the small-piece-of-sunlight-guy waves to her from the ceiling. It is morning. [are you there?]
“Listen. Forget everything that is outside of the exact and most present moment, and how to best serve, and best be kind in it. Forget the self but instead merely be the self, and those who do seek you, will find you. You will not fear nor pity the self, because you need not worry for the self—the universe is in your favor, always, and most fervently so if you live well, and if you live in truth, and in kindness and in constant compassion. Do not fear or stagnate in jealousy. The happiness of others is of the highest priority to you here, and in keeping such order, is then your happiness ensured and draped warmly across you [see: a child is covered in blankets by their mother in a blissful, twilight sleep]–fully taken care of by those [you must trust] who will love and serve you, in return. And do not forget, too, you and most of us, are all held by the arms of this inherently benevolent universe of time, matter and experience itself. She does not forget you, and especially is it easy for her to hold you, if you dwell, exist, think, love, and do [action] outside the “channel” of self and instead, over and over again, step out into the broad, ever-expanding and beckoning realm of love to be experienced, but most importantly, for you, LSG–love to be bestowed. ”
It could be the case, that she has it all wrong–that she has it all wrong–and sometimes she: “I’m not sure. I’ll admit. How can I know a thing? Who am I to ask my name in this place?” So it follows, she is an unspecial, but a cosmic-child-citizen-fellow–just a little space girl on the back of a star bus, she does not know her purpose, and could probably more safely assume that she simply does not have one.
She does think: and how cold if the purpose for being here meant simply to accrue information and then compartmentalize mechanically. The freedom might be in service, love and compartmentalizing artfully. She: I’d like to function with some selfless core, a void that then pulls in, just, all things good. how could it not, just, how could it not?
Her “task”, [as she would understand it] is simply to learn and to listen, and to watch, as they push through Mister Nebula cloud, she calls him: “Gnu”, in memory of something innocent and old, to her.
She has not missed the procession call of the Grand March, where something akin to a heart–or a heart–metes out the living steps for entire orders of beings. She has not lost sight of the Great Stage, on which everything, here, takes place and takes root. She is engaged in this life-thing, it would seem. [They gently imply that] her job is merely to look out for everyone else, in omission of self, and dust off and then employ the faith–faith that had been so diligently cultivated for so, so long [and together, our silly girl!]–now, and instead, in those about her.
They will lean over her in order to watch the pulsars wrack the void. She will lean over them in order to view those wide, blue-mouthed bolts of stars–
“–you remember the ones. They were so fashionable in the cosmos, at that time.”