I tend to piss people off. It is not my intention, but it seems to be my reality. I think it is This I Am sorting the wheat from the chaff, ending relationships that do not serve me or the one who is angry before they get started. That’s much better than after the fact, or at least it seems that it would be.
It’s easy to believe that, but I don’t really. I have no idea what’s actually going on here. Maybe I’m just hard to swallow. I have suppositions and stories, ideas that pass through, land a moment or two before skedaddling. None of them seem to hang around long. I don’t hang onto them, and they don’t set up shop.
I don’t believe any of them, not really, although it is fun to pretend now and then, to get riled up for a breath or two before the laughter starts, or tears flow, or compassion takes over.
Mostly I’m a blank stage the moment uses to play its stories upon. The backdrop morphs to become whatever is necessary to the tall tale. One moment I am deeply human, the next — what next? — just simple hereness, nowness, enjoying the show.
It seems I am a mass of contradictions — I am. If anything is certain, that’s close. Isn’t it grand, to not be held to any standard, to flow into whatever crack or crevice appears, to love the appearance whatever it is, however much it may hurt, however loving or hateful it appears …. at least to those outside looking in.
Here the story flows, one moment filled with visible aliveness, the next I’m seemingly the butt of anger. I am anything that is needed, even when I have no clue as to why … which mostly I don’t. Clueless is fine with me.
I used to need answers, not just an answer, but the answer, the right answer. That wasn’t nearly as much fun and being clueless. I’ll take clueless and let This We Are fill me in when it’s time, like kintsugi, pouring gold into the cracks and crevices of this ol’ piece of broken pottery.
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. That said with a giggle, check out Amaya’s new book – Actuality: infinity at play, available in paperback and e-book at Amazon.
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