My identity is dying  – slowly, gradually, daily.

I’m starting to shed that which I used to be.  Effortlessly. Like the drifting away of an identity that isn’t needed anymore.

I’m starting to see my own game, the drama I’ve been participating in. Sometimes the fairy tale, sometimes the horror story and all of the other plots in between. Hopes and dreams, illusions and delusions, laughter and tears. Togetherness and separation. High and low. Happy and sad. A never ending tale of woo that ends with death. That ends at death. And we are free.

Here I am. Standing on the ruins of my own life. Standing on the fragments of my own stories.

Standing, standing.

Still standing.

Now I am simply committing to love my own daily creation, practicing accepting what is because it just is. I’m inseparable from it. I am it and it is me. Doing what I can with serenity to let the river of pain flow through me. The pain that has a sound, that sounds like us. The river that flows through all of us, the river that is us. Sometimes in a tranquil and gentle flow, sometimes harsh like white water, over sand and rock, sometimes screaming, sometimes chanting, sometimes babbling, sometimes going over the edge and falling into the emptiness bellow,  hoping to find ground to land and flow,  flow and flow to the sea of joy. To finally reconnect. The water and the sea. Together at last.

Who was Paula Vibert?