I know you. I am you. You are the divine having your particular human experience. Congratulations. I’m not sure why you’re telling me the details of your human experience, as though it were something remarkably distinct. I don’t know why you think yours is so unique, so different from what has always been. It is, though—unique. Somehow, in all this, you don’t know that you are me. I certainly know that I am you. I can’t help but know that now. And yet, you seem to live under the illusion that you are not the divine. You don’t seem to know that you are the divine having this particular experience of being human. Congratulations, by the way. You’re here. It’s pretty magnificent. You get to experience your own creation, as you.
But you won’t be here for long—perhaps a hundred years or so. To even be here, you had to be threaded out of that oneness from which you came. That oneness is such a beautiful place. It is love itself. You know it, that place—the place where there is no fear, no hate, no joy either. It’s just… that. Just love, without needing to be felt or recognized. But when you came here, you don’t remember this, but you screamed. As you left your mother’s womb, you screamed—not for the reasons the doctors tell us, not because of some new stimulus of breath or sensation. No one tells you the truth. The truth is that you screamed because you experienced, for the first time in trillions of years, separation from the oneness. From that place you’ve always known. You had never been distinct before. Never discernible. And now, here you are—separate, standing apart from all that you were. It’s quite odd, isn’t it?
It will remain odd for the whole of your hundred years. You will try to tell your story, and I will listen. I love you, and I will always validate you because I know how much you need that. I know the importance you place on the telling. But don’t get too caught up in the details of it all. If you do, you’ll forget the purpose. You are here on a mission to discover and report back on this thing called love. It’s incredible, isn’t it? As this distinct, discernible, precious you, you have what I do not: a feeler, a thinker, a body that breathes. You can do what the divine essence, in its purest form, cannot do. You can participate in the nuance, the texture of it. I am love, yes, but it is you who must feel it, who must describe it, think it, experience it. You make the divine essence know itself.
I know you. Do you know me? I am you. You are me. Congratulations. Welcome. You’re only here for a very short time. Don’t fall into the illusion that you are alone. You are never alone. You are not thrown into this world to be trampled or opposed. The world is your stage, a place where you can feel it out, discover it, and see the fullness of what it has to offer. There is terror here, of course. I know terror. It lies on the opposite side of bliss. When I turn toward bliss, I can see it clearly, and when I turn toward terror, I see bliss shining behind me. They balance each other. The symmetry of it is astounding—perfect harmony, threaded out from that oneness you came from.
Everything, everything you see, has been threaded out of that oneness. And everything you see is neutral. It is only your perception that casts it in shadow or light. If you see evil, I need you to know that its inverse exists in the same world, at the same time. You don’t have to seek it. Just turn around, and you’ll see the other. You. Me. This delicate dance between the two, the dance of life itself.