This morning I awoke with some recall of fragments of a dream. I was in a cramped grey metallic complex of rooms and passageways that was occupied by a staff all busily engaged with their jobs. My situation was that I was a prisoner that had been ‘sentenced’ to death. I had been in a room in which something had happened and I had been held responsible. I had a vague impression of an incident of not having caught a ball. I kept arguing with anyone who would listen that it was all a mistake, and that in fact, ‘I hadn’t done anything’, and so I was therefore ‘innocent’. This argument had no impact whatsoever. Observing dispassionately the process of the preparation for execution of another prisoner, I saw how he was lying on a wet metallic bunk with various wires attached to his body. I came to realize how my own execution could not be avoided, and I began to argue instead for some time in which to write a last letter to my son. My fear settled on my pen that had become transparent because it was almost out of ink and I realized that I had forgotten where I had left my briefcase in which I imagined and hoped that there would be a bottle of ink. During my wanderings I came across a woman calmly strolling through a passageway I had not seen before, I followed her and then I slipped ahead when I saw a door that led outside. When outside I thanked her for her help; she was very matter-of-fact about it that she had seen that given the situation that she would have to take that stroll. I began to worry that I had lost my briefcase, that I had left it in the prison.
I forgive myself that I have accepted and allowed myself to define myself as ‘innocent’ because I have connected ‘innocence’ with ‘not doing anything’.
I forgive myself that I have accepted and allowed myself to not realize and understand that in my ‘sentence’ that I have written of myself that ‘I did not do anything’ I show myself my own acceptance of a living death, because I did not move when I saw how I was wired, because I remained within my own concern of only me as my self interest when I saw how another prisoner as myself was also wired.
I forgive myself that I have accepted and allowed myself to separate myself from my own resources as the ink with which I write myself, and for not allowing myself to see how within this I am accepting who I am as scarcity and limitation.
I forgive myself that I have accepted and allowed myself to not see how I am reflecting who I am in what I do and do not do, and that this ‘who I am’ in me ‘not doing anything’ is me as acquiescence of the system of me as mind within me running who I am while I do nothing.
I forgive myself that I have accepted and allowed myself to fear the realization that I am desiring to escape from who I am, because in realizing this, I will have to move myself and change, and walk back through the prison of myself as who I have accepted and allowed myself to be.
I commit myself to facing what I show myself as who I am in what I have accepted and allowed myself to be. I commit myself to changing this relationship that I have made to what I show myself, to not accept reaction to myself in what I see.
see also: Heaven’s Journey to Life