April 25, 1998
I had all this equipment for a long time. I had used it to a certain
degree but I knew that its capabilities far exceeded my knowledge and the uses that I gave
to it. I always figured someday (in some vague future time) I would go through the work
necessary in order to arrive at the full potential of the equipment before me.
Specifically, I was aware that there was a way to
record a whole musical piece into digital tape and then send it into the computer, save it
on a hard disk and apply digital effects to it using certain applications. The music would
become pure form, pure data, that could be transported in any medium that would accept
information. I knew I could do this, I knew I had the instructions to do it and all the
necessary equipment. I figured it would be a cool thing to do... hey kinda really post
modern cyberpunk mind-blowing stuff but... I also figured it would take at least a month,
maybe more, of studying, testing, running into walls, making mistakes, feeling
frustrated... hmmm, better do that later, there's always time anyway.
Then I got a job creating music for a pretty big
multimedia company. In order to get it I had to present myself as knowing just a little
bit more than I actually did and as more secure and professional than I actually was.
"What would you do if we gave you a digital
recording of a voice over and you found that there was a hissing problem on it?", to
which I respond in a calm and slightly scientific voice: "Well, there are many ways
around any such problem but the first thing that I would try would be to process the
whole thing through alchemy, create a graph of the spectrum of frequencies in the
recording and search for the frequencies of the offending hiss"... yeah sure,
theoretically true, but I had never actually done anything like that!)
Everything was going fine right until the end of the
project when they were finally satisfied with the music I was composing (which I was
bringing in to them on regular cassette tapes).
"Great, I think you have it, bring us the
recording on hard disk tomorrow so we can plug it into the animation and see how it all
fits together. Maybe apply some digital noise reduction before you bring it."
I smiled with assurance outside and turned into a
pillar of cold and frightened ice inside.
I arrived home. It was about noon. I had about twenty
hours total to figure out that cool thing that I had been putting off for the last two
years. I didn't even have time to worry about it. I just went to work. Pulled out all the
manuals, started hooking up cables, started running into walls, getting frustrated,
retreating, retesting, hooking up the cables a different way... doesn't work one way, try
it another, try this, try that. The thing was going to work and I would make it work,
there was no choice in the matter.
By 10 am the next morning I arrived at their office
with a hard disk full of clean digital sound, which they took and used. No special thank
yous, no award for all the work of the last 20 hours. It was simply my little job, my
small contribution to the bigger project and it was to be expected that I should be able
to fulfill it. I did fulfill it, and in the process I learned all that I wasn't able to
learn when the only need for the knowledge was my own vanity or curiosity.
Hmmm, waking up would be a pretty cool, kinda
multidimensional higher consciousness kinda thing, no?
April 23, 1998
It whispers to me in the dark its seductive promise as
Its cold chilling breath runs its fingers down my spine.
And when its sure Im securely in its clutches
It does its best to keep me in its intoxicating trance.
Yet a glint of the reality behind this dilution calls
And touches me beyond the fleshy confines of my soul.
With a start of recognition I begin to question the reality
Of my fleshy entity and find the being dormant
Within the walls of the warm pulsating cells.
The beating of my heart grows, becoming thunderous
The flesh making itself the center of attention
Once more hides yet again the entity within
Helping along with the illusions I created
The seductive trance begins as it has many times before
It has me in its clutches
My soul drowning returns to its fleshy confines
The flesh is in its dream state
I am asleep once more.
April 22, 1998
Mazes are great! Not only are they fun, but very instructive. Amongst
the important lessons one can learn about mazes, is the reconciliation of intuition and
organization. For example, picture yourself in the middle of a hall which breaks into 3
different doors. On your right hand side there is another smaller passage way, and to your
back a bigger door leads to another place. How does one make a good decision? Here you are
at a point where everything you know is through the door you came from. You can only make
progress when you go to uncharted territories. So going back to the door you came from
will not help your current situation. The answer is intuition. There is no other way to
steer when you face the unknown. After you have made your move, you are confronted with
this same situation over and over, again and again. Now what? Organization is the
other secret to help you achieve your goal.
