Day 152: Sometimes When We Touch

 “I’m just another writer still trapped within my truth.” ~ Dan Hill

Sometimes when I dream, the honesty is too much.  Sometimes when I dream, I travel into the life and spirit of a friend. Sometimes strangers visit me. Always, always people come, in all forms, with all types of messages. And we touch.

Recently, I’ve had two friends visit in my dreams, just in this last six days. Both dreams were filled with extreme emotion, both dreams had anxiety, both involved an urgency. When I awake from dreams such as these, I am left with a residue, a film in my spirit, something that remains, the remnants of what was shared with me. A streak in the glass of my vision I can’t wipe clean.

If I am fortunate enough to confirm the happening in the dream, and make a connection, and find some validity in discovering what I sensed actually occurred in real life, I am able to discharge and remove some of the energy. If not, sometimes I take on the feelings of the other person, become overly concerned about something I do not understand and cannot even pinpoint. I may feel a rush of panic, fear, or injustice. I might weep. I might laugh. I might become hyper focused. I might hibernate; attempting to disrobe the feelings, only to emerge still weighed down and lost. I take on this energy, as much as I take on the dreams, without knowing how or why, and without knowing how to stop.

Sometimes I want to break down and cry. Sometimes I have to close my eyes and hide. The emotions are so overwhelming. I feel like I’ve been opened up and had another’s spirit poured into me. At times I become that person. At times I understand the person more than myself.

I dreamt once, years ago, of my long time friend. She was stretched out on a car and pointing to her kidneys and kept saying, “I need a bladder operation; the doctor told me I need a bladder operation.” I called my friend the next morning, and sure enough she had just found out she required surgery related to the tubing above her bladder.

Long ago, while I was napping my grandmother started wafting above my bed, a ghostly apparition draped in an aqua-colored dress. Swaying back and forth, an inch below the bedroom ceiling, she kept repeating the same phrase:  “Wake up.  Get off the phone.  I am waiting for a man from Egypt to call.” This made absolutely no sense to me, as I was sound asleep some two hundred miles away from Grandma, and I most certainly wasn’t on the telephone.  Still dreaming, and wanting desperately to get some rest, I looked up at Grandma and answered, “But I’m not on the phone.  I’m taking a nap.”

Grandma continued on, a stream of blue, weaving herself back and forth in my room, badgering me to get off the telephone.  Having found no luck, after I placed two pillows over my head to block out her voice, I sat up and screamed, “If you leave me alone, I’ll call you when I wake up.  Go away and let me sleep!”  On my words, Grandma vanished.

Within the hour I phoned my grandmother.  After a few minutes on the phone, I delicately described my dream to her, thinking at some point she’d say I wasn’t making any sense, and that would be the end of the discussion.  Surprisingly, Grandma responded, without pause for breath, “You’re a witch! I’ve been sitting by the phone waiting for a man from Egypt to call me about his interest in buying my house.  How did you know? Actually, I need to get off the phone now.  He might be trying to call.”

Years ago, I dreamt that two of my teaching colleagues would be going to Japan by the end of the year. They both came to my dream together and told me. That year both were surprised to learn they were traveling to Japan. One was accepted in an over-seas teaching program; the other unexpectedly was invited by a host family. Another time an old woman, a stranger,  came to me in my dream very upset. She said that my mother was going through her items and taking them, keeping them for herself. She showed me the room where the items were spread out. She showed me my mother holding her things. I told my mother the next day, and sure enough my mother had been to a friend’s house and had collected several items from her friend’s mom whom had just died.

There are so many visits, I could go on and on: a family drowned on the beach, my future house and the owners of the house, my future employer, my car accident, my grandfather’s car accident, my mother-in-law’s cancer, my friend house hunting, the person dying in the car off the highway, my husband’s co-worker getting married and denying it, my son’s karate teacher getting engaged, friends divorcing, friends weeping on couches …..so many various people visiting me to tell me about their lives.

When I was very little, animals visited me and showed me their death. Usually my pets, but once a friend’s bunny came in my dream. The animals usually died just like they showed me within seven days. Once my canary was slashed under the eye by a stray cat. Once my dog died on the Fourth of July after jumping a fence. The dreams came true, just as I had witnessed. Thank goodness I was able to tell my mother the night of the dreams, which then I called nightmares. She was at least able to validate my experience. To show me my dreams were coming true and I wasn’t insane.

