How is it that our identity expands
and contracts? I say something unloving
with a habitual pattern of criticism,
then surprise myself by coming out with
wisdom beyond my means. Is my soul
attracted to, combined with, influenced
by other unseen sources, or am I a
patchwork of many realities sliding in
and out of characters?
Who are the without-form presences
that whisper in my ear? My fluid
beingness slides between realities.
Voices come from a between-place. I
hesitate to tell you this for I do
not wish to hear you whisper, “crazy.”
Insanity grips us all at times; most
have learned to hide its call behind
the mask of cultural demands. Tell the
truth, which of you has not visited
other-world realities, where nothing
is as it seems?