Morning report

You can't speak consciousness to the unconscious. You can't speak empathy to the sociopath. You can't preach a narcissist about the interconnectedness of it all. You can't lecture about the illusion of separation to the sleeping mass. You can't teach a child how not to turn from the spirit essence. You can't grow love in the heart of the amnesic. You may scream, you may roar, you may plead, you may hope, but it just is destined. The oldest game at play on Earth; that delusion, that simulation, that forgetfulness, the core of the distraction. 

Don't take it personal, ego is part of the game, quit it already, they come when they come, if at all they remember. Otherwise, keep at it, that remembering, that essence, the light that shines. It will pull all sorts of dark beings, butterflies and flutter-by's, for the light is attractive, and the light is a dream like, but that too is Okay. Let them project, recall, zone out, come again. Let them, just let them... Watch in silence, as it unfolds in front you, one beginning of a certain end, but don't judge, that judging game is behind you now too. 

Could you watch in silence? Can you watch, detached, in total discernment? 

Don't say much, don't over share. It's been said a thousand times over. I mean, won't you just see all the talking at dawn and in the birds songs, all those mornings. All those mornings, but who cares to listen,  and they choose the night, time and again. Selling their bodies to feel anything at all. Vacant bodies, vacant souls, an exchange for an exchange for an exchange, on and on it goes...

This writing isn't for me, it's for those who will come. This journey isn't so personal, this existence is part of the all, we are after all in this together, but we rise alone. The words are to witness these times, to remind those who've made the choice, and also maybe only just to report. 

On that note,

Report to source...

I have indeed remembered.

Amen. 

Thank you.