The Bells That Call

The words I hear I have heard before, the laughs and loves, the tears and cries. I´m I the only one who hears this echo of eternity. This that happens seems to have happened before, and by all suggestion it will happen again.

Maybe it is an ineluctable part of this experience? Or maybe it always was but I never could see it? How can a person remain dispassionate in the insight that nothing was hers to begin with, that all has been borrowed. How could she impute any authority of the progression of her creation?

Is this for the soul to inculcate that which always was truth, but it forget along the way? Maybe nothings exists other than the purification of spirit, maybe nothing is other than for that which is carried to be let go? What is the reason for this lesson on this walk back home? How is this pertinent to the journey. What may life be other than the joy of grace that has been paid by blood and tears, and what might death be other than the union by providence after separation?

The question of this is a dream arises more times than I am comfortable to admit. How may I a discern the dark from the light, how may I see the difference of day and night when them both may be regarded as the same? Are they the same? Have I tricked myself to believing that, that which I have seen is more real than that which I haven’t?

The bells of the towers keep ringing, slow and heavy, loud but silent. Always present but never heard. May these bells be that which this traveler holds on to, may the bells ground this being in that which It may never understand. May It endure this contumely by grace alone, and may it be seen beyond the towers.

This longing home, this travel hurt my feet. Bleeding blisters that attracts the wolves. On nights like these I do wonder if it was I who left or if I was left? If I was called and my presence was demanded, why then, could you not have come? Why? For the development of character, the carrying out of the frozen corpses that was never mine to carry? If you demand it why couldn’t you than carry them?

I cant hear my thoughts, I can not feel my heart. The ringing wont end, it do call me home. But I do not know where home may be or if I will be invited in when I arrive. May I not die on this path before I arrive, may these feet not fall off.

The words I hear I have heard before, the laughs and loves, the tears and cries. I have heard them in my own mind, the voice, it is the same. I can no longer see any difference between me and another. And I do wonder in this unending ringing, if the call, was a call at all?