Of what can you have been made but of My love? How else could you have been sculpted? You were made of My Infinite Love, each person hand-drawn through My Infinite Wisdom. Not a line in your face is for naught. Not an eyebrow, not a cheek, not a chin, not a neck. We can say I wrapped you into life in the world around My little finger, and so you are forever Mine. I created you of Myself. Am I Mine or am I yours? And what is the difference? We are one Indefinable Light in the Universe and in Heaven too. We are Light. You see demarcation between your light and Mine where there is none.
Only in the story told of your life is there any demarcation. Otherwise, without this exchange, where could a story be? Without Earth, where could a baby be born and grow up and have his or her own life story? Life and story go together.
Ultimately, the story is that there is no story, and, yet, a tale is spun and arranges itself in a multitude of ways. Without the multitude, where would a story lie? A story has to be about something, and so the world was created so that a story could be written and told and lived as though it were really happening. What makes a story real when it is not? A story comes from Creation. Each story is the story of Everyone. There is so much overlapping and criss-crossing, and the vicissitudes of time and happenings when there is nothing that can happen except in a story made-up.
The beautiful world is its own story. It has a lot to tell, yet it serves as a background. The world is the setting of the story. The world, as fiction, has many settings, the same way Paris and Hong Kong each has its own setting and its story to tell and to weave.
And each story, whatever its genre, is a love story. There is no other. It can be a story of love found or a story of love missed out on. You may think a story can be a story of non-love, or unlove, yet even in the recesses of such a story, love lurks. Love may be hidden, distorted, turned inside out. Controverted, scarred and named vengeance even, yet if Truth be known, every story is a story of love, the longing for it or perhaps its fulfillment.
Even Death, best known as an undertaker, even as Death closes your eyes, Death is love. War, even as ignorant as it is, is meant to bring peace.
In the world, there is nowhere that a story is not, and so many variations of the One Story of Love. Out of the One come variations, and yet Oneness is, and this is the Truth. Oneness reigns supreme. All the stories are fiction. No matter how true-seeming, they are all fiction.
When you sleep, your dreams in sleep certainly seem real. They are valid while they are happening. You really are being chased in your dream, and you really can’t open the door in your dream. Often the stories don’t go to the end, and you are left up in the air. Ah, the mysteries of life in the world and the mysteriousness of all the dreams that do not seem to have an end and you will never know what happens in the supposed story.
Yet the answer is the same. It never happened anyway. It was all only a dream, and you do wake from every dream. All the while the dream was happening and so real-seeming that you may scream or laugh and embrace and speak in your dream, all the while you are sitting in Heaven mute, just sitting with Me, rather sitting in the Silence of Oneness as My One Self without a care in the world.