A Tale of Two Selves
It was Sunday.
Mr. Billoughby picked up his head from writing, just enough to notice.
The sunlight, streaming through his window, was fading.
Another day swallowed by his obsession.
“At least I wrote a song and a half,” he thought to himself.
But he was only bargaining with the part of him that was always criticizing him.
The part that, no matter what he did, would whisper that it wasn’t good enough — from the shadows of his subconscious mind.
Mr. Billoughby stood up and shook his body.
A feeble attempt to dislodge the astral clingers of his own creation.
“Time to eat,” he said aloud to his empty apartment. The words echoed back to him, reflecting his loneliness that he refused to see.
As he cooked, Mr. Billoughby’s thoughts circled around work — his accounting job.
“I can’t go back there. I should be getting paid for my music. I’m here for a higher purpose, not to be some fucking cog in the machine. Every week I sit in that office drains my soul a little more. I can’t stand the stupid small talk either. I just want to write songs. Why is it so hard for that to be my full-time job? Why? That’s my gift. And I know I can help people. So what’s the deal?”
Mr. Billoughby collapsed onto his countertop, sobbing.
…
It was Sunday in a parallel reality.
Mr. Billoughby sat across the table from his beautiful wife Naya, admiring both her and the beautiful sunset.
The deck of Paramahansa Restaurant overlooked Grace Lake.
“I love you,” he said, translating the magic of the moment into simple words.
“I love you,” Naya replied, not as a default response, but infused with her own universe of intention into the same words.
Everyone else on the deck seemed to be immersed in a similar vibe — the view and energy of the lake and mountains harmonizing all into peace, presence, and appreciation.
“So tell me about what you wrote this morning,” Naya said. Mr. Billoughby smiled. “It’s not quite ready for sharing. But I’ll say this. The song came through in a stream of divine inspiration. And I don’t even remember half of it.”
They both giggled as the waitress approached with their food and placed their plates in front of them.
“Pardon me asking,” the waitress said, looking at Mr. Billoughby. “Are you a musician?”
“Yes,” Mr. Billougby replied, winking at his wife.
“What kind of music?”
He explained his style and inspirations, then the waitress said, “I’m a musician too. But it’s hard, you know? Working this job, and trying to get my music out there. I really want my music to be my sole career.”
Mr. Billoughby emanated compassion from his heart to the waitress. “I know. That’s the balance all of us creators need to find, right?”
“I guess so,” the waitress responded, looking into the distance. Then she turned back to them. “Well, enjoy your food,” she added, then walked away.
Mr. Billoughby didn’t mention he would be going to his accounting job tomorrow.
Because it didn’t matter.
He was here. Here and now. And he was here, on Earth, to be a pure channel of creation.
To be present with whatever arose in his reality.
Not to control the results.
He wrote music every day. Yet whether or not his music earned him money and recognition was irrelevant.
The honor of creation, is both the journey and the destination.
Thank you for reading.
Much love,
Stephen Parato
Books & Journals
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