Making a map is the most effective way to organize the knowledge you gather
after making a decision with intuition. A map is an organized collection of knowledge that
will help you determine exactly what you know and what you dont know. Whenever you
need to go back to a previous room, because you just discovered you need the key that you
found there, you look at your map, and will get there without any problems, as well as
coming back to where you left off to continue the journey.
It is the combination of both these tools that gives a voyager a powerful means
of traveling in the most complex arrangements of mazes. And ultimately what is
extraordinary about this is that what you can learn about intuition and organization from
playing in mazes, applies to your life in this bigger maze we call world. So hey, start
mazing around and pay a bit more attention to the relationship between intuition and
organization as a means of achieving your goal. It works!
April 21, 1998
Writer In The Bardos
Well, today was supposed to be my hero day.
I was going to sit down in front of the computer and write one of the most impressive
papers in my life. I was going to give in to one of the most dramatic rushes of free
expression of thoughts and ideas, producing perhaps the most important piece of literature
that I could ever write. With that paper, I was going to impress the world.
I would finally have enough material to
complete all of my writing projects and more. I would have enough text for at least five
"Daily News" items and enough literature for at least two months worth of
"Bardo Training Center Newsletter" articles. I was going to write something that
could easily invoke the necessity for the creation of a totally new and unique E.S.P.
project. Hell, I could have created the beginnings of my first book!
There where many things to write about, but
I had nothing in particular in mind. I could have written about that whole experience with
the little "alien" that I ate while driving my car through dangerous curbs on a
mountain road at night. There was also the time when, as a result of the manifestation of
yet another little alien, a friend and I embarked on a mystical journey to what seemed to
be her place of birth, Redwood City, but turned out to be her place of death
Deadwood City. Or I could have written about the transparent, blue-lined UFO that came
through a crack in the sky to hover over the San Mateo hills. There appeared to be an
endless amount of experiences to write about, but I just wasnt in the mood to mess
around with my brain, wasting time trying to decide which one of them to write about. I
was just going to let the words flow out from a place deep within myself, from a place
where thought is pure and unique, where every idea is new and original, fresh and oh, so
I might have written about how to access
such a magical place, about the process of eating little aliens to tap into that free flow
of new thoughts and ideas with the purpose of bringing something of value into the
Today was supposed to be my hero day. But
when I sat down in front of my computer, I realized that, although it seemed as though I
had successfully accessed that place of increased sensitivity and original thought, I had
no control over my biological machine at all i.e., I couldnt keep my mind
still and concentrate, and I couldnt make my body write at the speed of thought.
Instead, I found myself staring at the screen for hours, immerged within a pool of higher
ideas, thinking how great it would be to write some of them down. With my fingers set over
the keyboard, ready for electrical signals to pulse down to them, ordering them to strike
the keys, I waited, frozen in front of the computer screen...
Now theyre all gone, and Im back
in the world of ordinary existence. I remain identified with my ego, classifying memories
of my experience with the little alien as "a cool trip". I guess the only
conclusion I can come up with is that there is a lot of work to be done work on
"self". It is not enough to be able to access the bardos intentionally by this
means or that we need to work. When we go into the bardos, we carry with us, like
dead weight, the habits of the machine, and we are unable to move through them fluently.
When in the bardos, lack of experience and training make you think like, feel like, and
move like your machine does very clumsy.
What good is reading and knowing about the
bardos, the altered states or whatever, if when it comes down to it, all you have is dead
weight and no real experience and training? You can access work that can provide you with
the necessary, special kind of training that you can only get during your lifetime, but
act quickly, for your time is running out. Remember you must work on your self during this
lifetime, and you might be dying already!
The same goes for me, of course.
