We all have a gift. Mine are my eyes, dust from the rings of Saturn, crystallized under the pressure of my home star, calibrated to perfection by the sky god himself.
Your gift is your voice, the soft melody of the Nile running freely at night blended with the roar of the sun.
You work hard in this world in order to survive. You give your life energy to the weak, to the marginalized in this diseased culture. You use your enchanting voice to speak for them.
You have a dream. You dream of a better way, a better day for everyone. If you could grab the microphone of planet earth for an afternoon, what might you say in your most magically-pitched tone?
You might just hypnotically change the minds of every power-hungry pawn in this place.
In other lifetimes you were a famously successful peace negotiator, making warlords wilt.
In other lifetimes I was a ranger, tracking fast-moving shadows over rocks, across mountains, through galaxies.
We continue this journey of lifetimes, minutes in the day, a progression. We all signed up for this ride 18 billion years ago. All of us.
And what a gift it is to be here. We got cold beer in this world, Led Zeppelin, and sports on high-definition television (my team stinks, though).
But understand the spirit life is probably boring. No rocking keg parties on the far side of the moon. Not much to do but wait to take form again.
Life is the gift.
And you remain the brightest star in my sky.