Before I came to Earth, I resided in a place where everyone could fly. That's right - it was a care-free and loving existence full of peace,
cooperation, and serenity. I can only guess that I was sent here to learn the lessons of suffering through a not so advanced state of being.
Perfection can only be fully appreciated by experiencing the polar opposite somewhere along the way, or at least this is my working theory.
So I flew my happy ass through some kind of a dimensional warp and landed with a hard thud. More exactly, it was like falling into a chasm of despair
and unfathomable separation from a source of pure love. Luckily for me, I had no memory of that magical place in the early years. Otherwise, I might
have strangled myself with the umbilical cord before it all began.
The veil of forgetfulness descended upon me and I was forced out of a comfortable but smelly dungeon into the waiting arms of a terrorist wearing a
mask. He slapped me for absolutely no reason, which was totally unexpected and just wrong. Then he snipped my lifeline and cut off my food supply
with no warning whatsoever. I would soon discover that this was only the first of many such unprovoked attacks I would encounter as a 'human'.
I remember crawling in front of a mirror as a toddler, and upon seeing myself thinking, "What the hell is that?" This shocked me beyond words and
was my first experience with denial. Although I didn't know exactly how I looked before I came to Earth, this was totally unacceptable. But I moved
around and back and forth, and sure enough that was my reflection alright. I was in a state of disbelief for weeks and would check the mirror
occasionally only to receive further confirmation of this terrifying discovery.
Things didn't get any better, either. As a matter of fact, they got much worse. It turns out that I had a jealous older brother who wasn't hip to
the idea of a new family member. He had first dibs and I was an unwanted intruder; one who he immediately declared war upon. My god did he despise
me, and I quickly realized that the image in the mirror was temporarily the least of my worries. Any time my mother left me alone with this monster,
there was a high probability for mental anguish and physical pain on my end.
Oh this wasn't just mean looks and arm pinching. No this was more akin to a sherman tank attacking an unarmed paraplegic. He'd drop me on the floor
head first and laugh like a hyena. If I didn't stop crying, he would smother me with a couch pillow. I'm not really sure why he didn't just go ahead
and kill me, looking back. He must have feared some type of retribution from our mother, or maybe he was practicing to be a master of torture and
punishment. There were no men in our household, and I never even met my father. I even thought all families were this way for a while.
Don't get me wrong, there were good things about my childhood. My grandmother was a saint, and she loved me dearly. She often wondered where all the
knots and bruises came from, but my mother assured her I was just a normal active and clumsy child prone to accidents. I think granny knew better,
and would sometimes cry when she saw evidence of the abuse.
I loved my hero granny. She said I would often jump out of the crib if she left the room. Wondering how I was accomplishing this feat, she hid and
watched me one day and couldn't believe her eyes. I would grab the rail and start jumping up and down, getting higher each time by pulling myself up
before finally throwing myself over the top like a pole vaulter. I imagine this was a survival tactic to avoid any possible surprise attack from my
brother the tormentor. I wanted to be with granny always, and would hide from my mother when it was time to leave her house.
Once I actually became invisible, this desire to stay was so intense. I really wished I could remain invisible all the time, revealing myself only to
those whom I chose. But alas, that would be far too easy a life here in this paradox of a paradigm.
During my early years, games of Monopoly with granny were always a delight. When she rarely won a game, she would cry and apologize to me. Only
years later did I realize that I'd been born into the middle of a SICK game of monopoly, one where I could hardly afford to roll the dice pushing my
little wheelbarrow around. This world has never really made any sense to me in that light. The rich stay rich, playing along happily and most
enthralled in the game. The poor mostly just pass the dice to the left and watch a seemingly never-ending series of events play out in a painstaking
show of domination and greed.
The less fortunate who are born today have about as much chance of succeeding as a sperm cell in a cesspool. The decent properties have been owned by
the same families and passed down for hundreds of years, and the price just keeps going up. The rich can stay at home and live off the interest while
the poor cannot work enough to cover the interest. The dice are loaded, the community chest has been robbed, there is no more free parking, and good
luck taking a 'chance'. If I start to sound bitter here, it's just the ramblings of an extra dimensional traveler who has had it up to his crown
chakra with this travesty.
So why do the vast majority continue playing this tired old game? When going to jail is a tempting option for most people in the world, it's time to
wipe the board clean and start anew. Am I missing something here? Changing bankers isn't the answer - better yet let's play a game WITHOUT money for
a change, like Scrabble or something. I promise to cry if I win.
edit on 11/3/2013 by htapath because: one comma too many