Journal Entry 211
Dear God, Universe, Fred, Source, The Force, Goddess, Creator, whatever you want to call yourself today; I've had it! I just can't any more! I'm tired. Tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of losing, tired of the shit. I know, they say it's easy. They say, all you have to do is put it out there and it is yours. Focus, stay in it. Show you, Dude Abides, I trust and have full faith in you, we are in it together, you've got my back, the world is infinite abundance ... believe it and you will see it, all things are possible! I'm calling bullshit on it all. I keep doing the thing; meditation, energy clearings, mindset work, tapping, mantras, hypnosis, journalling in this little black book...which by the way, I'm roasting this thing in the barbecue when this conversation is over...group therapy, reading the entirety of the mindset and self improvement section, rituals, tarot, etc., etc., etc. ad nauseam. (Your Holiness, can you hear? I'm going full Yule Brenner on your ass!) I've jumped into the deepest, darkest, scariest caverns of my psyche, I've purged mentally and physically in ways that, well, let's just call it not for polite conversation, I've met my inner child and let her rule over, come into submission, ride along side so we could take over the world together as one. I've done the dream work and let my imagination run free, I shut out all things which lower my frequencies, I've listened to the synchronized music to raise my vibrations. Done the cleanses, fasted, slept for days, crawled into a ball and cried for days on end, sat alone in silence under the trees, just letting it all come. AND still the shit keeps coming. The money is NOT flowing in. The debts pile up, I keep giving up what I truly want for what needs to be taken care of. AND I keep trusting, I keep believing. Still the customers aren't lined up around the corner, the reporters aren't beating down my door for interviews, the business hasn't blown up. AND I keep trusting, I keep believing. The relationships haven't been fixed, the counters are still covered with crumbs and the underwear is still laying in the middle of the bedroom with a beer can on the desk. The dent on the couch where the butt is planted day and night is deeper and dirtier every day. AND I keep trusting, I keep believing. AND I keep trusting, I keep believing. Today, that stupid camel finally got what was coming when yet another one of those women in that group posted how magically out of thin air $45,000 just showed up in the mail unannounced, for no earthly reason. Another one signed up 23 new clients at $5K a pop for the next 6 months.. That chick who's got all the things, she just got a free vacation to the place I've been "manifesting" for over a year. AND here I sit, in the middle of yet another relaunch, without the team I've been saying are on the way, without the resources and support I want to show up, without the funding I deserve or is abundant and always piling up. My savings dwindles and the debts grow ... and I keep believing, putting on the good face, trucking on forward, focusing and believing; YOU and I are in this shit together. Fred, you ain't in this shit with me. I'm in it, in it all alone and I've had it, not any more. All I wanted was enough money to put this last collection together, to not have to give up any more, but no, nothing, nada, zippo, zilch.. And then you break down all my appliances at once, I mean come the f*ck on, really? Well, thats it, I'm done. Get ready because Liar, Liar, you're pants about to be on fire. Thanks for proving exactly what I thought, my life is; SHIT. I'm OUT!
ME!
Tears stream down her cheeks, hand cramping from the violent pressure on the paper! "F*ck this!" The little black notebook flies across the room, landing in the corner sending the cat screeching into the air. Poor Mr. Tigerton, "sorry Timothy, that wasn't meant for you." Utter indignation as her beloved Tiger tabby glares her down stalking out of view.
"Fine, be that way! Who needs your catty tude anyway? "Bratty old cat." Swollen red eyes, raw nose, a box of tissue in hand, she grabs the bottle of wine shuffling off to bed for a good sulk.
Three quarters of bottle down, snotty tissues wrapped in the sheets with her, she finally drifts off into a wine soaked sleep. Hazy memories play on auto pilot while a strange, distant world comes into view, as if a fog lifting over the seas with the morning sun. In the distance an object, maybe a person; it is too far to fully comprehend, emerges a being. It feels known, familiar, wise, comforting, like someone she has always known yet still cannot quite recall, it's right there at the edge of her mind. Is it deja vu, a vision of the future, or maybe a haunting from her past. Words echo, bouncing within the walks of her mind, "I'm here, I've always been here, right in front of you. Open your heart, walk in, I'm there waiting for you. You only need to wake, remember, you have everything you need within your hands." She feels herself being drawn in, there is this power; intense, attractive, alluring, full of potential, promise, possibility. It is almost overwhelming. "There is no need to fight any longer. I am here, I have always been here." It eludes her, she pulls away, as if something is about to snap, she could fall, she could get hurt. Run, turn, there is something there she does not want to trust.