And as for my kick-ass, hero material literature, I guess
Ill just have to wait take it easy. I suppose it will come to me at the right
time, someday. Or maybe it is happening already. Maybe I am writing that paper, only
taking longer than a moment perhaps my whole lifetime.
April 20, 1998
|The stillness of the ages
In the dark, there is a nightmare at my back, a knife an
inch away from my throat (I am afraid to die, even though I already have). As the knife
closes in the decisions must be quick and precise. Do I leave this room or do I stay?
There is no time for hesitation. Not now.
As my brain begins to explode its contents throughout the chamber I continue
hesitating. What if I choose wrong? Or worse, what if I continue not to choose?
Forever I am straddling the line between the ordinary and the unknown, the safe
and the fiery doorway leading to. . .
. . . a small shack in the middle of the desert. Only reachable by helicopter.
Protected by a radiation field the shack stands unnoticed in the middle of downtown San
Francisco. The electric camouflage makes it look to outsiders like a small office space.
There are voices coming from the shack, a meeting is taking place. A song is being
written, a melody, chords and electronic accents are adding themselves into the mix. The
crunching electricity is spiraling upwards, sympathetic vibrations seeping into the
sleeping minds of those in the city (some absent mindedly begin to hum the tune).
The lyrics are coming forward now as the static begins to clear, the singer is
ripping these words from his very soul (listen closely now), "Take a walk to the
other side, where the flicker of a shadow breaks the stillness of the ages." The
words explode rapid-fire staccato. The fire pierces the coffee cups of every Starbucks
latte drinker in the city. A flash goes through a thousand minds, "was that an
earthquake?" The song continues to reverberate the walls of the shack, this enclave
of sonic disturbance. The echoes are increasing rapidly and soon there will be no
disguising this shack in the middle of the city anymore. Soon there will be nowhere safe
April 19, 1998
I take a walk on the beach. It is dawn. The sea-breeze
chills my body. I concentrate on the warmth of my breath. I stop for a moment. I look at
the ocean. I remember the walks by the ocean I used to take in my country of origin, El
Salvador. I miss the hot sand, the warm water, the strong, distinctive smell of that
coast. I notice that my desire to repeat a past experience doesnt let me experience
the new experience; because my mind revolves around the memory, and the present loses
I realize, then, how my mind clings to the past. But that realization belongs
to the present. I feel the cold air penetrating my clothes; I hear the waves crashing
against the rocks; I see the immensity of the ocean. Now I see the ocean, the real,
present one. I also see, with intense clarity, my desire for the past, my nostalgia, my
I sit quietly in front of the ocean, with my back straight. The blood flow to
the brain increases thanks to the sitting position. The immobility of the body induces a
sense of tranquillity to the mind. But the mind is not completely quiet. Now that my
desire for a past experience doesnt prevent the experience of the present, the mind
begins chattering. It jumps from one thought to another, incoherently. Once again, I veer
off from being open to the present. I try to silence the mind. But the more I try, the
more it jumps from one though to another, as if it were afraid of being quiet. Why is it
afraid of being quiet? Which means: why am I afraid? I go deeply into that question, with
intensity. I discover how empty I am. I see how the mind hides from the emptiness by
making noise, by thinking and classifying. Im aware of the minds noise as one
can be aware of the sound of the ocean. I listen to it. I accept it. The memories, the
thoughts, the loneliness, and the fear come to the surface of my conscience, clashing and
rumbling like the waves of the sea. Im there, simply watching. Suddenly, there is
quiet. The mind ceases to struggle; it is peaceful. There is no clinging to the past, no
desire, no expectation for the future, no thoughtsnothing of consequence, nothing
that matters. Now there is no purpose. There is not even an "I" to put a purpose
into the present.
April 18, 1998
It was many years and much wasted effort before I came to a
beginning understanding of the concept of Aim. Up to that point, my aim was
large and grand. Union with all, understanding of all, being all. I was not too familiar
with the basics. Fate, as in lifes humiliations and frustrations, provided the
lessons for me that people did not.
