Living with an echo

I live with an echo. Sometimes the echo sounds like the past. Sometimes it sounds like a voice, or voices: indistinct yet of the past, the present and even if I strain, the future. I live with questions, answers, queries, unsolved riddles, crimes, death,wonderment, curiosity. I live with conversations. Conversations: some incomplete. I live with unanswered questions, incomplete stories or stories trying to complete themselves. I live with stories, myths, legends playing themselves out through me, around me.

It was like I was given a folder with all these stories  within it, living through them: trying to sort out which parts belonged to me. If I put my head on the pillow I will hear voices bits and fragments of conversations. Questions come at me from every direction. Overwhelmed by answers feeding back from reality I answer to that, talk to it, I hear reactions to thoughts, others reactions to thoughts where previously i heard nothing.

My reality is quite opposite to the reality before taking on these stories. I am becoming aware that I am coming across as quite mad because I am answering to what I think I am hearing, in a context all my own. Which is where it gets to sound repetitive.

Previously I was quite blissfully lived in my quiet space of my mind, not bothered by thoughts, rather realising that it was an opportunity to connect with that more refined aspect of myself that some call the Divine. At that point I was quite aligned with the rarefied aspect of that as defined by someone I used to know.

Coming out of a place where I am being bombarded by information, questions, answers is a process. It is a long process as the stories have come from a few places and any real contact has been denied. Finding clarity in those things that need doing in my own mundane reality is takes time.

Someone said to me something about someone was in two places at once. My reality the whole of time and space is in two places at once NOW. I have voices from the past demanding answers in this moment NOW. Sorting through what is mine, relevant to my experience amongst all the other voices can be exhausting.

This is only one aspect of this experience I am dealing with at present. I lived the stories gifted/given me. Some stories I woven myself into as part of  others intention given that I would see myself in everyone. If that is a literal expression then it becomes more than the words on the page. Mostly it is the stories given that are the hardest to release.

Very often because of the noise, it is hard to find the direction or source that would release me from that particular story. Often a remedy thought of, is denied as a source of resolution. Then still struggling finding myself needing to honour that original intuitive thought, connecting with that path to resolve it. To find an end so to speak. To come back into functionality in my own life experience. The expectation is that I would embody that role. At some point I realised that it wasn’t my place to heal the world or fix it all for everyone else as that was taking away their experience, that I was in a place of ‘constant change’ and that I was having too many experiences for this one lifetime or like some bad tv show trying to solve all the unsolved crimes of the world which I never really watch anyway.

When one is asked to speak on behalf of others, often it is their own stories, words they want to hear, or a desired outcome, rather, than the authentic voice or experience of the speaker. If stories are added to that then confusion in the soul, spirit occurs. Then conflict, chaos. It may not be that the story was wrong just that it was imposed from without rather than arising often from within.

My first reaction to most of these stories, was one of shock. That reaction became the state of being I have been in for a lot of this experience. Notice, that I haven’t actually told you what the stories were or the experiences that I went through. Well, mostly because you didn’t want to know anyway.

I have included a drawing I did on the bus on the way home from a course I completed in Visual Arts last year. At that point I wasn’t being heard,feeling as if I were never get my mind back again, in a state of utter confusion, feeling down about my art and where I was in the world in regards to work, home, life and relationships.

I started drawing on the bus. I kept drawing as we went down the road, round the bends, adding details of the signs, hills, the things you could see on the journey. It became a complete picture. It kind of gave me some hope of finding a way of moving forward through this difficult time which still hadn’t resolved itself.

Being aware of your own madness isn’t really that helpful. I am always aware of the shifts when I feel as if something clears. Its another step to coming back into some level of being here. Now, I am at the beginning of a new year. Even though my art is being seen, it is still waiting new homes. I am going to buy some canvas, find a way to transpose those drawings I did on the bus and create some more art for this year. As you can see in the image it looks a bit like my head at times.

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