With a start she wakes from the dream, Timothy screaming a protest as he flies off the bed in a rage! "Sorry old boy, that was a weird dream. I swear I was awake, it felt so real." Lying back down, curling back into her pillows, 'ugh,' she thinks 'I'm gonna have a hangover in the morning.' Silently she lays pondering, 'put me back in that dream, I'm not done yet. Who, what, was that? What was the point of that...' as she falls back to slumber.
"No, stop, that loofa is too much, gentler ... oof, no, stop, damn cat! Quick licking me!!!!" "What a way to wake up Timothy, thanks", she rolls over, groaning, more from her swimming brain and nausea than just waking up with a cat in her face. Guilt, regret, shame begin their inevitable creep into an internal rant, 'another bottle down, what is wrong with me, why don't I stay the course, why can't I get it right ...' "Oh, shut up you!", she jostles herself out of it. Awareness settles in, 'Wait, this all a pattern, a learning lesson, let it go, move on, start the day in a positive mindset.' She crawls out of bed and stumbles into the kitchen to make herself a pot of coffee.
The kettle's scream startles her back from her inner dialog, reminding her 'I'm here, it's another day, all things are possible, I start again and just know somewhere in all of this, new beginnings, great things are on the horizon. All things are for me, even if I cannot see it in the moment.' She pushes the plunger down on the press, gives Mr. Tigerton his breakfast before he claws her foot off, finally pours herself a cup of dark, rich, earthy blissful hangover relief, sits down in front of that little black book with hope anew and begins to read her last scribbles. As she turns the page an unfamiliar passage appears;
Journal Entry 212
Dear you, me, we, I, God, Universe, Fred. Source, The Force, Goddess, Creator whatever you want to call yourself today, I told you "I've always been here, right in front of you, all you have to do is open your heart and walk in, I'm there waiting for you." We are one in the same, and I am always there, always listening and always giving you exactly what you want, turn the page ...
"What the absolute f*ck?", hands shaking, eyes wide; fear, awe, wonder, she turns the page where an envelope sits, waiting, expectantly...for her...yes...her, that's her name on it. There's no sender, no business, just an address from a place she is unfamiliar, 'where did this come from' she thinks, Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory whispers in, "There is no need to fight any longer. I am here, I have always been here." "Bloody effin hell Timothy?!" She picks up the envelope in pure disbelief, inspecting it as if it were an alien artifact full of otherworldly power; terrifying yet electrifying all at once, it feels heated by an energy of anticipation wrapped within it. Carefully, she tears the end, gently blowing inside freeing its secret contents; she tips it upside down, tap, tap tap, a letter floats as effortlessly as a feather into her increasingly sweaty palm.
'Congratulations!!! You won the $20,000 grand prize at our community raffle! Thank you for donating your time with the fundraiser and supporting our community such generous ticket sales. Please call our offices at your earliest convenience so we may present you with your winnings and interview you for the local community press.'
Stunned, absently stroking the open page, an awareness dawns as she looks upon what sits in her grasp. Timothy jumps onto the table, nudges the letter out of her hand, reaches out, swipes his course little tongue over her nose with a sweet little kiss. Coming back to awareness, wrapping Mr. Tigerton into her arms, as a new way of being starts to grow roots, she looks into questioning eyes and exclaims, "No SHIT, Timothy! It was right there for me all along."
About the Creator
GeeGee
I’m here to play, have fun and let my creative juices flow.
Keep reading
More stories from GeeGee and writers in Motivation and other communities.
