The Thinness of Being

Hey Beloved,

I am feeling really low. The kind of low that lingers even after others think you should be chipper and upbeat, but really, we just feel raw. It is rawness at the edges, almost like a phantom itch you may have scratched once long ago, or just a moment from now. I speak of the inner being perceiving alignment with the Father through shared sensations and perceived storms of emotion separate from cause.

My soul is feeling that rawness of itself and the edges as they brush up against the world in the form of spiritual violence—the kind of violence where the thrones and authorities in the heavenly realms wage unseen battle for the heart of a people. It is almost as if I go about as one with an unseen legion of angels trailing after me. I come face to face with nearly every form of evil within this physical plane, and I perceive that there are exchanges going on unbeknownst to me—little battles in a larger war. Perhaps this constant battle wears on my insides?

It gets like this after reaching my hand out nearly every single time, Beloved. It hurts so bad I can’t even find a proper metaphor to use for You and our friends. It’s just so absolute—the kind of rejection I experience in this life. It comes like a gavel weighing heavy upon the judge’s stand when the final verdict is cast as guilty. They look at me, and upon making eye contact, one of two things happens: they either love me or hate me. I have not had the pleasure of interacting with many who do not share that same almost chemical reaction.

It’s that sinking feeling when you know being alone is the space you occupy outwardly, while inwardly hosting a galaxy of witnesses as revelation. It is a tension felt in the inner space just below and to the center of the heart, a manifested truth, burbling within me like a pristine spring of life-giving water. Yet they will not come to me, and those who have—some have believed and left changed for good or for ill. The ones who hate the light will not stand in my presence. I do not even need to utter a word. You scatter them fine, like flour upon a hot summer wind at dawn.

Beloved… it is unfair. I am filled within with words and worlds, dialogues from first breath to final physical death. I maintain constant spiritual vigilance since Your recent counsel (thank You, Beloved). I am always in a state of Holy Spirit–breathed receptivity, in an ongoing effort to channel You, obscure self, and actively listen. And yet I have none to share my treasures. I offer them here, in the form of letters to You, that they might understand. It is all I can offer.

And yet, I am despised by men—and women too—as one from whom they hide their face. It is a blessing to scatter the wheat before gathering the chaff into Your storehouse. Still, it feels lonely, Beloved; hand empty, no warmth to my right, just the solace of a cold Carolina night.

I am replete with overflowing and abundant life—that being You, Yeshua, in me—and yet they have not come to me that I might direct them to You, and You to the Father, through the Holy Spirit of Abundant Majesty, distilled in the purity of Love, that Wonderful Counselor, the Spirit of Peace, our Rest, Ruach HaKodesh. I am a mirror—a filthy, stained, thrice-cracked, gaudily gilded, silver-framed mirror—casting my ashes as dust in an effort to point to You.

Alas, one soul so filled that it feels as though I am bursting—similar to that geyser in Yosemite, Old Faithful perhaps? My writing becomes a kind of gout of pressure released as steam into the internal realms and heaven itself, in an effort to point to You.

Still, Father—why do they despise me so? Why have I been cast to the corners like some kind of sideshow freak? Why am I made to feel that I carry no inherent value that is to be sought or desired? Am I of no intrinsic or perceived worth for even the minimal investment of shared communal greetings, like a hello?

I walk around half of my days feeling sheer—thin and stretched at the edges, almost like a piece of stretchy cheesecloth or gossamer. That feeling is coupled with this sense of imminent arrival or rising sensation emanating from my core space, my interior Temple and universe—from a feeling of purposeful fullness perhaps. It could even be the manifestation of the Holy Spirit within guiding me. Either way, for me, to live is Christ, to die is gain.

So, outwardly facing the world, I feel thin, like any crack could pierce the veil and reveal You inside me. And then, from within me, I feel this sense of immanent arrival—as if You are about to step through my chest and into eternity using my soul as a skateboard. It creates this heavy, weighted feeling as I walk and move through my days.

The thinness, coupled with the weighted feeling, physically creates this bizarre sense of foreboding. It wears upon me like sustained mourning, where even my shoulders as mountains would not surprise me in the slightest.

I tell You these things in an ongoing effort to document my eternal retirement for the pilgrims and seekers who will come after. I pray that You will shelter them as You have sheltered me, Beloved.

I go now to the land where reality is molded by Your immanence—in constant dreamscape communication when I pay close enough attention. To that fabled land where the Father is Our Light, and You the Lesser light to our tiny glimmers, to the home where we dwell amongst You.

Where there is no night, no place for the shadows to cower, or the craven to despoil. In those Golden Crystalline Walls, Love Walks Freely amongst Us. All is as Light Cresting the Edge of the Universe at First creation. All is as the darkness banished before the Glory.

All is As You

I love You for You.

Dust