imaginary paper cranes

all power

What do i want to write about? I don't necessarily have a drive to write about anything specific; my spirit simply moved me to begin typing. I am trying not to have expectations for what this page should look like. Much in the same way I am trying not to have expectations for what my near future should look like. I find myself stuck between hoping/declaring my manifestations be true and wondering if I've done enough to set them in motion in the first place. I commit each day that I have to living to my whims and my wonders, for I cannot fathom an existence wherein I must wile away the passage of time doing mostly inconvenient chores in order to enjoy what I have gifted myself for free. I have developed a God complex. Not in an egotistical sense; it is more of a... collective God complex. I've concluded for myself that the idea/concept of God and the limits of His power is so debated throughout human history is because we, as living beings, are that concept/idea. Everything that exists under Him, exists in our experience as only we can conscience and rationalize it. What we cannot conceive does not exist; therefore, we dictate - or at least, have dictated to our felt affect - the laws of nature, the explanation for every explainable occurrence, natural or supernatural. The story is written as it goes and disappears into nothing; the present is the only truth that we have deemed necessary to matter. Our present. My present. The only present in the only experience I can know that I have. Which is how I know that I have everything that I could ever want, and that my present life will never be one of hardship and savage difficulty. Because I forbid it. Those stories may exist in my current periphery, but I know I would not choose to exist were they mine as me, now. The things I want in this life, therefore, being conscious of this power I hold, I only want because I already have them. The things I know, I know only because I've known them.

I find myself returning to this topic repeatedly over the last few days. It is a truth I have come to understand in the cradle of the moon's glow and the stars reflected in my skin. I am all, all am I.

i haven't known a stillness like this in years.

the ebb and flow of emotion seeping into my blood and indecision like waves of gluttony, siphoning my sanity with every recede toward the horizon, yawning into nothing.

i puff my cheeks with hot air, swell my chest, summon ghasts to run their hands across my flesh as i please. i can call it from somewhere within myself. when i tug the ultraviolet, iridescent strings that bind my being together, i am at once rushed by euphoria and everything i could ever want to know.

there's a shimmering backlight of iridescent aura outlining each and every one of us. everyone, everything, and all things in between are fragments of myself. this reality is my reality. not in such a mundane sense as ownership, no - everyone's reality is this singular experience, put simply. my reality exists in the same collective bubble as all else's; I impress the idea that each person that I experience I crafted to fit into the narrative of my life. Each person is a reflection of myself, and therefore are each and every one as intrinsically and lovingly crafted as myself; however, as this existence as myself is the one to which I can be superficially sure is real, I must also impress the counterpoint that no other soul would exist if I did not. For they are I, and I all. This also expands the concept of manifestation as a core truth of this reality. If my spirit (NOT my waking consciousness) ordained something aught be for the necessity of my experience of my reality, then it is to be. There is no higher power than the power I grant myself.

I am only as unique as anyone else is. I am unique to you as any other person out of the billions that could have encountered you in this way is.