This is sort of a continuation of the previous post, but also a different subject.
Last night I woke up, wide awake at four in the morning. I zoned over to my astral apartment, but I was not feeling well. I walked over to the counter and made a sandwich. I cut it in half, and left it there uneaten. I slammed the knife into the cutting board a few times. I wanted to blow something up.
I checked on my energy body to see how it was doing with the changes. It was heating up. I didn’t really want to destroy anything in my house, so I flopped down on the couch instead. My wings sprawled over the back and down to the floor.
I felt someone standing near. At first I thought it was Djehuty. He often checks on my health. This time it wasn’t him. Wepwawet examined me. I knew I was in some kind of transition, if he was the one who came. He told me to get my butt over to the lake of fire, immediately.
There was no sense of travel. I soared over a volcanic field and dove in as fast as I could. Lava erupted all around me, exploding at my touch. Brilliant fire fountained into the sky. It felt good to let go. It felt good to let the rage escape. I was the volcano.
I remembered the old dreams. I was terrified of volcanos and lava. The red death would seep across the land, preventing all escape. I ran. I panicked. I froze in fear, praying for escape. Sometimes I remembered that I could fly. Sometimes my mother was there, always denying that any problem existed as I urged her to get away from the rumbling earth.
But I am the volcano. Maybe I always was. Maybe it was my rage all along, lighting up the ground with fire. Rage would not have served me at all back then. It would have made everything worse. I ran from it, avoided it. I knew it would burn and consume me if I wasn’t fast enough. I denied it.
I don’t have to be afraid any more. It belongs to me. It always did.