Each of us lives in a world of limitation, limits set by the capacity of our imagination. It seems that the entire thrust of life is to manifest the creative urge within while breaking through the boundaries we self-create.
The is no one boundary shared by all. That should tell you something about the reality of boundaries. The boundary is different for each of us, based upon what we can allow to be possible. The very personalized real-ms of possibility are constantly morphing, expanding, or shrinking. They are never static even though it may seem that way.
Life is the great witness. What we believed possible a few years ago, months or even moments ago, bumps up against new possibilities with each breath. Life is the bumping. We witness what seems to be an anomaly and don’t believe our senses, dismissing the opportunity. Life being the persistent bugger it is, keeps rubbing us raw, eventually making itself such a pest that we have no choice but to react.
We either stop denying it, and integrate the new possibility, or we become so stressed by the dissonance that triggered traumas take over. We close-in upon ourselves, contracting, adding a new layer to the crystalline shell we innocently built for protection. Over time the build-up of layers stealthily obscures what we used to believe was possible, choking off the miracle of imagination … and call that playing it safe or worse, how the world is.
Expansion or contraction, the boundary shifts. It is always shifting.
Those who see life differently from you simply have different boundaries, some so tightly wrapped that they have no breathing room at all. Others, so loosely wound that they can’t quite land, have no feet nor ground to stand on.
In-between the polarities lies all of life, every experience imaginable, every experience not yet imagined, believed possible and impossible.
We are stunted by our unwillingness to set down our beliefs, the inability to set our imaginations free, the timidity that prevents us from standing naked, arms wide in embrace of life and all possibilities.
But life in its creativity is always working us, tugging at the seams of what we deem possible, playing an old-fashioned game of pin ball, pulling back the spring and sending us sailing into one bumper after another, redirecting us, surprising us, stopping our minds, cracking us open, altering the limits of our imagination.
Life is the Pinball Wizard.
He stands like a statue, becomes part of the machine
Feelin’ all the bumpers, always playin’ clean
Plays by intuition, the digit counters fall
That deaf, dumb, and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball
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. 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. 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.
