You are My life. Do you get what I mean? You are the fulfillment of My desires. I have longed for you the way a tree longs to branch out, and, so, you come into overt existence at My behest. You describe life in the world for Me. I feel your point of view. It is as if you breathe life into My heart. You are like Scheherazade who tells a story without end and so continues to live.

I well know there is One Story in the Universe, and that it is I, and, yet, you are in the story with Me. We whisper to each other, you, imaginary, and I real. Yes, it’s true, I talk to Myself. And, still, just the same, I engage with you as one would engage with a delicacy.

Yes, life in the world is fiction, but, O, what great fiction! What a great story you write for Me to read. You embark on life, and you write a story, or you tell a story, and I follow your every word. I turn every page. I look at every illustration. I look into your eyes, and I see adventure. I see chapters and words, and, for a while, the story of you is like real life.

Perhaps it is My story, and yet you live it. You are, indeed, one of My stories, and you are a main character in it. At the same time as I invent you, so to speak, you invent and re-invent yourself. Everything in your life is laid out at the same time as it is written on the fly. At the same time as it is a story you tell, it is a story you write. Suspense is its theme. You write it on the run. You see it coming at the same time as you are blind-sided. Your story whizzes past you, and you can hardly keep up. Each day is a passage. Each chapter is a longer-seeming passage, and, yet, it all takes place, in world terms, at a hurried pace, something like a flash in the pan, and, yet, all is taken seriously. All is as if your life depends on what is written and what is read and what is reread, as if it were true, as if this story were a matter of life and death when, all the while, it is a made-up story.

Even stories can make you laugh. Even stories can make you cry, as if stories are real instead of made-up. How real-seeming your story is, and how real-seeming are all the other stories. Even stories are written about the stories in newspapers and magazines and, certainly, in beating hearts, stories spelled out in heart beats, a song written to the beat of a drum, a story long or a story short, imaginary stories written in increments, beginning with birth and so on, ending with the chapter on the death of the body. Yet there are other characters in the story that is yours to tell, and so the fiction continues. There is a background story, and there is a continuation of it on the earth plane, and, yet, even so, the real story continues in another dimension.

Actually, your story doesn’t continue because where true stories take place, time does not exist, so the story is not continuous and drawn out, yet the real story is Eternal and Infinite and none-ending even as it is a moment in Heaven.

And what a moment. Bells ring and gongs clang, and all clap hands.