Love and instinct, the two are not exclusive. They very much depend on each other as equals. Love needs instinct, but not instinct with an overabundance of my fear, only enough so that which gives me pause impulsively is garnered toward a loving outcome, not with so much fear that I’m unwittingly and even wittingly culpable of destroying Home for some fantasy land. The tragic part, I’ve been Home the whole time, I’ve just trashed Heavenly eartH and Home so badly that it’s become indistinguishable from hell, from any love found in my thinking...
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I must remember the next go around and not forget my duty to Mother eartH, my beholden. She summons me now, imagine then…
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Am I repeating myself? I suppose I could just self-publish a work the size of the weighty books of beliefs? But this book would not be mine and mine alone, it would be Life’s book and it would only have one word over and over and from cover to cover, Love…
Love, Love, Love. Love etched into both the back and the front and between. Love and my loving belief will send me on my walk and then into the dance and then into my affections inscribed upon the loving spirits. I’ll speak only Love, and Love will find me praying. Love overpowers my weakened instinct, my will, if I’ll but let her enter and exit evermore…
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The youth hold the key to the dilemma. It seems that there is nothing that a hit show or celebrity or a new game or some headphones lost in song won’t cure, an escape from foul air and an even fouler noise, the personal grumblings at imagining too little. Oh! I was such an unfulfilled and unloving steward! My misfortune never looked so tall…
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Move! Motion creates, and away I go with Love and her children as my light…
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Move!
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One, two, three and four… the echo rumbled, “Begin to soar!”…
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The birds are crooning for Love to come and fix this mess. The fish are praying Love to stir goodness back into the water. Life is patient. The eartH is patient. Love? It is, but I shouldn’t test out that particular theory all the way to the tip of annihilation…
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There is noise behind my instinct, instinct itself, I suppose.
What of the instinct of feeling or thinking, awareness, animal perception?
It must have taken one thankless story (or stories) to have ushered in enough irrational fear in order to create a very real fear that only the manufacturer of such noise can mend, save for God and Love, but there I go repeating myself again…
You can care for her as your beholden and have an eternity of Love.
(ping)
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I’m writing five prayers at once! One prayer, love, times five. Prayers should never be sent alone as this will make them lonely…
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Prayers of Love will lift my eyes to behold the living thing beneath my feet…
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This seems a bit too much to be true…
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(Silence…)
Why so quiet?
You didn’t show them how to be God?
It’s known among them.
Oh.
So it is known. (Have belief, just never over Truth…)
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What is Truth? Can you believe the nerve of this guy, working it all out for God to judge when he is as clueless as the next?
I’ve been trying to tell it in order, instead of a tidal wave of words, that who I am cannot be forsaken by my belief in Love…
Only Love can mount such heights as dreams. I’d forgotten Love’s dream, and failing to remember has been my own awful thought and action, and it’s landed me in one hell of a mess. I must open my eyes before she dreams of love without me…
Oh! The eartH is most sacred, to God, and to her human angels all…
(Silence.)
Are you okay?
Yes. Why?
You referred to God as a woman and then you stopped talking. I thought you might have up and died, or something?
No. I’m alive. I’m good. I didn’t refer to God as woman, I referred to eartH as Mother. God is all and everything. Male and female, animal and forest and fish and water and the moons and planets and all and every star…
My new life and love are newly formed, be patient until the fog lifts and I will stand with you and hold only a noble affection in my intentions, in everything I say and do, every action and its equal reaction, every thought, every glimpse of a smidgen of sorrow, held up, etched deeply within my mental capacity and with instinct as its rudder that I might readily tire of stale ideas…
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(Silence…)
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The echo comes over me with a deep drone, sound waves, only they are formed from manmade noise. My life was littered with my rudeness and indifference to others, I don’t recall much, but have for some time now felt the heavy load of Love that I amassed and then carried arduously because I took it without the other’s permission. I’m just here to give it all back…
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I don’t know when to stop? I’m not sure this ever ends, a loop that’s saying the same thing, using only one word, Love. If all I wrote was Love, without explaining how I came to it, there’d be no point in reading it or even debating it, because every word in the book would be known…
Have you even read the book of Love?
Cover to cover, shore to shore, everyday, every waking moment, Love. Love sounds like truth, eh?
Not really? Sounds like Love.
(ping…)
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Other things do come up, but the blankets of kindness and affection are wrapped around my shoulders, I come carrying a humble love and peace to all and everything. I’m prepared to face my truth in order to know. Exactness might well be my Achilles’ heel…
Brave Sir Robin!
What the-?
Sorry. It just felt right.
It’s late. Goodnight my lovely wife. Peace and goodness be with you, my angel of Love…
(Silence…)
© 2012 by mark richard prime
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