Interestingly, it seems lately the more I share and write, and the more I am not afraid to be authentic and honest, the more these dreams and feelings are coming. And the more I’m visited.  I don’t mind the visits for the most part. I feel honored and know this gift or ability, or whatever one choses to call my visions, is a part of my journey. But there are definite times, like this week, when the emotions are so over powering that I don’t know what to say or do.

It’s times like these that sometimes when we touch, sometimes the honesty is too much. And then, all I want to do is to just hold my friend and cry, to hold on tight and not let go until the fear in us subsides.


Day 71: I Had a Dream

What has happened to me in the last five years. What goes on in my head.

Thank you for being part of my journey. You will never know how much you have healed me. Bless you.

As always, this is my journey and I am not trying to push my experience or belief system onto any person. Click here to see my thoughts on spirituality.

I Had a Dream

The Spring of 2005

Except for the light from the slivered moon the road was black.  My foot hit the pedal and I sped up faster and faster towards the tracks.   Mangled is what I wanted.  But I wouldn’t have the nerve to stop, to wait for a train.  There would have to be another way.  Perhaps a motel off the interstate, perhaps some pills and a forever sleep.  I shook away the thought and breathed a prayer.  “Please, help me.”

The ache of the past had become my own Siamese twin.  So much so, I didn’t know where my pain stopped and my true self began.  I was pain.  I was the past.  We shared the same blood.  Everything and anyone could conjure up bitter memories, especially certain sounds and smells.  Everyday was yet another rerun of all the misery I’d viewed before.  The scenery and characters might change, but the plot and outcome never altered.  I knew all the psychological jargon, the self-talk, the imaging, meditation, and so on; and they served as my air so to speak, the invisible space which kept me temporarily afloat as I waved back and forth in a stormy sea clinging to an inflatable raft filled with holes…

The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers

 

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 69: Until the Rain Came

Until the Rain Came  

by Samantha Craft, April 6, 2012 (Based on True Events)

I was an only child.  But I wasn’t a lonely child. I always had some type of friend; whether a cousin, a daughter of mother’s friend, a neighborhood kid, or an imaginary spirit friend, I always found company. Making friends was never an issue, before I hit puberty. I had a natural cheeriness and good nature, and downright quirky humor that kept people about. I was clever, too, creating skits and recitals on a whim, and performing for whomever would listen. I still appreciate the young couple, our landlords, we had for one year, when I was about nine, who painstakingly listened to me sing You Light Up My Life, whenever I saw them. I couldn’t hit the high notes of the lyrics without a terrible screech—still can’t for that matter.

Though I had friends, I was often alone in the afternoons after my three-mile hike home from middle school. I remember there was a pointy-teethed German Shepard that lived at the top of First Street. He growled at me whenever I walked by, and then darted out clanging his lengthy metal rope with him. It took a lot of courage for me to walk home. Not because of the ferocious barking dog but because of home itself.

Things had a way of following me from house-to-house, and I do me things, as I never did figure out what else to call them.  These things kept happening to me.

The things came to the upstairs duplex I occupied in Palo Alto. There was an afternoon when my babysitter and I were sitting on the living room couch and heard a circular sawing sound directly above our heads.  Only when we ran outside onto the balcony to see what the noise was, nothing was there. Confused, we walked back inside, but as soon as we sat back down the sawing sound began again. We spent the next several minutes playing a game of running outside to find the noise and then running back inside to hear the noise. No explanation was ever found. Soon, we lost interest, and as children do, turned our attention to afterschool television specials.

That same house is where I discovered my imaginary spirit friend whom I named Buddy One. To this day, I’m not sure if he existed or not. I do recall one time reaching up for a bottle of wine vinegar and losing my grip. The bottle came rushing toward my head, and then, somehow, the bottle moved in the shape of an L and landed gently on the kitchen counter. I remember televisions and phones going wacky and all fuzzy on occasion; and I remember how the faucet in my bathroom would turn on when no one was about. There were knocks at the front door at night with no one behind the door. After a couple of years of living on the property, between the occurrences and my continual nightmares and premonitions of our pets dying, Mother was spooked enough to have a priest visit with holy water in hand.

