Karmic winds blow. But not like physical winds. They suck. But not like a vacuum. They draft up the possibilities of what could have been, but really couldn’t have been. They stir up the dust of the imagined and settle down with a sediment of fact. Gusting, gutting you out, with a chilling realization of what actually is.
He saw himself rowing on a wreckage of a ship, kneeling down on a deck board, paddling along, reaching down to the bottom of this liquid oneness with his sinewy forearms and shovel-like palms. Head fallen, his Viking horns leading the way. This was a parade of accountability.
Shores upon shores were crowded with endless lives, all seated calmly and in judicial contemplation, in shaky mid-century-modern chairs. Familiar faces on the outside, and totally unfamiliar on the inside. He loved them all. He lived them all. He…
He shook off the mirage, once again back in the room, he was now nothing but a space, a space of awareness; the last dream awakened from; the last memory erased. Movers are walking through him, carrying furniture and boxes and rolled up carpets. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t there. A pixel in an informational matrix he knew. There is no movement. The effect of a running light is just an artifact of our perception, a series of mental events in an otherwise perfectly static and seamlessly monolithic oneness of all that is.
But he wasn’t done yet. A garland of black bile and guilt was weaving a knot around his neck.
What was he being dressed for? What murky gala was he to attend?
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