I was cleaning up my email and found this. A single draft, sitting all alone. Written and unsent on November 5 at 8:35 AM.
Did I write this?
It sounds like me, but a clearer version of me.
Did I copy and paste this from somewhere else?
I do move incredibly fast and need a place to dump things sometimes. If it wasn’t me, I would certainly like to credit them.
But I know it was me.
Was I spontaneously channeling?
Once, and only once, I got up before the sun and sat down at my desk. It was pitch dark but I didn’t turn on the light. I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and picked up a pen. That was the first and only time I’d automatically written. When I was done, I instinctively tucked the sheet of paper away in a drawer until it was the right time to share. Maybe soon. Something told me this would occur more often, so I purchased a nice green box for future automatic writings. It hasn’t happened again… yet.
This email, this mysterious draft addressed to exactly no one, expresses exactly what I want to say. My subconscious knows the tension of my experience, between knowing I have gifts to share and feeling my throat struggling to connect my gifts to you. It will come, but it hasn’t…
… yet. Not yet, it appears.
It's a risky concoction, not knowing what to say and believing no one cares to hear it. I wouldn't order that at the bar unless I were really trying to get fucked up that night. Maybe I was heartbroken, so tangled up in my heart that I stopped caring about my body and mind. Maybe I had a long day and wanted to forget, just for a night, knowing full well I'd remember every little thing in the morning hang. When I resign to the regrettable act, it feels like relief.
When I don't write, I can't say no one heard me.
The thing is, if a tree falls and no one heard it, the tree still knows what happened.
When I write, I write.
I'm writing to choose courage over fear.
Yesterday, my ideas started overflowing and the universe began to respond in kind.
Not quite yet, but some, it seems.
Love,
Milan