Let's Play A Game

Kailey is whining at my feet right now. I think she's about three. She's a little girl wearing a party dress in a color like pale pink? She seems to want me to pick her up, as if she's associating me with being her mother. I don't know who Kailey is. She may be too young, even for a ghost child, to tell me why she thinks I'm her mommy. When I hear from small children I immediately wonder if she's one of Ricky Mena's (he plays Spiderman for children with Cancer), but I don't recall him writing about anyone named Kailey. She's calling me "mama" now, pulling at the bottom of her little dress. On second thought, I don't think she's over the age of two. Anyone know a Kailey?

It's been a while since I last wrote. I've been having an internal argument about whether or not to write only "ghost stories", or to write about my life as a mother, employee, and elderly woman too. I mean, at thirty eight, I have stories to tell, bruh. I've died a thousand deaths within one lifetime and been reborn again. And I did it all just to infuriate my haters. Shedding skin after skin, and yet still no inner growth. It's a damn shame, really it is. 

I'm obsessed with podcasts right now, gorging on Bailey Sarian and Mrballen every weekend. I do think it's morbid. I do question what is wrong with me. Why would anyone want to hear so many terrible stories about bad people? Who wants to witness others darkest moments in life, their fear, their last thoughts and feelings, especially if they're gory? Then I realize, I'm just built for this life. I mean, even as a psychic medium I am the last to witness moments in the deceased lives that nobody else would ever know about. When Kenzie Lueck was kidnapped, I fell to my knees in horror at the anticipation of what fate awaited me. I cried out for help, drugged up and sloppily defending myself in a frantic state. I had to hold onto the doorframe for support. There is no terror like that. I would go through it all again, just to be able to say that she wasn't alone in those last hours of her life.

To be completely honest, this isn't the first time I've admitted this, but often, these stories of murder, betrayal, and human loss make my own life feel less like a horror movie. As sad as that is, it's my truth. And that's what I've realized ... I get to speak my truth. It doesn't matter how hard it is for anyone to swallow. Or whether or not our versions of events don't seem to coincide nicely. My version is valid. And it is the only version I am obligated to give light to.

How that truth comes out, is also valid. I don't have to soften it, edit it, or ask permission. I am ok, angry, sad, justified, and human. Spirituality isn't really spirituality without the human in it. The experience isn't complete without raw emotion. Shit, that's where we go wrong. Enlightenment isn't floating above the sewer like a lone lost balloon. It's the killer clown and the child that goes missing. Without that element, there is nothing to write about. A floating red balloon is insignificant without the horror story behind that balloon. As horrible as that story may be, it is the heart and soul of the plotline.

Am I petty from time to time? Hell yes, I am. But I have witnessed other spiritual teachers in the same petty energy, for which they are often judged harshly. To top off the differences between myself and other self proclaimed spiritual people, I identify as Hood. Everybody knows that you can take the girl out of the Hood, but you can't take the Hood out of the girl. But maybe we're not supposed to. To be persecuted for your status in the world is a very real thing, especially if you grew up in a religious state. Others before have wanted to see this change, and others after me will too. 

I keep hearing the kid from the movie, The Goonies, say, "it's our time now!" I know that a mission calling as important as changing the way the world sees a certain type of person isn't an easy one, but I think I need to realize as hard as I think my mission is, there is somebody out there that went all in. They wear the filth of the streets, remaining in systematic oppression, never awakening while in body, to their own glory. They die of drug overdoses, suicides, hunger, and the cold. They are the real warriors.

When we see a movie as a child we can be frightened by what we see, so much so that we run and hide. Because we believe it is real. As adults we understand that it isn't real, but that fear can still linger, in a place so deep inside of us, we think it is a natural part of us. We fear loss, separation, and not belonging. We fear it all our lives, until our lives are over. And then we are awakened to the truth, that we are not separate. That we never were. We bleed into each other, whether or not we should. Borders start where the skin acts as a barrier, but energy knows no such thing.

I have to get better ... at realizing that I am not being punished. That I am not receiving karma from crimes committed while I was asleep. It is too painful to think that because my brother chooses sleep, that I am alone. I am not. I literally shared a womb with another baby, a boy, a real brother. The truth is that while love is the strongest force in the world, it cannot see it's way through the barrier of ego. Which is why your ego is trying to suffocate it's self. Transcendence doesn't save anyone, because the goal isn't to be saved. 

The only thing the universe wants from you, is for you to play the fucking game. I guess in way, we're all in horror movie together. Whether or not you make it to the sequel is up to you. How hard are you willing to go for your life?

-Spiritual Diva