Sometimes I feel snakebit, like everything I touch has been poisoned. I ask for help, but no one seems to hear me or see me. It’s like I’m invisible.
Other people — usually “true believers” — whine about every little thing that goes wrong; and when they get their way, everybody hears about it.
To them, I’m lower than a snake in the grass. I’m a pissant, a maggot in something they just stepped in. They hate me worse than that on their shoes.
They look at me and laugh. “This guy’s always running his mouth about some universal spirit,” they scoff, “so let his ever-loving iSoul save his ass.”
But all my life I’ve known there’s more to spiritual salvation or cosmic consciousness or whatever you want to call it than what you hear in any church.
Many of those true believers mainly believe in making money, piling it high, and burying the poor and the weak with it. Their alternate truth is just lies.
I’m washed up. I don’t have the heart to keep fighting. I’m surrounded by lying jackals who want to steal all I have left — to rip the shirt right off my back.
I just hope that the quiet folks speak up before it’s too late and show the true believers that the domain of the universal spirit is within us all, even them.
Then all people who ever live and die will know — as I do, when playing possum — that we have met our enemies and our friends alike, and they all are us.