I crown you with My love. So I can crown you with My love is the reason why you bow your head. Of course, in Reality, no matter how tall you might be, I can reach.

So, if you are inclined to bow down to Me, realize that you are bowing down to your Self, that which you might call your Higher Self. The expression Higher Self seems to pall next to the word God or whatever I am called in your language. Of course, I am beyond language, and so are you. Language, as beautiful and as wonderful as it is, cannot say enough. Words just cannot express Oneness enough, fully enough, marvelously enough. Nor can a gasp express the depth and height of Love in a Universe of Love.

What We are worth to the seeming Each Other is beyond description. It is near and far. What We are to Each Other is emblazoned in the Sun, and it is reflected in the Moon. Of course, when you come down to it, We cast no shadow. There is no shadow to fall on Our Light.

I pick you up in My arms of love, and We abscond to where Light is and nothing else but Light is. And that’s where We are. Love is Our Territory. Love is Our Being. In Love We Are.

Despite your little fits of temper on Earth, you, that which you call you, are I. We, the illusion of you and the Reality of Love, are mingled. I, God as you say, know My Greatness. You do not yet know yours.

Let’s have it out. You are an incredible Being Who hides under a mask of his own making. You transfer roles. You transferred your Heritage to Me. I am a projection of you – or, are you a projection of Me? It does get confusing, talking about Our Oneness in terms of two.

Why is the word I capitalized? There is One I, and yet a fringe of the One I babbles on the periphery.

Well, don’t worry about it. It’s all for a good cause. But know that I am the Godhead, and you reign supreme with Me, only you blink such supreme Vastness away. Yes, you do have a veil over your eyes.

I would like to do away with the word you, yet, at this time, the self-imagined you seems to still need it.

It is like one of those plots where the King’s child is kidnapped and grows up thinking he is a pauper. He was proclaimed the King, but the child doesn’t remember. When the heir to the throne is found and declared His Majesty before all once again, he cannot believe it. It is like a fairy tale.

In truth, it is the Prince’s life away from his Princedom that is the fairy tale. The Truth is a singular story without a plot. Once upon a time, there was a King, and there is no more to say. That is the whole story. A King came into Being. Many seeming Kings came into Being. There was no other, and yet stories were told, and a Kingdom called Earth was constructed, and there became roads and journeys and such matters as history, and it was all a Tale Told.

There were so many versions of the tale, you can hardly believe. Yet no tale proclaimed the Vastness in which the tale was told.

Scheherazade told stories every night, and the stories were circulated and never finished and not one of the stories was real. The characters in the stories thought they were real, yet the characters were made up as the stories were made up when all the while there was the King, and the King was all.

Finally, the commoners woke up, and everyone became the King Who Crowned Himself.