A photo taken above the cloud layer with the sun at the center of the photograph being reflected back from the clouds.

30,000 feet above Szeged, Hungary.

Photo by Kep.

As the page scrolls down, a quill, writing feather, also scrolls down underneath where you are reading.
First caught in the unconscious, modified by the conscious, ‘Translations...’ is a product of a human brain.  Nothing is brought through and written here that does not have the influence and creativity of the inner mind, nor is unaffected by the workings and experiences of the outer brain.
Translations of the Discussions with “The WE”
“Oh God!  Oh God!”  I mumble as I stumble from the bedroom to the kitchen.  The virus has attacked and making tea is the only relief I can think for my poor weary body.  There I stand, boiling water, brewing tea out of a packet of dried blackcurrant, ginseng and vanilla.  Then the cough hits again, doubling me over.  “Oh God!  Oh God!” I keep saying; some part of me hoping the invocation incessantly repeated will help
It was quite laughable really, that I would be appealing to God.  Talking directly to the Man.  And that He, She, or It, would be listening.
Then the thought liberates briefly a smile.  Why do I do this only when I’m sick?
It wasn’t for a moment that I believed God would answer.  That I believed there was a ‘God’ as such to answer.
No, that’s not right.  My acceptance of life was more complicated than that.  Yes, for me there was a ‘God.’  There is likely a God.
But not something personal.
It was electricity, this God.  2,000,000,000,000 zintillion volts of intense excitement.  Something vast.  Something perhaps all encompassing.  Something out there that created us.
Then there was me.  512v or 250v or 115v, at the other end.  Quite a step down.
You don’t talk to this all everything any other time, I thought as I sipped the tea.  You don’t believe that it will answer, or even that it can, not directly.
Then the wave hits again.  ‘Oh God!  Oh God!’  I stumble through the coughing.  I am feeling so sick.  I feel like I’m dying.
You don’t believe that It might even be listening, the thoughts return as I slip back onto the bed.  Well it could, I think, in the absurdity of the moment, but if It did hear me pleading you might expect that there would be some commiseration.  Even some slight temporary lightening of the wheezing, of the vile heaving cough that wants to tear into pieces my stomach, rip apart my guts….
Then the paroxysm easies, the convulsions stop.  I can even lie back on the pillow.
Suffering through for the past three days and nights, the waves have become familiar.  The virus obviously has waves.  Waves don’t you know, that flow with time.  Are those God’s waves, I wonder?  Did It set these waves so that they would bring the sickness to peak intensity and then dissipate to a lesser manifestation?  Did it set the body to flow to a rhythm; where the virus load peaks, then the immune system attacks as an offset?
“Oh God!” I say, when the next cough doubles me over, when I think that my throat is detaching.  “Oh God!  Oh God!” 
I sure want It to respond.  I want It to answer.  To tell me It knows.  It should know what I am going through.
“Oh God!  Oh! God!”  I shriek, as I stumbled once again into the kitchen.
The spoon filled with cherry-flavoured, thick, red linctus slips down the throat.  For seconds, even minutes, it brings some relief.
Why do I only personalize God when I’m sick, I wonder as I lie back down.  You’re a shaman Kewe.  For all times sake, you should know better.
You’ve done the out-of-body thing.  You’ve been and met the ‘Big Guy in the sky,’ the one who actually tells you He is God?
And the conversations you’ve had.  You’ve told him he might be God to some.  But he ain’t God to you.  You’ve told him he’s not your chief honcho.  He’s not the one.  That he’s not your ‘in-the-sky’ Dad-Mom.  He’s not the creator of your soul.
He’s what you call ‘the version.’
Okay, so you have met the one who did create you.  Well, not met exactly, but, well… you have talked to it.  This step down from the greater ‘God.’  You’ve given the step down a name: The Greater Me, The Creator Me, The Higher You, The Higher Self.
It’s the one who gives you the ideas.  The one who steers you in the right direction when you ask.  You’ve talked to it loads.  Hell, you talk to it practically all the time.
But even ‘it’ you cannot personalize.  This fantastic thing you are ‘up there.’
“I want someone to love me,” I cry.  “I’m down, and I’m coughing my guts, and I’m thinking in my miserable moment, ‘Is this worth it?’ and I want my mommy.”
“Kewe,” you say, the part that retains some clarity.  “It don’t work that way, not with this ‘Higher Self,’ you know that.  Its job is to make you itself.
“This Higher Self will never do the wrap-around loving…not the way you want.  It won’t be the comforting, love cocoon you’d like to fold into, with the music playing and the warm; with the snug, cosy feeling inside and the dozy peace sweeping all over.”
“That’s what I want,” I say.  “Especially when I’m sick.  Especially when….”
“That’s what I want,” I shout, a shout without speaking, on my rush to the bathroom.  “Oh God!”
How left and right inside The Game enslave
HU — connecting to the code
Reincarnation — why do we return
Dementia 2018 — left and right hemispheres of Einstein’s brain
Mind Illness — Brain Illness — Etheric Brain Illness
As the solar system moves closer to the galactic center
Transmogrification   Shapeshifting   Mind Control   Supersoldiers
The Dark Side — Initiates
Is "The WE" a cult?
The Rapture falsehood
Translations — Thoughts and desires of those interested parties on your planet.
Translations — The flow.
Translations — Parent Teaching.
Translations — Climate and dimensional interference
Dalai Lama
The WE®
Rumi PoetryThe Higher SelfDavidKewe.info