I am thinking,
“I want to write today,”
and the scribe near me inscribes my thoughts.
His quill taps, glides across the paper,
my words appear…my thoughts,
and I look down at him.
The quill becomes pure ivory
still feathery and lovely;
it was golden and silky this morning,
with braided edges.
Why has it changed?
Is it the scribe?
It isn’t, I know.
I think of the serpent—
not just dark, but fashioned of darkness.
He slipped in this morning,
very low in my vision, when The Quill was golden.
Eye contact: I saw in them,
“You’ll write no more,” heard it too.
The Golden Quill glows with The Light;
a silken thread of It streams from the tip
and moves over the LightScape.
It fans outward and Peacocks follow—
back to the papyrus beneath The Golden Quill.
They read the inscriptions, while
I speak to serpent, “Come, walk with me in the Light.”
He vanishes.
The scribe looks up at me.
I smile. He pens, She smiles.
He speaks, “I will write for you.”
Submitted by: Na’imah on 05/16/2017
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Tagged with: Voice of Elysium
This morning, around 2:50, I awoke to the presence of the serpent in The Golden Quill coiled upon a shelf built high on a wall in an old house. That, however, did not alter my view of him as a symbol of my lower self.
The wall moved aside, and behind it stood a man looking in my direction. In him I saw my brother, Tayyab, myself, and my son Salah. In several incarnations the man had been a carpenter, a lawyer, a fisherman, and finally he appeared in a boat drifting in the depths of coldness pass a colossal iceberg. Suddenly, the Light that I had invited the serpent to–before he vanished–revealed the iceberg as beautiful, jutting out of a beautiful sea, and the serpent knew then that I would never stop writing. He appeared to be burning like a charcoal, writhing in pain, but it was the Light; he did not want it to touch him.
I do not know who the man is, and I will not assign to him an identity, though familial, and what mental health clinicians refer to as personality traits, suggest that he could be one of three individuals. I have learned; I know that his identity is to be revealed from my higher self, not arbitrarily ascribed from elsewhere.
I’m aware that I’m experiencing a frequency shift. This is my third consecutive day in a deluge of memories that I have futilely attempted to label as a “chest” or a “kaleidoscope” of memories; those words have not help up; they kept shifting to “bag”, so, exhausted 🙂 and following the guidance, I surrendered and traipsed into Roberto’s Bag of Memories, reminded that they have to be understood, balanced…that they’re serving me in this lifetime. Some are from my childhood, a few years ago, a year ago, months ago, past lives, and all of them are magnificent in their service.
I read, and the last passage of Bag of Memories I chose to share here: “Without understanding and trusting the guiding beacon of Infinity, the still small voice, and going through the inquiring challenges involved in discovering the constructs of the soul much as a cave man discovers the fire, that inner fire cannot be fanned–for oneself and much less another. Thus on learning, there comes a flame, and from the flame there comes the nurturing of learning”.