How it all began

BLOG UPDATES: HERE.

Gandalf: "But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?"

Well, maybe the world is going to know... now.

Aragorn: "When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die?"

The answer is in my past lives.

This blog is not a work of fiction, though maybe some people will feel more comfortable thinking it is. I could as well write all this in my private journals, but recently two different persons made me realize a couple of things:

1. We, as people who remember past lives, need to express ourselves. We can hide, we can write whatever we want in our journals, loads of material waiting perhaps to be released after our deaths, when the world is ready to listen to our experiences. After all, that's what I've been doing for more than two years. But, to be honest, I've reached a point when I think there's no use for my memories to keep gathering dust in a drawer. Not only I need to write, I also need to be heard. By whom? Only for those who need it or are prepared for it. Most of them will remain anonymous, but I have hope my words can reach them and be somehow useful, something I can't do if I keep silent.  

2. While visiting a blog of someone I didn't know, I saw she said she didn't want readers to link her blog anywhere. She didn't want to be publicized. She said people would get there on their own, right when they needed it, like some kind of signal from the universe. I've found that's especially true in regards to reincarnation. No one is going to listen, unless they are ready to understand, to change, to embrace a reality that is out there for all who want to accept it and grow with that knowledge.

Why in English? This is not my mother tongue, and sometimes I may not find the right words for what I'm trying to say. But it doesn't matter. I write in English for several reasons:

- I don't want to be known or famous, I don't want to be recognized. I know no one is safe in the internet these days, and anyone clever enough can reach here if that's what they want, even find out my real life identity. That's why I don't put too much effort concealing my steps. I'll take that risk. I'm not ashamed of who I am, and I'm brave enough to give explanations if I have to. But if I can, I'll spare myself the nuisance. And silly or not, writing in English makes me feel safer, seeing most of my compatriots are easily shooed away if they have to read a foreign language.

- If I write in English I'll reach more people, of different nationalities, and most importantly, people more open to reincarnation and possibly people who also remembers. Even if they are shy sharing their own experiences, they always can find comfort knowing they're not alone in the world.

- I feel quite lonely sometimes, almost isolated and even misunderstood. I truly feel most people in the Spanish-speaking countries are not ready to remember, or are too new to the concept to speak openly about it. I'm tired, really tired, of the fighting, the arguments, the attempts to try to make people look in the right direction. They just don't want to see, they prefer to keep doubting. I don't need that anymore. The people I can relate to are English-speaking in a 95% of the cases, and if needed I can always tell them where I am now. I can share with them my feelings, my fears, my memories, without the fear of being judged, knowing they have walked similar paths. I already do that in the appropiate places, but this is intended to be a more personal work, kind of a diary to read in the dark at night, afraid someone could catch you doing what you shouldn't do... taking a look to some private words only written for myself, in those long watches of the night, when you're waiting with eyes open wide, for the sleep to come.

As long as I don't know you're watching, you're welcome.