Later, in my teenage years, when I belonged to a local Catholic youth group, I’d attend meetings in an old yellow Victorian building that used to be a nunnery. That house always spooked me. I couldn’t use the bathroom there. And twice, when I entered the empty kitchen, the faucets turned on.

One of the creepiest happenings took place at my father’s in the Central Valley in California, when I was in college. Dad worked nights, so I was typically home alone. One late night, after I’d watched the Silence of The Lambs at a local movie theater, I entered the house spooked by the whole movie. I flicked on the television for comfort, and right after I turned the television on the stations started flicking from channel to channel, one after the other, nonstop. I couldn’t get the television to stop, even when I used the remote.

But of all the places I lived, the duplex at the bottom of First Street on the Monterey Peninsula was the scariest. The house had a way of calling things to it. It was during this time, during my middle school years, I had horrible nightmares of being speared with a stick and roasted over an open flame by demons. This was the time I’d wake in the middle of the night feeling as if something was pulling me down the bed. A time when I didn’t change my clothes at night because I was afraid of the darkness that came when I lifted my shirt over my head. A time I slept with the light on, the television on, and my nana’s rosary around my neck.

One day at the duplex, I remember a tall stranger came whom had claimed to be a painter. My friend Renny and I were sitting on the back deck, when he sauntered through the yard with a wide and even gait.  I can still hear the gate squeaking, the iceplant crunching beneath his boots and his deep voice clearing.

Stopping at the bottom step of the deck, the stranger had glanced across at us two girls with a cool smile and said, “Hello.”  It was a simple calling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  As if the backyard belonged to him.  It was Renny who moved first, sitting upright and giggling, blushing like the word Hello had been a compliment.

Inside of me, I felt a need to run, to escape.

“I was asked by the owner to paint the house,” he said.

Wanting to leave and go inside, I had tried to catch Renny’s eye, but she was too busy looking at the blonde stranger.

The man tapped his boot on the step and shifted his weight.  He was silent for the brief time he took to scratch his head and sink his hands into his overall pockets.  Then he looked out with a rather empty stare. “You two ladies go to church?”

“No,” Renny answered.

I was inches away from the doorknob.  “Sometimes,” I said.

The stranger leveled his eyes on Renny. “That’s interesting.”

“Not really.” Renny retorted.

“Don’t you think it’s time you made a decision to commit yourself to something other than yourself?  Now you two, let me guess.  It’s probably all about boys for you.  Am I right?  No time for God.  But plenty of time to do things you ought not to be doing.”

Renny’s red ears were poking through her hair.  She shrugged her shoulders at the man.  I remained frozen.

The stranger continued: “God isn’t something to take lightly.  Do you want to burn in hell?”

My toes felt numb. There was something terribly wrong with his tone, like he was trying to inch his way inside me with his words.  Watching Renny begin to tremble, I remembered back to my friend Jane, when we’d been beaten with the board.

I shouted, “We’re leaving!” and grabbed Renny’s hand.  Renny didn’t hesitate to follow.  We were through the backdoor quicker than the man could utter one more word.  And we left him there, good and lonely, not wanting a single thing to do with him.  About an hour later, after Renny and I had escaped inside my bedroom, I gathered enough nerve to look out the kitchen window.  The backyard was deserted.

Most days at the duplex, I got the sense I was being watched.  It was a terrible frightening feeling.  I can’t think of anything worse than the fear I had of entering that duplex. Nothing worse than fearing home: the one place that was supposed to be safe.

I spent most of my afternoons when school let out outside on the back deck, on our flat roof with the ocean view, or on the small front patio.  There was easy access to the roof. I only had to climb through our upstairs bathroom window.  Out on the patio, a space no larger than two pizza boxes set side-to-side, I’d watch television through the open front door or pull out our extra-long orange cord and talk on the phone.

One cloudy day I ventured inside the duplex to grab a snack.  I immediately did what I always did—I opened all the draperies, the front and back door, and clicked on the television.