In this lifetime, I was born to a family in which the father was quite mad and
committed suicide when I was very young and I didn't have any great attachment to him. My
stepfather was concerned only with our material well being and, while quite exemplary at
that, was not much inclined to my emotional or intellectual needs. My mother was an
emotional wreck, alcoholic and dependent on prescription medication to merely exist.
Discipline and direction was lacking at home. I did as I wanted, went where I
would. In school, I had the ability to grasp the content of lessons without putting out
much effort at study, write themes seemingly from thin air, and pass written and oral
tests with little worry. In life, I had the innate ability to charm and beguile, to have
that which I desired with little or no payment. In church, I had a grasp of the ceremony,
the grandeur, the emotional state invoked: though I could discuss and debate at length
with the priest, I had little understanding of the meaning of the blood and the body.I had
no use and little respect for brother and sisters, and the only ones who mattered to me
were my grandparents, far removed in time and space, and soon to be dead to this life.
Days were spent wandering the hills, in imagination of leading armies and
explorations: climbing up to survey the land below; hiding in dales and caves to chant
magic verse of silly clouds. Nights were spent reading the Bible, science fiction,
fantasy, and old philosophical tomes. When reading and listening to music became boring, I
would set out maps on the bedroom floor and plot military, political, and financial
empires. How many cats eyes were vanquished by the clearies and the steelies in
those carpeted campaigns of conquest?
As it was time to put aside childish things, there came a journey, foretold in
a moment of intense reality, that led me to something that was not easily accessed as life
had been to that time. A truth, as I knew there should be, was hinted at. It was something
that would bend all my intentions, lay root to all my endeavors, and consume my efforts
and thoughts. I came in contact with a system that explained in pervasive detail and
commanding logic something that was new, and yet known to me somewhere inside, from long,
I followed that path, and soon the difficulties began. Each defeat was kept as
a victory of knowledge. Each insurmountable problem set my effort anew. I tried to obtain
the state of awareness that I had previously, and each time it became more difficult to
reach. Crystals, exercises, dances, sounds, postures, herbs, Tarot, numerology,
astrology, and channeling all took on the trite, insubstantial feel of the nightly game
show on television.
One thing worked. Each moment I tried to remove myself from the myriad of
voices and desires clamoring within. At first, and for a long time, it was for very small
periods of time that I could hold my attention to the moment. I would fail and fall back
into the oblivion of that ordinary state of life humans lead. And yet, step by step,
tripping and falling, I would stay the course. Step by step, each moment by moment, my
awareness would hold.
It was only yesterday, and yet it has been a long time. The aim is to stay
awake. Not to dream. Dreams are for the dead. Our bodies wish to sleep. Our minds wish to
dream. Our heart to emote. If we use all of this energy our bodies so freely waste, we can
reach a place of sight that has no barrier, and slips not into illusion.
It can only be reached and held by a small aim of being awake and quiet each
and every moment. Each moment, no matter where we are, is when we must meditate. Each
small moment, in each small place. A small aim.
April 17, 1998
|A night of illusion
I slowly opened my eyes, making an effort to keep them open. In between eye blinks I
discovered the heavy blackness of the night that was already invading the room. I felt,
for a moment, disoriented and a little dizzy, but I tried to fit in. The roof and the
walls seemed to expand and contract. When at last my eyes were able to focus, I started
then, like I usually do, to reconstruct the scenes of my recent dream voyage. Like a
jigsaw puzzle, the fragments of information were all mixed up with each other, and it
seemed that some of them were banishing from my memory.
