I was in the bath—having awakened a little early, albeit on accident, leaving time for a bath on a day that I wouldn’t have otherwise taken a bath if i had woken up at my prescribed time, and I projected Ursula’s voice and I heard this: I have a home.  My home is not with you.  My first reaction left me a little miffed—why would she say such a thing?  Who was I talking to?  Surely the real Ursula wouldn’t say such a thing, and, I, too, wouldn’t put her on the spot—at least in the ideal realm that I thought belonged to telepathic, and 5D, communications.  My initial conclusion, then, was that i’d got my wires a little crossed, and I was hearing from Anna, instead of my Ursula—but it was already understood that Anna most likely wasn’t my Ursula, so I don’t see why I she would have said such a thing—or why I would have posed a question that would have led to such a statement.  So I ruled that out. 

     I want to talk, now, about why i chant, or count, in other people’s voices.  The logic is as follows: we project onto others integral parts of ourselves that we veto or reject because we are afraid that we, in our pure state, would not be loved, and that, therefore, our society would reject us, and we would lose the ability to function.  Now, sometimes things are suppressed, because of this, with good reason—but it is uncomfortable to be something other than your pure self, and, therefore, we should constantly seek to inform both ourselves and the world around us that we have nothing to fear.  Furthermore, when we are good, and we don’t know how good we are, perhaps because others do not see it or accept it, we project the good in us onto others, and we can wind up overestimating what someone really means to us—we can become obsessed with them, and need them, beyond what is reasonable, because, deep down, we are trying to reclaim what belongs to us—to integrate what they have, when, often enough, they don’t have what we want: we only think that they do.

     I’d bitten the bullet and recorded my last song—a lot like a ballad, so I was pleased about that.  But forget all that—how was I doing?  Right here and right now?  Not bad, actually—although sleep could be a little better, and I might feel good enough, stimulated enough, and relaxed enough to do the things I do without relying so much on cans of diet Dr. Pepper, seltzer water, and cups of tea.  But nothing was perfect, and I was still adjusting to the medication change, i think; i’d been relying, a little, on the risperidone when i went to sleep, and now that I was taking so much less of it, my body chemistry needed to adjust, and get back into a rhythm, something that was happening very slowly, given a little faith, prayer, and general realization that I needed to do, and enjoy doing, the things I would do if I had a partner, since i wasn’t going to form a partner, not realistically, and, also, even if i did, i would eventually be left to the same chemical construction in my brain that i have now.