Wherever you are sitting, I am with you. When you get up, I am with you. No matter what, I am with you. This is the Reality of life. This is the Reality of your life. All the trimmings, nice ones, not so nice ones, they are not reality. They are add on’s, accessories, comments written as though they were biographical or scientific or anything at all but fiction, scurrilous or creditable, yet fiction nevertheless.

Story rides the crest of the waves of the tiding ocean. Story is beloved in the world. You want to know how it all comes out. The story continues on Earth, and you never get to the end. There is no ending. Wherever or whenever you stop off, there is more story going on with or without you in it.

The Real Story is another thing. Beneath the fiction is the Real Story. The Real Story has all the vitality from which a story comes. The fiction doesn’t stand a chance next to the True Story. True, the Real Story doesn’t have the suspense. But which of you needs suspense when you are in the Glory of the Light of Heaven? In suspense, you are suspended. In the Glory of the Light of Heaven, your feet are on the ground, as it were. In fiction, your head is in the clouds. The world has it backwards. For a long time, the world has had it backwards.

That which is not evident in the story holds Truth. The story is based on Truth, yet the story is out-of-the-ball-park-fiction. It is fantasy played to the hilt. Your factual bio is fiction. Your vital statistics are fiction. Your entire life is a fictionalized story of love not yet believed in, love unimagined, love dampened, unheard of, squelched, trod on, buried, tormented, thrown away, burglarized, burnt, bedraggled, nefarious, and it is all fiction. Life is more than what meets the eye. What meets the eye is an infinitesimal spark of life. What meets the eye is light grown dim.

So what is it that happens in the action field of life? Nothing happens, beloveds. A lot seems to happen, but nothing happens. All the wailing and wearing sack cloth is but embroidery. From the fullness of nothingness, a tiny handwriting emerges, yet no mark is left, erased the moment it is written, tossed to the winds.

Who could make up life with all its twists and turns? And, yet, it is all made up. It is agreed upon, yet made up. The rules shift in sand. World life has become quicksand, and you have become stuck in it. Even though it is fiction, you can’t put the book down. You who are immortal feel you are immortalized in fiction. You need no immortalizing.

And yet, all this being said, life is to be lived. You don’t waste life just because it is fiction. You don’t accept a shoddy life just because it is fiction. In the fictional world, you do the utmost you can to be a hero. While you are in this dream of story, why not be the hero? Why not be the one who saves the day. Why not be the prince who carries off the princess, even as in the story, they are disguised and do not yet know their true royalty? Why not be the greatest fiction writer the world has ever seen?

Even in the world, you can live the glory of Heaven. You can be evidence of Heaven. To be sure, you are the hero of your own novel. You can be the villain too if you want, but why would you want to be anything but the hero of this drama you find yourself in?