I remembered observing the green brightness of a lawn. Then I saw myself
standing on a hill, talking with a blurry spot of colors that, somehow, gave me the
sensation of being Jennifer, the girl that I work with at the restaurant and that I
just a little. Once again looking from within, I saw a stony road that went
down from the hill and into an empty space. I told "Jenny" that we should go
down. There was no sound; the communication was mute and passive. Suddenly I found myself
with half of my body sinking into a river. I couldn't feel it, but I knew I was in the
water. I was observing some strange green flowers that extended over the surface. The
presence of some one else that was walking behind me came to me. I advanced in slowness,
while I watched how the river introduced me little by little into a cave. On both sides of
the cave I distinguished more vegetation, and on the inner part of the cave walls trees
were growing. The sensation that there could be snakes in that place frightened me. I
looked towards the roof of the cave, and to my surprise, an enormous snake was rolled up
on one of the trees. I was not scared of it, but I felt as if maybe I did run the risk of
being attacked. At that moment the snake started to slide off the tree, and when it was
about to fall into the water, I woke up.
When I remembered it all again, I noticed how I was
producing that dream myself. I remembered that at the very beginning, all that I had seen
was a series of blurry spots and colors. But the sensations that remained strongly
impregnated during the day within the subtle memory of my unconscious adjusted everything
in such a way that I saw what I have previously described. Then I remembered how I had
awakened. How, also, the first thing that came into my senses upon waking up were
sensations, colors and sounds -- all in a disordered manner. I remembered how, little by
little, I made the effort to adjust my sight, until I could see, distinguish and locate
the objects in my room, just the way I had seen them before going to sleep.
April 16, 1998
The words are not flowing. The thoughts are not
coming. Where are the brilliant ideas that light up a little light bulb over your head?
I cant think of a thing to write. Time passes by, drifting off into daydreams
and thoughts of no consequence. What was I just daydreaming about? I could have written
about that but what in the world was it?
Fingers are positioned on the keyboard awaiting electric
messages from my brain. Eyes squinting, straining to see the thread to weave a tale. Uhhh!
Nothing is coming to me! Dry eyes are stinging, pupils dilating to adjust to the
brightness of the screen at one in the morning. Its too bright. Hands impatiently
fiddle with the knobs. Thats better, now I can get to some serious writing.
Well? Think! What are you going to write about? This is so
frustrating, a universe of things to write about and I cant think of one blasted
thing. Just start; something will come to you. Fingers key a few strokes. I look at the
screen. I register the symbols on the screen. There upon the screen are the digits
indicating todays date. I cant believe I cant go farther than writing
Objects dont spark one single thought. Pictures of
once loved favorite objects and moments are looked at but not recognized. Only the
thoughts of not getting enough sleep and of not having anything to write about are coming
Maybe this is what death is like, the body running
out of new ideas and slowly grinding to a halt. "No more news from this piece of
flesh... try another one!" The Universe saying you've run your course, time to go
back to the shop, time to get a new tune up, get some fuel, change the oil. The spark that
was once there retreating and finding that there is no longer any reason to hang out in
that particular hunk of meat. If this is what death is, an empty tank, a retreat into the
What would a book of the dead do for me in this
April 15, 1998
|Goals & Aims
It is so easy to fall in the hands of apathy and
lazy comfort, that I will not even notice that I have fallen in this black hole until much
later when you look back to those moments of sleep -moments of death. Ironically,
sometimes it seems so easy and natural to do what must be done when the resistance is
I had a glimpse today of how my machine can manifest pains,
tiredness, lack of attention, and other such negative manifestations, just to keep me in
this recurring prison of non activity, or empty activity. The body just doesnt want
to change its habits and routines. Though I am able to see this, becoming unidentified
with my animal host is not enough. I must put lots of effort into freeing my real self
from the chains of this stronger magnetic field, the animal, by taking intentional action.
One way to work in this area is to set oneself a goal or an
aim and carry it through with care, full attention, and with all sincerity and honesty to
oneself. One must work to the best of ones ability, and should complete every step
of the way until it has been completely carried out. By doing this regularly, one is not
only building new good habits, but one is also freeing oneself of all the life
conditioning acquired since coming out of ones mother. But this meat machine
doesnt give up the fight ever. It tries to confuse and to make one forget what
ones trying to do, in very subtle ways. It can use any idea, or action as a means to
bring one back to the prison. One must remember that its not what ones doing,
but how ones doing it that really counts.
