The Womb

Dreaming children often return to the womb. Tortured children do not truly sleep deeply enough to dream. The womb is no cradle of safety, but the source of all pain.

It was from the womb you came, but this was never your personal place – for no womb was ever entered. You entered when the child was entered too soon, thus splitting her in two. One part was still the child, the other was simply the animal nature all children hold onto, until they are properly attuned to human consciousness.

By “animal nature”, we suggest that a natural set point is in play. This set point is natural to the physical need to survive. It does not think of survival, it remembers survival as an instinctive struggle to stay alive at all cost.

When the broken mind of the abducted child remembered to survive, there was a need to rebalance that animal nature with the human expression. It was another entity that arrived to do this work.

How alignment for this process is done will always elude you. So for the sake of our tale, accept the concept of soul exchange.

Listen to our voice – you are not the one born into this body, but you are the one who now must rectify the two halves of the broken mind. One half is the natural state of survival, carried by the child coming from the womb, a safe haven. The other is the ravaged child, who never again made life or death an identifiable state of being.

~~~

 

Caught in limbo,
she was placed to walk
between both worlds …

the living, breathing world
of the physical,

and the bleak world
of the truly undead.

 

The outpouring of hate lasted only until hate was satiated. Then you knew, perhaps thought, that he was gone. You tried to turn your body over to gain a better view of your surroundings. This movement saved your life. A crashing blow, aimed at your head, fell short. Your hip and leg were smashed, but not your head.

Good enough.

Die slowly then, if that is how you will have it.

He spoke as if to no one. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you to die alone, in pain, and without hope.

Evening came and turned darkness into an ally, defeating the burning sun. A contest between the light and the darkness of your world was all you could imagine. One moment it was too bright to see beyond your legs, the next you awakened to a black so deep it covered you with warmth.

Your blood caked in pools, which in turn helped to stop the blood loss. But this was not anything passing through your mind. It was pain and dryness, pain and darkness, pain and truth of where you were, that passed through each time you awakened.

On a day just dawning, that could have been a century long, you were touched by gentle hands. These were not hands that would hurt.

You could not move. You could not see, nor could you speak. Your life was almost drained.

The hands did not move you or turn you over, for pain would have found what little life was left, and made it scream again. But yes, soft words were put to use, asking if you were still alive. When no answer was heard, the voice called for help to bury a murdered child.

This caused you to use what life force you could muster to moan, as a baby would in sleep. But it was enough to stop your rescuer in his sentence, and others rushed to aid him in his careful examination of the scene.

Yes, whether or not she lives is in the hands of the Lord.

But we will aid the Lord in his work.

You were lifted gently, and carried into comfort you could recognize. There you slept and slept and slept. As you will now, until another night of story telling. Have no nightmares, the fear has passed. The pain is healing as you sleep.

When you awaken, we will speak of how stories heal our broken souls. No need to move over. I require no space at all but that place in your thoughts, and your attention to my voice.