I remain convinced that in one or more of my possible past lives I was a champion of the people. Fighting boldly for that which was just and humane. Self-sacrificing, pure-of-heart, strong, determined, fearless.
My anxieties the result of countless past lives meeting their demise at the hands of stake-burnings, severe beatings, beheadings, stonings and the like.
Yet deep within the spark remains. The tiniest ember. Glowing softly, weakly, beneath the deluge of several lifetimes’ worth of wreckage. Smoldering–both in the physical and emotional senses.
Waiting, wanting, needing.
Always with the potential to rise up in a gloriously hungry blaze, engulfing each layer of wreckage, leaving nothing but microscopic dust in its wake that is swiftly whisked away by the winds of fate. Allowing the true nature of my essential soul to be reborn–fresh-faced, unscathed by the cruel world, ready to fight again for the promise of a life worthy of its greatness.
Yet never really sure what it takes to feed that frenzy.