April 14, 1998
|The Next Step
Apparently at the top of the hierarchy of organic
existence, there is a "something" that man does not achieve, though that
achievement is possible. In studies of organic existence, there are types, or species,
that range near other types or species of other groups or, genus. In other words, while
having all of a certain set of characteristics that define a genus, these species have
characteristics that place them close to another genus. Apes and orangutans are of this
description, as are platypuses and kangaroos. There are minerals that have certain
animated characteristics of simple viruses and bacteria; there are bacteria that have
characteristics of fungi, there are fungi that have certain characteristics or plants, and
plants with certain characteristics of animal, and animals with certain characteristics of
The question is what is the next step. We are talking about
Jacobs Ladder here.
The next step may quite possibly be contained in what we are
attempting to do.
There is a veil, a division, between us and the next form of
existence. This veil is to us seen as death. The normal route is out into the myriad of
forms and beings and existences that constitute the expansion and flowing destiny of what
is. The route we are on is a return. It is through the other veil that we wish to go. If
one were to see the universe as a perpetual motion machine, then one needs to understand
there needs to be a small, constant, high voltage trail of energy flowing back to the
center from which the ever-changing whirl. This is the path we are on. Back to the
If one were to build a perpetual energy machine that used
the principle of nuclear power, then you would have to have fission and fusion. Smaller
amounts of energy are needed to produce fission, and smaller amounts of energy are
produced by fission. Fusion requires larger amounts of energy, very concentrated
(intentional), and produces amazing amounts of energy, usually uncontrollable. To balance
these two principles, most action in the machine must be fission ( division, variation)
and much less fusion (unity, enlightenment). This is expressed as "narrow is the way,
and few are the chosen". It is mechanical, it is material, it is practical. Beyond
April 13, 1998
Wandering in a strange space, far away from the
"real" world, I came into contact with a large furry creature. This being was
ten feet tall, had big bulging eyes and a rather disturbing sneer on his face. I
approached cautiously. What could this large animal be doing in my backyard, had the
neighbors been practicing gene splicing while I was away? Had the world gone topsy turvy
in a single night?
"No." replied the seemingly telepathic rabbit.
"I am simply here to deliver the egg. I did not make them or color them and I will
definitely not eat them." In my befuddled state I knew not whether to flee or stay,
the rabbit seemed oblivious to my presence. The closer he came the more jittery I was
getting. He spoke again, "This egg means nothing to you, but if you don't get out of
the way I'm going to hide it under you and then you wont be able to move until someone
That was when I cautiously departed this ancient space. It
seemed the right time to let the colored eggs and the sneering rabbit have some privacy.
As I looked over my shoulder he mouthed the words, "see you next year!"
April 12, 1998
In the city of Visalia there is a sacred chapel hidden in a corner of
the Main Church, located close to the Center of the city. Inside this chapel, I met Sir
Gawain. He is one of the knights sworn to keep and protect the Holy Grail.
Pilgrims come to see him. He heals them, feed them, consoles them, and tells
them stories about our Mother. In that chapel, I saw a three year old coming to ask about
God and the afterlife, a young woman asking about how to be a mother, and a
sorcerers apprentice observing the place. He told the child that he didnt know
about the afterlife. The sorcerers apprentice then intervened, and talked with the
child. He asked the child some questions, and after a while announced that the little girl
new more than the rest of us. With great natural authority, he warned us that none of us
had any right or duty whatsoever to teach anything about God, death, or spirituality to
the children because they were older than we are. Our duty is to protect them, nurture
them, and instruct them in the ways of the world, and allow them to grow spiritually as
they know how.
