On a lark, I went to a seer
for a reading of my Akashic Records,
(the cosmic diary of my soul's journey through
Space and Time.)

After praying to the universe and opening what,
apparently, is a great tome of records
that details where I've been and even who I've been
in past lives,
my seer explained to me that
we all carry around a company of
angels
and ancestors
and old professors, ("the masters,").

I found that fascinating, told her that
I hear mine quite often, arguing amongst themselves as to what I,
the still living,
should be doing, reading, writing, remembering.

(Oh yes, I can hear you all, and when
I'm in the right kind of mood,
I laugh at you.
With you.)

You all loved me; that's why you're still
checking in now and again.
I thank you for still being you;
even dead, you are all such floods of kindness.

I can hear as clear as a voicemail one of you telling me
that Work should be play,
(but you should be playing all day.)

Another of you argues that Play
for play's sake is absolutely critical
if you want to make the Work work.
Read. Watch television. See movies, many movies.
Eavesdrop.
Walk through daisies.
Then, finally,
sit down to write.

Still another of you says to
memorize a poem,
any poem.
Recite it after the lights go out, as if it's a prayer.

You believed in me.
And now, even though we're running late
and this particular Akashic Record is seeing
a light up ahead,
I believe in me, too.

Maybe all of this is silly mysticism
and I just want to justify
the fact that things didn't start going
the way I'd always dreamed they'd go
until you were all dead

and watching over me.