Cuento I p.1

We made it to Costa Rica, Rebecca, Onyx, and I. Thank Fuck.

As you read this, you exist in the future of me who writes.

You, wherever and whenever you find yourself, a spec of light, a blip, an occurrence of almost no significance except that you can tap into the potential of infinite creativity of this world. You who reads this and indulge me hear: You can be wherever, whenever, whatever, and whoever you can imagine.

Not in the fairy tale sense, because they skip over the most challenging part: dedication to the toil that will realize your imagination. Your dreams can manifest through work- the work of doing, being, visualizing, and communicating within yourself and with the world around you to make it a reality. Because for anything to happen in this world, anything beautiful takes work. It necessitates trials and errors, adaptation, wisdom, experience, grit, determination, devotion, abandonment... It makes us feel bliss, dread, hope, cynicism, love, avoidance... It runs us through a spiritual-emotional-physical-intuitive gauntlet of challenges and torment.

Of the thousands of lives I have met, heard of, read about, and experienced, and that amount to anything, has had to endure the breaking of the threshold of perceived limitations while coexisting with others.

Every single life contributes.

You can twist and turn this statement however you want; it's besides the point. You can believe that there are no causes without effect, and nothing accomplished, sensed, thought, felt, ends in nothingness. All that is IS contained in this world.

Beurh... That was a longer-than-expected meta rant, but I needed to vent. I don't interact with many people. And of those few, fewer still can I talk about this to the lengths I need. Paper is where I can freely express, or attempt to, what floats through my mindS. The masculine goes to the well and lowers a bucket down the deep black hole. He lowers it to the feminine who exists deep below the surface. He does not know what will come out. She is guided to fill the bucket by the vibrations, intentions, and dispositions she senses through the rope that connects them. "I" holds the pen and performs the movements. "Me" fills the motion with sense and creates an image through the words. The More "I" gets in the way, the more "I" thinks, the more "'Me" feels stifled and what comes to the surface is unsatisfactory. It's bland, tasteless, and it does not quench my creative-imaginary thirst.

I hold the pen. She imbues the motion with purpose.

Why did I get to this?

Because "Me" (the impenetrable feminine mind that exists below my thin surface of consciousness) wishes to impart me with an impression.

I CANNOT AVOID WHO I AM.

Golden Nugget.

That's why I write. Cause in the span of three pages, "Me" reminded "I" of something meaningful.