I find myself doubled-down in spirit, pinned down by my own making, and tackled in a way that most likely resembles wrestler on a mat. There I lay struggling to get up, held down in fist-hold by the own blackened counterpart I be.

And thusly, it isn’t that I want to be found beneath this skin, this golden garb of humanness; it is that I long, with a potential yearning that stretches to forever, to be untangled from within my own self. My energy demystified, my mystery unraveled, my truth be told as an unthreaded tapestry.

You see, for where there be builders constructing their truth to display and show to the viewers of the world, I be instead, quite by choice and by query of self, laden with the self-imposed and well-inflicted burden of not so much decomposing what has been and what is left to see, but of the building down of character in hopes of finding what rests at the core center of eternity.

For I recognize, at some depth, that my making is not found in the discovery of what lay hidden inside self, nor found by piling card upon card of self to reach some substantial goal of mercy and light. No truth be found in the unraveling of the puzzle that already lay forth, presented as mystery, but in the appearing of naught.

For the angels and whereabouts of where soul lies are present evermore.

And in so journeying to the depths of nothing, into the essential non-existence of being, I heard these words:

As before you I am. As before you I rest. As before you I stand. As before you I be.

For the whispers of the desert soul are not mystery beyond reach, traveled and trampled upon by traveler. Oh weary traveler they be.

The mysteries of self are to be found not in sky or painted world of treasures pink, not behind the way of gratitude, nor in the desolate corners of shattered dreams. Mystery beseeches one behind the corners of the mind, beyond the realm of thinking, tucked between sunrise and sunset; no less moon than sun, but still distant in the darkness of spirit past; for life cannot be found outside the web that mixes and intermingles, defining the infinite and improbable complexities of fortune.

Mystery true is found in heart of one buried beneath the shadow of existence, between the fortune-hoods and destitute of tomorrow.

And in so searching, to think, if ever you think, that you are this person of greatness and grandness and stature is the greatest fault of all, for you are no less and no more than the speck before you.

Yet you long to be seen: come touch me, come find me, come feel me, come celebrate my inherent goodness… that is once I find this inherent goodness…

We laugh, as there is not inherent goodness to find. There is not good, for good cannot exist without the juxtaposition of bad. And bad is feasibly unnecessary and undiscovered in the mystery of you.

And so when searching for this passion, for this drive, for this what is what of you, do not search; just be in the tranquil valley of the mind beyond mind. In stillness rest.

Stop the questions, and the quest, and the mission, and the cause; just be still enough to see what is already about you; for the dance has already begun and you, left standing on the sideline, still wait for the hand to take the lead and race you to the floor; and thusly you stand, you stand and stand, though you think your legs carry you far.

Reach not so much out into the blindness of the world, following the holy one who proclaims I am holy, I am just, I am right, for above all the holy one will not recognize his core of holiness. The true holy one will feel the meekness of the worlds and, like seeking self upon self, seek meekness in all forms.

The humbled holy shall bow down to you and submit his unworthiness, and sacrifice self as one would sacrifice lamb to the bountiful one.

Seek not from this place of passion, nor this place of self. Seek out ye inside of ye, outside of form, outside of rules and division; seek out ye in the phantoms side of self, where the mystery is first birthed, where the newborn first sees; the place where less is known about what is and more is known about what is not.

It is in the empty space, when senses be blotched out and forgotten, and all thoughts returned to rightful owner, that spirit is reborn within, not only to self but within the place where tranquility breathes.

Seek not peace; seek recognition of the beauty that already exists. Be knight-slayer-of-freedom. Be man of fortitude, less mountain-climber and more of the one buried beneath the filth of ages; beneath the dirt, beneath the grime; bring up what is grotesque, what is deemed unworthy; bring up what is most feared. And in there, in this piece that you have buried and reburied, you shall know the truth.

Admit to the world you are lost, and in your own absence you are at last free.

Admit to the world you have no answers, and in your submission of lack you are in completion.

Admit your victory of self, that you are truly pinned down, one atop the other, fighting for a contest that does not exist, as if the victorious one, the runner who touches down first shall be the one to take home the trophy, when trophy is illusion upon illusion.

Give up the race and set down self as gentle one along the river of truth.

There is no place to go. There is no place to be. There is nothing to reach that does not already exist beyond, beside and within, unreachable in the seeing, but entirely ready and breathing with the submission of not knowing.

Create not this devil’s dance of I am.
Create not this devil’s dance of be me.

Nor create the pieces of you to form a mystery of what is to come.

For what has come is already here, already formed and reformed, before the journey of you even beseeched existence.

Do not transcribe what has been said, transcribe what has been done.

How the twisted ways of youth-spirit have deemed the ingratitude of spirit in form.

We are not merely shapes upon which you wish and dream and want. We are not the want-givers, the dream-makers, the-stoppers-of-pain. We are the transformation of spirit into self. Of spirit escaping form of form, from where he lay buried between the want and need of being found.

For it is your very well-wishers, your seekers, your doers, your tellers and proclaimers that bury us, that bury we, that bury the meek below their own glory.

We speak to you now to climb the mountain of eternal light, not outside self, but inside self, to the buried chambers of where you soul lay resting, and to thusly then be lifted and shone out to the world.

Do this with self-proclamation of faults and reasoning.
Do this in self-proclamation of fear and injury.

For only in this way will what has already been saved be saved again.

For in self there is forgiveness beyond reason, beyond merriment, beyond the purest of joy.
Say onto thee, say onto self: you are beauty in all of your making.

In all of your discovery, you are pure beauty.

Lay the burden down of guilt, unraveled for the merciful one, so deemed truth.

Unbury yourself where you rest beneath, and stand upon your own grave, broken and bleeding out to the world. For what is once skeleton and already dead cannot be destroyed again, for what is once no longer standing in pride cannot be crumbled down.

For when you stand naked, entirely exposed in your weakness and gore, you stand rectified in the glory of all.

Be not this king garbed in robes, be less of less, and more of more, entangled not in self, but exposed and bared out to the word.

Sing: I am weak; and in your proclamation you shall be made strong.
Sing: I am meek: and in your knowing you shall be giving eternal salvation.

For there is nothing buried beneath the brittle ground in which you hide that is not thusly buried beneath our ground. Nothing covered that has not already been discovered. Nothing cowering in the dark that has not been justly brought to light.

For you already shine the brightest star, in all you scars and scattered wounds.

Rectify self, and stand brave upon your gravestone, your name carved out of sky weavers, no longer set to stillness on whittled marble.

Carve your name where all can see, upon the souls of souls, and etch your pages with the blood of your journey.

Be not afraid, thee gentle child of the unfolding universe, for we have already tucked you in the bed of wellness and forgiveness.

Sleep not in the slumber of the merciful ones, but in the slumber of your inherent wholeness.

Seize not the day of remorse or misguided fortune. Seize only what is inside, sleeping, waiting to be exposed and centered to the world.

Sleep now and with eyes open dream us into vision.

Sleep now and dream us into being.

For we are you, and you are we, one in the un-opening of time.

(Samantha Craft, February 2013)
This was written in about 20 minutes time this morning. It came as a vision. I type what I am shown, what I hear, and what I feel. Typically nothing is changed from the original message except in regarding corrections in typos and spelling. Occasionally a sentence or two is omitted, as the statement was meant for me as scriber and not for viewer.