The second day, our last meeting, there were just the Knight, the Sorcerer, and
me. We secured the gates, passed the sacred pipe, sang, and told stories. The Knight told
stories about his travels around the world, his combats, and his meetings with the Green
Knight, the Red Knight, and the most dangerous of them all, the Black Knight. He talked
about the time he gave up his liberation for many lifetimes of service to the Mother.
Finally, he talked about the time he had almost died in defense of the Grail.
The Sorcerer suggested that perhaps he had indeed died. He pointed to the fact
that, after that moment of death, his life had become much more mythical, more intense.
After a while, we all got down to business and shared readings from the American Book of
the Dead. Sir Gawain enjoyed the readings immensely. He said he had heard all that before,
but he couldnt pinpoint when or where. We ended the evening with a delicious piece
of cheesecake and coffee.
April 11, 1998
I walked for a couple of blocks until I came to a short alley, covered with
trash and the remains of dead dreams: old newspapers, empty ripped boxes, old coats,
broken bottles, half of a magazine cover and a couple of soda cans. It extended for half a
block and ended with a black garage door and a little wooden stairway to its right. I
walked in and found a dwarf waiting for me in the darkness.
"A dollar is all I ask... you still can't go
through the main portal but you can go up the stairway. Be careful with your choices this
I gave him what he asked for and walked up the
stairway to a gray door, assuming he had confused me with someone else and curious to
discover what was on the other side of the decaying walls. I knocked and the door opened
into darkness. I walked in, barely able to glimpse a feminine hand holding the doorknob. I
stood then in darkness and silence, waiting for something to happen. The breathing of the
woman was close to me at first, but I heard it move away slowly until it disappeared
altogether. I waited some more but there was no further movement around me.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly and I was
then able to see a long hallway stretching into darkness before me. There was a long
sequence of doors on either side, each door with a little window at eye level. I started
walking slowly down the hallway, afraid to disturb yet unable to stay where I was. As I
walked past the first door I noticed a soft light coming from inside. Checking around me
to make sure nobody was watching, I moved my eyes close to the small window.
Inside I saw two men playing poker, on a low coffee
table. One was short and stocky, the other tall and skinny. They moved their cards
carefully, with the grace of experienced players. On the walls there were photographs of
the two men, sometimes by themselves, sometimes with others. I was particularly mystified
by a little one that showed the stocky man when he was young. He was a lot more slender
then, his smile was less forced and he held a flower in his hand.
I continued walking down the hall, past a couple of
doors and then turned to one where the inner light was brighter. I peeked, a little more
brave now, somehow realizing that there was nobody around to be afraid of. This time there
was nobody in the room, just a carefully made bed, a little night lamp and several rows of
bookshelves against the walls. I opened the door to examine the books more closely, and
placed one foot inside the door when I heard laughter coming from another room. I quickly
closed the door and walked further down the hallway, figuring I would come back later.
The source of the laughter turned out to be a woman
in a room full of red light. She had long black hair and shining eyes which fell upon me
as soon as I peeked in. With her right hand she gestured, asking to come in. I turned the
knob and felt some kind of warmth at my back. I moved back and turned, and saw
another stairway leading up, ending in a brightly illuminated open door. This stair was
longer, older, and more fragile than the one outside. It seemed as if it would break apart
as soon as I set a foot on it.
Feeling torn between the adventure of the stairway,
the eyes of the woman and the mystery of the books, I decided to walk a little further
down the hallway, in case there were even more choices. I walked past many doorways on
both sides, each with its little window, each with another surprise behind it but I walked
on. Finally I heard a voice to my left that whispered:
"Thanks for coming.Before you now there is only
Death. Do come back."
Then a door opened right in front of me, a bright
blinding light hit me and I found myself on a busy street, with cars honking, children
crying and adults discussing important matters. My eyes took a while to adjust ( a couple
of tears fell from me in the process) and then I looked around me again. I knew now which
street I was on. It was late and I was hungry. I started to walk home.
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