Akashic records, The Pleiades, Jesus, Mohammed, solar flares, the Schumann resonance, me and you, spirituality, love (yes, love too), the fifth dimension, ascension, death, enlightenment, ignorance … same, same just different: ideas that attempt to make the inexplicable explicable.
We want our truths to be true. That’s the way we humans roll. We want there to be a truth, one with teeth and guts, that sticks around when all else falls away. We want to know, to understand, to figure it out. We want to have the answer, to finally get it, to open the locked box that exists only in our imaginations and see something substantial there — to name it, define it, own it rather than feeling like we are owned by it.
That is the story of life and death, of me and not me. That is what’s called duality with its finality and wealth of diversity, its automatic unavoidable pairings of opposites. That is also, most remarkably, an ever-moving target, a manifestation of mind, a wishy washy different for everyone personal interpretative gig. What’s true for me is not true for you. My reality is my reality, yours is yours and the twain shall never meet.
Gosh. If we really knew that was true, would we be so hell bend on approval?
That’s the delight and damnation of incarnation. We come into a shared experience where nothing can really be shared. We are truly alone inside our mind within a holographic reality that is different for everyone. We cannot truly touch the sacred or the scared within the other action figures in the hologram. We only ever touch our version of them. Heck, we only ever touch our versions of ourselves.
At various levels of understanding, we know this, and we ache for union, for communion. That our hearts, layered in the years of coverup, buried under the boulders of our hidden hurt, our shame, our not-enough-ness, continue to beat is an astonishing feat.
It seems to this version, in this version of the infinite versions eternally co-existing, that we are persistent resilient miracles of deep magical wonder.
I could talk about Awareness, that all this arises in and as awareness, that there is really nothing but awareness appearing as all apparently separate things, but what good is that? That’s another story, another version, mine but maybe not yours. It’s a good pointer, as good as any, but also the hot point for an argument in waiting, more evidence of inadequacy, a potential judgement with the potential to go either way, and most definitely, a point of differentiation.
I think I’d rather speak of love — of course, my version will not be yours — but love tends to overcome versions, tends to skip right past translators. Right now, love feels good to this avatar. Maybe later I’ll engage with anger or fear, frustration or simply be so focused as to not think at all. Who knows? I never know what’s next. I only know what’s here. Does anyone ever know more?
There is no appropriate bio for Amaya Gayle. She doesn’t exist other than as an expression of Consciousness Itself. Talking about her in biographical terms is a disservice to the truth and to anyone who might be led to believe in such nonsense. None of us exist, not in the way we think. It’s actually much better than we can imagine. Ideas spring into words. Words flow onto paper and yet no one writes them. They simply appear fully formed. Looking at her you would swear this is a lie. She’s there after all, but honestly, she’s not … and she is. Love a paradox and life is nothing, if not paradoxical. Bios normally wax on about accomplishments and beliefs, happenings in time and space. She has never accomplished anything, has no beliefs and like you was never born and will never die. Engage with Amaya at your own risk.
