The once reluctant mystic

Going through my bookhoard is like going through past lives, I leaf through my own leaves of grass. Whisperings of so many interests unpursued; so many possibilities and pathways. Many chances I had at living out my personality in the old world, a career I might have had or a book I could have written but I didn't. 

Why not then if all these subjects are so interesting and worth looking into? 

They all wither in the face of my awakening. They all fall short in the light of my transition. Even the deeper layers of personality and preference feel shallow and even pitiful as my consciousness returns from other dimensions. We are in a spiritual war, this is a prison planet.

Yet here they remain, remnants of my identity on which I can comfortingly reminisce. 

Everything academic has been reduced to hollow pretense, what once seemed so worthy now subtracted from what really matters. Aware I am of how mechanical this density has become to me. The inner voice becomes louder each day and now I can proudly say: I am not of the world although I am still in it.

I heard the call, many trumpets in the sky.