All my life I've seen angels. They talk to me in words and in images and in pure telepathic idea. I've never understood them. I've never understood why they choose me. Many times I have asked "Why do you speak to me? And do you ever speak to anyone else like this?"

The answer is always convoluted. "We speak to everyone," they say. "But most of your kind lack the capacity to take us in pure form." "Do I?" "Not as much."

I'm paraphrasing.

So I've learned, from their presence and their absence that they come in many forms and that everyone does see them and hears them whether they believe or not and whether they notice or not. They have left for now, at least in the form I am used to. Angels are not purely messengers carrying a note. They have led me to understand that we are our own messengers. The message delivered is not carried; it is revealed as something the receiver, ourselves, have carried within us all our lives. Angels show us a path. They nudge us in a direction. We choose to follow a path or to another. Either way, the message is delivered.

This message was in a book and it released a message I have been waiting for for over a year. Because it is necessary to know completely something about the world in order to heal. Although I have known it, or been aware, I have not owned it. I am not completely in possession of this truth, for the message is being granted and sold to me in the form of a payment plan that I have not yet carried to fulfillment. The debt will be paid soon, though, and I will once again thank the world for giving me so much grief in order to grant me that much more wisdom. In the end, I always end up thinking desolation a fair price.