God said:

How lovely is this imagined world I created. I created imagination. I manifested imagination. The individual you is imagined, imagined down to every last detail. I imagined male and female, and I gave each to the other. I imagined a Garden of Eden which was very like the reality of what was imagined. Imaginations took over, and then there was confusion, and stories were begun, and the stories continue still. There is a bump in the road. There has to be a bump in the road that you pass or jump over. Stories require this. There has to be suspended breath. There is such excitement.

Tension is like a taffy pull. Tension is stretched, and then tension is resolved. The breath is let out, and life continues, and more drama comes out.

My children more than tell a story. They live it. So it seems. Imagination makes anything real. Imagination makes dragons real and all manner of things. The bogeyman is real. Gnomes are real. Anything can be real, rather, anything can seem real so long as it is believed in.

Stars are to wish on. This is a worthy tradition. And the sun is to bask in and to light up Our way. The lode star pulls you like the tides. You have free will, yet free will is tentative. You have many reflexes. Ultimately you choose them, even when you are sure you don't. You are sure that reflexes are foisted on you. Perhaps it is a numbers game, and you are assigned certain reflexes or reaction when you would rather not have them.

Someone or something says, "Dance." And you dance. Someone or something says, "Cry," and you cry. Good will is your will. It comes out of hiding and begins to parade itself across your eyes. From your heart to your eyes prances good will.

The fog is lifting this morning, for you are the sunshine discovering the sunshine of itself. The discoverer is himself what he discovers. He is in the act of discovering that which he has always known. Even in the center of imagination, he knows the Truth, and he plays a game at rediscovering that which was always known but averted. He averted his eyes. You avert your eyes. It is a narrow key hole that you let light in from. These are the odds you set in order to make life interesting.

Yet, how much of this holds your interest, I ask you. You want to know how you came to be. No words will explain it to you. It simply has to dawn on you. One day you simply draw up a shade, and the sun shines on you.

All the stories are made up. You configure them. The stories are like the sand castles you build at the beach and the waves wash away. Who can say that the sand castles ever were really there, for they are washed away now, and sand has merged once again with all the sands of time that lie about on beaches.

How many words does time take up? Can words be measured in time, as the world measures time? How many words per minute can you type? When you know the answer, what do you have then? Where has the answer taken you, and why do you have it? What good is it?

Imagination is a lovely lull in the midst of silence. Silence is the prey you gather around. You gather around silence and the camp fire. Here are two fields of life on Earth - silence on one end and fire on the other. There is a conflagration, and silence and conflagration have a race. And which do you think wins?

Silence of course, for silence just is. No match has to be lit for Silence to be. Love lives Silence.

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