While I was in the kitchen, rushing about to find something in a hurry, I heard a strange and unfamiliar sound. At first I thought the sound was coming from the television. Some haunted house event on Sesame Street. But the sound didn’t stop. It was a loud throaty breathing, a very scary sound, I will never forget, and can still imitate with a chill-rising tone. The sound was comparable to Darth Vader’s breathing, only more pressing.  I’ve only heard the breathing replicated once accurately, and that was when I was watching a ghost hunting show.

On hearing the breathing, I ran to the living room to turn of the television off. I couldn’t stand the noise. I wanted to jet out of the house. However, when the television was off, the noise remained.

I recall turning around frantically to find the source. Not believing the sound could still exist with the television off.  It was then, as I began to panic, I heard the sound again. This time right before me. Suddenly, in front of my eyes, a gigantic wall of static formed from ceiling to floor. The static hissed something terrible.

Trapped and cornered, I clamped my eyes shut. When I opened them, the static was surrounding me. The deep throaty breath pulsating through my entire being

As I trembled, I heard words, words that sounded as if they were filtered through a thick mask and felt tube-fed into me: “Get out! Get out! Get OUT!”

As if on cue, at the same time as the words Get Out were voiced, outside the thunder rumbled and the rain poured down. Fearing for my life, I burst forward through the static and dodged around the corner, sprinting out the backdoor at full speed.

Terrified, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and ran and ran up the hill. Finding myself a block up from the house, on the top of an unfamiliar flight of stairs, I leaned against an apartment door and wept.  Then without thought, I pounded on the door, still screaming.  A young man opened the door and brought me inside.

Ten minutes later, Mother arrived.  Taking me by the hand, she led me through the rain down the street and back inside the duplex.  Mother listened to my story but blamed the event on my over-active imagination. As twilight approached, she wouldn’t give into my screaming demands.

“Just go to bed and stop letting your imagination get the best of you.  If I let you sleep with me, what’s that going to teach you?  I’m doing this for your own good.”

My black-beaded rosary, a gift from Nana, was swinging around my neck. I held firmly to Mother’s doorknob.  “Please let me in.  I’ll be quiet.  I promise.”

“Let go of this door and go to bed!” she insisted.

“But the ghost, the ghost is in the house.  Please!”  I begged.

Mother pulled harder.

“Mother you don’t understand.  It was real.  I don’t want to be out here alone.  Please let me in.  Please help me!”

Mother shook her head and glared at me.

My hand slipped from the knob and Mother’s door slammed shut.

I ran downstairs, grabbed the phone, pulled on the cord, and ran outside to the small front patio.

I dialed my father.  Before I had spoken more than a few sentences, Dad suggested I stay at Nana’s house.

“Did Nana teach you the Lord’s Prayer?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Use it,” Father said.

“Okay.”

Father cleared his throat.  “You have to know something. Today I was staring at a photograph of you for over an hour.  I don’t know how, and this has never happened before, but I had this sense some evil force was attacking you. Your nana’s mother used to have dreams and sometimes she saw spirits. Last week a psychic told me to destroy a painting I’d made.  One with a gray house set up on a high hill.  She said to paint candles all around it because she believed it was a portal to another world. Anyhow, I painted the candles, and threw the painting away.  Right before you called.  I can’t believe this.  It’s very strange.”

Dad went on, for several minutes, explaining about how a spiritual group had recently tried to recruit him claiming they believed he had spiritual gifts.  Dad, never one to talk on the phone for more than a few minutes, quickly ended the conversation with some more nervous laughter and some pleasantries. Then, after wishing me luck, he hung up.

I sat on the patio listening to the dial tone for a long while, still wiping my tears, and twisting the rosary in my hands. I thought back to all the times before—the nightmares, the stranger, the unexplainable happenings.

I ran into the house, quickly grabbed the old afghan off the couch, and ran out to the backyard wooden deck.  I could sleep there, I thought, at least until the rain came.

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Click to see where image was found

Day 58: Angel and Mary


By StrawberryIndigo “My Life In Color” Click on image

Sometimes I get afraid to write. I’m afraid I won’t write the correct message, won’t express myself in the right light, won’t use my words adequately to express the deeper meaning. That I will get prideful, that I will depend on others’ input too much, that I will weep at criticism, that I will offend or scare some away. Such fears keep me from shining. Such fears stop me from trusting.I know innately there is no right or correct way to communicate. I know ultimately there is no failure, and that my words’ power and energy are not dependent upon others’ opinions or reaction. What matters is being honest and true to myself. What matters is trusting who I am. What matters is moving forward with beneficial light and kindness.

