Some There Be That Shadows Kiss; Such Have But a Shadow's Bliss.

In the story of life that seems to carry on without "me" doing much of anything, occasionally, there are revelations. They are just as important or unimportant as anything else that appears, but they are considerably more interesting than a lot of it. A thought that comes up frequently is: everything is a gift. The memories of past events are just energy, being memory; but the thoughts seem to tie themselves together into a conclusion once in awhile, accompanied by a strong feeling of gratitude. Gratitude to no one, just gratitude. My character is privileged to have had so much suffering, so many errors on the scale of my own moral compass, and so much destructive behaviour. It makes my story one of redemption, deliverance and rebirth, one that is palpably distinct, and not subtly hidden in the small, daily reflections of universal movement. Like an anvil on the head, my salvation was necessary; the apparent choice before me was death, or life. It is a difficult and challenging role, but as there is balance, the rewards are as satisfying as the hell was punishing. This is massive, and would be enough for anyone, in separation. But there is freedom even from the shackles of redemption; there is liberation from the prison of any story, no matter how refreshing to the spirit the story is. The freedom contained within the plot of my life is savoured, and the freedom from taking the story as being "me" is more intensely relished, by no one; relishing arises. Fulfillment, even borne of the most obvious chain of events, need not be claimed by anyone. Fulfillment is everything, everywhere. It is this.