Lost but Trying
There are moments in life when everything feels lost—not dramatically, not loudly, but quietly. The kind of loss that settles into your bones and makes even simple breathing feel heavy. For Adam, that moment came on an ordinary Tuesday morning when he realized he had nowhere left to go. At twenty-seven, Adam wasn’t supposed to feel this tired. He wasn’t supposed to feel like life had already passed him by. Yet there he was, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a rented room, staring at peeling paint on the wall, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. He had once been full of plans. Big ones. Dreams of building something meaningful, of becoming someone his younger self would be proud of. But life, as it often does, had other ideas. Adam grew up in a small town where hope was common but opportunities were rare. His father worked long hours, his mother carried silent strength, and everyone believed that education would be the escape route. Adam believed it too. He studied hard, stayed out of trouble, and dreamed even harder. But dreams don’t always come with instructions. After college, rejection letters became his daily routine. Job interviews led to polite smiles and empty promises. “We’ll get back to you,” they said. Most never did. Slowly, confidence turned into doubt. Doubt turned into fear. And fear became a constant companion. When his father fell ill, Adam returned home. Medical bills piled up. Savings vanished. Dreams were postponed, then quietly buried. After his father’s death, the house felt too empty, too loud in its silence. Adam left again, this time not chasing dreams, but running from memories. The city welcomed him with indifference. He worked temporary jobs—delivery rider, warehouse helper, night security guard. None lasted long. Each job paid just enough to survive, never enough to grow. Failure followed him like a shadow, whispering reminders of what he hadn’t become. One night, after being laid off yet again, Adam walked aimlessly through the city streets. Neon lights blurred into streaks of color. Laughter spilled out of cafés he couldn’t afford. He felt invisible, like a background character in everyone else’s success story. That night, he considered giving up. Not dramatically. Not with a note or tears. Just a quiet decision to stop trying. To accept that some people were meant to struggle forever. He sat on a bench near a bus stop, head in his hands, when an old man sat beside him. “You look like someone who’s lost,” the man said gently. Adam didn’t reply. The old man continued, “Being lost isn’t the problem. Staying lost is.” Adam finally looked up. The man’s face was lined with age, but his eyes carried a calm confidence, the kind earned through survival. “I’ve tried,” Adam said bitterly. “Nothing works.” The man smiled softly. “Trying doesn’t guarantee success. It guarantees growth.” Adam wanted to argue, but something in the man’s voice stopped him. “I failed more times than I can count,” the old man added. “But each failure taught me something. Most people quit right before life changes.” The bus arrived. The old man stood up. “Don’t stop trying,” he said. “Even slow steps are steps forward.” Then he was gone. Adam sat there long after the bus left. For the first time in months, something shifted inside him—not hope exactly, but curiosity. What if stopping wasn’t the answer? What if trying, even imperfectly, still mattered? The next day, Adam did something small. He updated his resume. It wasn’t impressive, but it was honest. He applied for jobs he felt un for. He watched free online courses at night. He started writing—short thoughts, reflections, anything that helped him release the weight inside. Days turned into weeks. Rejections continued, but so did effort. One evening, Adam posted a short piece of writing online. He didn’t expect much. But comments came in. Strangers resonated with his words. Someone said, “This feels like my life.” Another wrote, “Thank you for putting my feelings into words.” For the first time, Adam felt seen. He kept writing. Months later, he landed a small content job—not glamorous, not permanent—but real. It paid little, but it paid consistently. More importantly, it gave him purpose. Life didn’t magically improve overnight. Problems didn’t disappear. Some days were still heavy. But Adam noticed something new: he no longer felt stuck. Trying had changed him. He learned that progress isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, disguised as persistence. He learned that being lost doesn’t mean being broken. Sometimes it simply means you’re between versions of yourself. Years later, Adam would look back on that bench, that night, and that stranger. He would realize that the turning point wasn’t a job or success—it was a decision. A decision to keep trying, even when trying hurt. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn’t winning. It’s not quitting.
By Inayat khan6 days ago in Motivation
The Path to Salvation
The late autumn evening air filled the monk's lungs, but it wasn't the season that chilled his bones. The heavy-handed presence of evil he had sensed upon entering the woods surrounding this mountain village had not bothered to conceal itself from him.
By Made in DNA3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.