I want to begin sharing another part of my journey, experiences that long to be shared to such a degree that an essence knocks at my inner door calling over and over to be opened.

Today I open the door.

The first experience I will share with you is what I would deem remarkable. It was a long time ago, but begs to be shared. Why now, at this exact moment and on this day, I do not know.

Angel and Mary

Written by Samantha Craft on March 27, 2012

Long ago, in the fall of 1990, during a time in my life when I was still training to be a teacher and trapped within the vice of a romantic relationship that left me tormented and lonely, I questioned my place in this world.

I remember vividly sitting up in bed, under my father’s roof, in my bedclothes. I remember staring at my own reflection in the mirrored-closet doors and wailing to God. I was begging, asking for forgiveness, demanding to see a sign, so I would know, without a doubt, that everything would be all right.

It was then, as I was screaming at the top of my lungs for mercy, I heard a voice. A small voice from somewhere, possibly from within, possibly from beyond. A still voice that was so very light and freeing. This would be the first night in my life that I would sleep soundly and free of nightmares. This would be the first night that before drifting into a deep slumber, I would be filled with a soothing energy, a wordless lullaby that moved my entire being in the shape of a figure eight, shifting my neck and back in a peaceful swaying motion.

The voice I heard before I drifted to sleep, whispered only one word—the word Colfax.

During this time, my last years in college, I’d found a friend in Angela, an open-minded, spirited gal who sat beside me in my teaching preparation classes. When I awoke the next morning after hearing the voice, I contacted Angela and explained to her the events of the night.

Trusting my experience, she said, that like me, she believed that something was going to happen with this word Colfax, something powerful. Angela anxiously set about researching the word Colfax in the library. I remember her telling me in class, the next day, that she’d found several places named Colfax in America, and that one such place was located about fifty miles north of us.

I began doodling the word Colfax on my notebook. Colfax was all I could think about. The lady sitting next to me in class, a fellow student named Maryanne, upon seeing my doodles, asked me quietly, “Is that where you are from? Because that’s where I live.”

I soon found out that Maryanne had lived in Colfax for quite some time. I explained to her that I had never heard of the town of Colfax before a few days ago, and that I had a distinct feeling that there was something having to do with Colfax that I was supposed to discover. Maryanne kindly invited me to drive up over the weekend and visit her.

On Saturday, Maryanne, as promised, drove me about the small country town of Colfax. We stopped at a restaurant, a park, and a few other places. All the while Maryanne asked: “Do you sense something?”

I left in the evening discouraged and saddened. I’d sensed nothing, felt foolish, and worried for my sanity and reputation.

These unsettling feelings stayed with me, until a few days later in class, the day Angela came bursting through the door of our classroom.

That day, Angela sat down at my side, caught her breath, and said to me: “I have something to tell you.  Something you’re not going to believe!”

I waited.

She continued: “You know about Colfax? Well, it is all over the news this morning! People from all over, as far as Texas, are traveling to Colfax, near where Maryanne lives, to see a vision in St. Dominic’s Catholic Church, some reflection through the stained glass window which looks like the outline of the Virgin Mary.”

Angela scooted in closer.  Streaks of her black hair reflected beneath the fluorescent lights.  “You were right,” she whispered. “You were right.”

I shook my head and tried to smile, still processing all that Angela had reported.

“What are you going to do?” Angela asked.  “Are you going to go back? You knew something important was going to happen there, and it did. It really did. Remember at first, you thought that Colfax was a person or a far away place?  And here it is, right up the hill from us!” Angela shook her head.  “Isn’t it strange that you’ve already been there, before all of these people? Are you going to go?”

“No,” was all I could think to answer. “I’ve already been.”

It wasn’t until some twenty years later, I realized a profound truth, the fact that the two people involved in my search of the meaning of Colfax, the only two people I confided in and trusted, were named Angela (Angel) and Maryanne (Mary).

Small Article relating to event.

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam