Ancestor’s Telephone Call

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Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.

Deep sleep spins webs of connectivity.
The silver threads linking hearts and memory through all time.
They speak to us on these phone lines of the soul that are grounded in our DNA.
Through the ages, our heritage calls to us, seeks us out, offering advice on whispers of the wind.
Winds which passed through their same lungs that they themselves heard when they were young, supple, and alive.
The things we would learn!
The stories we can pass down to our children and children’s children: a call that may seem so long-distance yet comes on a pre-paid phone and karma the currency.
Deep sleep keeps on spinning us, weaving our own webs to the family’s tree.
Silver dangles and sings like the banshee: loud at first, but only to grab our attention. Which then drifts and lulls us to bring peace to our dying hearts whose connection lines may seem frail, and may be severed from time to time, but they never truly dissolve.
Blood is blood.
Memory is thicker than society.
And so when our spirits mature, and their advice speaks to us as we cross the street or stare at a blinking light, we are reminded once more, by the call from an ancestor, to keep us going.
Learn.
Live.
And then die.
To learn.
And live and die once more.
The cycle of the message is clear: don’t waste the chance to eat, drink, sleep and fuck.
Don’t waste the chance to explore the inner and outer realms of the spirit because when we truly do grow wings and fly towards paradise we will need that experience to make the necessary choices for what next is to come.
Do not fear the life lived afterwards. Because really, we forget it anyway, unless we decide to stick around and bother the nephew who just can’t get himself together.
But until then, we live and continue to love. And we smile, and we cry. We sing, and we moan with pleasure and heartache. We take the next days, weeks, months, years and cycle the spinning web of Life…and…Death, for however long the spirit that is the Universe decides to remain on the line.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Ring. Ring. Ring.

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