I envy this future Self that whispers. The irony of this does not escape me.
If this is real, then my pure intention must understand that I simply have not traveled as far and wide, through as many infinitely imagined, timescape possibilities as she has.
This timeline scares me. It has in fact scarred me. Attached to this 43 year old body, I have recently been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The scar tissue in my cerebro-spinal fluid and on my brain … these things I have seen with my own two eyes. Visible proof that when we see it, the construct seems to become more real, in a way. Should I have not looked? No. It is not in my nature to deny the truth, in all forms.
But this timeline scares me. These scars makes my legs numb – ice cold – my thinking unclear, my vision askew, my mind depressed. What if this is it? Every day; that is what comes to me. What if this is it?
‘Yes. What if, dear child.’
All of this ‘proof’ makes this linear timeline feel so undeniably real; which makes writing about the possibility that there are timeslines on which I choose to not have MS – or any physical, psychological, provable trapping – a matter of choice, seems akin to telling God that his Divine Plan is flawed.
Okay then. As I believe in God as much as I believe one can heal a physical manifestation of a dis-ease with intention, the God I believe would smile magic on me for having the courage to see the bread crumbs left for me to find. In the grand design, we are seekers. And in order to seek, one must ask good questions. And accept good answers. Or no answer.
How many times have I respectfully and sometimes desperately asked a question and felt nothing come back? Felt entirely alone?
Fewer times than I have asked and felt everything. Felt entirely surrounded.
Is this a matter of choice? Do we choose the ultimate outcome based on what we choose to believe ‘along the way’?
Sometimes ancient, sometimes child, sometimes pure, sometimes pure crap, the confounded whispering continues to speak to this confused, piecemeal being; with broken filtration, with, at best, scattered ‘maybe’ wisdom.
The scars can be seen on scans. What I imagine and write here … wait. Isn’t reading the same thing as scanning? Scan it. May these words reach no boundary.
My future Self waves past the past, and her sound comes from above and below and penetrates the trappings. May I always do the same.
She is not my past. Maybe she’s ‘not real’ is the common sense, but that’s perhaps a good thing: She is not measurable like scars.
She is not me now. She is me, later. With all the pieces, algorithmed into a full picture. Like every alphabet coming together to form the broadest communicator.
She is me, later, when the brokenness is precisely what was necessary to create the clear masterpiece. She is me when the wisdom that comes is accepted in all its forms, accepted because she does not conform to the conditions of the piecemeal, broken, filtered, or scattered past.
She designs it – she designs me – because of what I have already chosen to give to her: My full attention.
She is not me as I understand myself to be. She is me as I have yet to understand myself to be. She is motivated to move me through myself, and for no other reason does she speak.
She is me, giving birth to me.
It hurts. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it hurt. I do not envy her. Let her come through to full fruition.
Photo is pixabay creative commons