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Under the spell of words.

There is only a small amount of enthusiasm this morning. I don't know all the reasons.

Pushing. There is not a single day this last week in which I was not pushing against some formidable obstacle. I'm rolling the stone up the hill. I don't think that this stone has to do anything with the real responsibilities of this day.

I've been listening to the Tapping Summit in series. I'm on Disk15 on rekindling relationships.

I look at my week and think to myself: What is important.

I think writing is important. This anxiety is telling me something. I will befriend it. I think that in the long scope of things, it will be the very thing that helps me find my sweet spot of "my place in this world".

Here is a great question: What is my place in this world?

It is an existential question. There is no answer except that I AM. There is no other purpose, than to be me. I can be me. It's a safe to be me. I am still me regardless. I don't think this is an empty encouragement to myself. l've repeated this often in the last few days. "It's okay to be me".

I'd like for the anxiety to be quelled. I think it relaxing very gradually. There is a sense that something, somewhere is relaxing. I think acceptance is around the corner for me. I simply cannot ever know for certain what my "destiny" is. That is asking too much of the framework in which I am conscience. This is the damnation of freedom. I will always likely be able to find a way that I could have thought differently, acted differently, existed differently.

Possibilities are immense. I can know that I am not suffering. Or perhaps not. Suffering is created at every juncture where the preconceived notions of thinking and planning get mixed up with what is actually going on.

If I were to be fully present. If I were to write like this was my life, what would come out? How long would I write? I may or may not be on a heroic adventure. I think that I can see the hedonistic hero arising, pounding his chest, rising to the "occasion" (a self-made occasion) and running forth to battle the enemy.

So many enemies in my mind. They have a range of characters. Some are ready to take up arms, others are drawing back in fear. We are fighting against ourselves. The unity so-longed-for is useless when the heroic ego rises up. It will accomplish something, even if there is nothing that actually needs done. It cannot see that activity is blinding it to what is really real.

So I muse. I think that this is all part of my own journey. I don't know what the future holds. I do know that I type away furiously thinking that by preservation of thought, I may preserve something of myself. Here to is an illusion greater than deep darkness.

I am under the spell of words.

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