Who are you really, and where did you come from? Do you really exist, you sometimes wonder. Sometimes it seems you are the subject, and, at the same confluence of imagined time, you are also the observer. What are you observing but yourself? If you make motions, and you observe yourself, are you then also a messenger? Surely you spin tales. They may be all made-up. Can it be that you are a work of your own imagination, as if you are a rag doll?
Everyone wants to leave a mark of himself in the world. When it's your time to come Home, you want to leave an imprint of yourself, something that says you were here on Earth. You want to leave something that says:
"I was here. I lived and breathed here. I was a human Being on Earth for a short span of physical life." You want some testament to yourself to remain. This, of course, is your attachment to Life in the World. Life on Earth holds great significance to you.
Music can so inspire, and lyrics can inspire. There is definitely something about music that inspires. You hum old tunes, tunes and words you didn't even know you knew. What would the world be without music? You can't even dare think of what it would be like in the world without music, even when music isn't especially your thing the way it seems to be with so many.
Certainly, music has to be about more than sound. Not all sound is music.
Sometimes Life on Earth feels so foreign to you. It's not Earth that is so strange really. It is the world. Earth is rewarding. The world you have trepidation about.
The world seems to run on money. Business is money. And money seems also to be one of the silliest things you can imagine. There must be another way.
Advertising has taken over. Marketing has become like a God. It is as if love has been forgotten, and only gain is remembered, and gain at any cost.
You started out today saying: "Beloved God, give me the guts to reflect You on Earth. I'm getting tired of myself. Help me get out of my mud-hole. I want to leap to the Sun. What holds me back? Why don't I just do it without further ado? The Sun reaches out its arms to me, and I can't seem to fully open my arms. It must be I hold myself back?"
Beloveds, I say: Who is responsible for you if not you?
In August, those of My Children who live in the Northern Hemisphere, may have said to themselves:
"I may be tired of hot summer, yet, alas, I am not ready for months of cold winter. Summer seems short, and winter seems long. When summer arrives, I am eager. When winter looms, I am reluctant. Of course, when I was young, my heart quickened at the thought of fresh snow. Must I let everything around me affect me so much as if summer is to be welcomed and winter is not?
I do not say: "Woe, unto you." I do not.
I do say: "Peace unto you." I go so far as to say: "Blessings unto you. Joy unto you. Be light of heart."
Joy exists, and it exists within you. You already have it. It is yours. It belongs to you. You, dear ones, however, set standards for joy. This is tantamount to setting restrictions on your joy. When you set restrictions, you block out joy as if forbidden.