I sensed a totally new presence today: an older man who felt “crotchety.” My writing came out in block script. It felt terse. I had no idea what was coming through as I wrote it, only that it was a completely different style. I didn’t know when it was finished if any of it would even make sense – I just wrote what I heard. Not sure what to make of it. You be the judge:

Hasten your fingers and write my words …

The heart longs to be free.
Oh, woe is me.
Love have I not.
Forsaken in life I die.
Alone and unloved
Oh, what a plot.

Sleep comes easily now
For I dream no more.
Better this way
To even the score.

This world, this life,
What to make of it?
Beauty and laughter
The brass rings.
But so oft beyond reach.

Try, try,
My soul wants to fly.
I spread my wings and leap.
Oh, sweet defeat.
The bitter fall.
Yet through it all
Hope remains.

I rise
And wipe the tears from my eyes.
There lies another day.
How great is the journey.
I watch.
Grains of sand
Trickle through my hand.
An ant hill they form.
Who climbs to the top?
The one who sees the prize.

I arise
And go about the day.
Ever hopeful.
This is joy.
I am the toy.
Time to play.

(I said, “Thank you,” and sensed a sweeping bow and tip of a top hat: “The pleasure was mine.”)