nothing at all and this is why the Buddha laughs. It all begins anew, a new babe is born, pristine and innocent, this one does not perish in sun nor storm, nor even folly to undertake.

God sees that what belongs to him returns to Him, but first He/She will see if what has flown shall choose to remember. By and by it must recall it's beginnings.
Authenticity Sir, LR speaks in silence, it is what the common man strives after. It is what we are if you will notice beneath the superficiality of the one finger projected in flesh. For what cometh from God is the nature of authenticity, yet still is borrowed of God.

It is love and love only .

And so these thoughts are his own, and they return to him that made them, for we are a portion of God's breathing out. So here is your gladness you sought. Be of peace. 

And this is why I love black, warm holes in space. From whence I came, I go, and I collect my memories and share them with God, whose name I dare not speak, for to utter God's name is an untimely death for the perilous ego afloat in the sea of flesh and stone.

It could have been so much worse, and yet it's not over. LR is not dead, although parts of her being has dissolved now she is emerged and by default his redemption is assured thusly. But of course he knew this.

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