There is a reality behind reality; of this I am certain.
I’m not the only one. Mystical traditions and practitioners of magic teach of this “more real” reality, and about ways in which we humans may lift the veil of this one.
Why does it matter, how real this reality is? I don’t know.
What I know is that when you’ve had experiences your whole life that indicate there is something “else,” something “more,” or something “strange” about you or among you or lurking almost undetected in between the spaces and the times you sometimes occupy, there comes a point at which one is compelled to engage.
I am engaged.
In the paintings I paint each morning.
In the spirit medicine cards I sometimes draw.
In the chants and the prayers I recite in hope and surrender if not always in faith.
In the high-pitched electrical-type sound I occasionally hear that no one else does.
In the dreams I work, and in the ones too odd to work, but too compelling to forget.
In the realms I seem to travel in between waking and sleep.
In the love that grows stronger, and in the grief that threatens to suck me down to the deep.
In the darkness I dare to stay in if only for one moment longer.
