I used to think rich people were bad, selfish, something, not me, not me anymore. We had money when I was little and then we lost it. But for many years we pretended to have it, lived in our same house, but it was empty of furniture and even food.
When I got older, I thought I should live without extras, like underwear or paper towels. I didn’t want to be bourgeois. I had an image of myself as an artist. If cash poured in from writing books, well that would be a good thing, but how many literary authors earned that?
Finally, I hit bottom with being poor. I’d injured my wrists and could no longer work at jobs I hated, no more temping or typing for others. There’s not much you can do when you can’t use your hands.
Being a spiritual/metaphysically driven person, I believed what Edgar Cayce said:
