Past lives or inner lives? They are the same anyway. In a deep trance, I found more than twenty lives that seemed mine. Did I really experience them? Are these someone else’s memories? Or am I going through them right now? Dream lives, past lives or parallel lives?
My arcane XIII
Jean-Claude Flornoy was my guide for the little mysteries. His methods were not gentle. At least in his practice he was impeccable. An old friend from childhood, he had just resurfaced in my life when I was going through a very bad patch. My wife made my life impossible, I had become too different from the young man she had chosen as her companion. His desires and his ambitions had taken a direction too far from my path. I wanted it to stop. But I didn’t want to break up.
I begged Flornoy to free me from the shackles that kept me from moving forward. A welcome helping hand to get out of the damn dilemma I was getting stuck in. It didn’t drag on. The following week, I was in Rochefort to take my arcane XIII. I shit, to say the least. The position of rising energy, the easel that breaks the kidneys until triggering the rise of energy, I get up trembling with all my limbs and then collapse on the old mattress that stinks – heavenly oasis after the tortures that lasted almost an hour!
We relax, we drool, we sweat, we cry. But do not fall asleep. In this state, the unconscious is released. The images appear, timid. And then they flow in, get organized, and stories emerge that are your own experience, in a forgotten past, even in other lives.
The torture was repeated twice a day, for five days. Inhuman. Or superhuman? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, Nietzsche said. Flornoy’s school was one of fear, suffering and renunciation. His attitude was not far from a certain cruelty. He called this place of consciousness “without mercy of sorcerers“.
Sure he was a famous one. He is no longer. Just like my alter-ego, Devic, the faithful friend, the traveling companion, my wizard brother. Gone too. I feel very alone on this cape, whipped by the winds of the world.
Alone with my memories and the light burden of my humility. It is she who helps me to live in this between-two-worlds where I spend my last days, one foot on the ground, the other elsewhere already. Don’t ask me where. It’s too fuzzy. The point is made day by day, when I see clearly I will die. Will I have time to warn you? No.
These words will remain like the sea leash, with the times and the winds. And will those years that made my present life become the source of future memories for someone else, who will believe they were me in a previous life? It could be, but I don’t believe it. I told you, all of those newfound lives slowly turned into present lives, different from mine, but tightly related, complementary, functioning as compensations, giving lessons that help get through tough times – like this one. , whipped by the winds of the world, where the precise fate has cast me.
I do not believe in past lives, I who have found so many! Paradox is my middle name. I believe in inner lives, simultaneous, but separated by thousands of kilometers, light years, eras and eons. We are masters of time and masters of space. Our minds can do all the feats that our scientists, researchers and inventors strive to replicate in the abrupt world of matter.
Clairvoyance for dummies, awakening for brutes, powers for dunces … No, definitely, it does not work like that. There is no human justice, nor divine justice, nor immanent justice. Everyone can see it. I don’t believe in karma, since I don’t believe in past lives. All the gifts or powers that a seeker of light can receive on his path are aimed at only one goal, to help him in his enterprise. Here and now. Neither yesterday nor tomorrow.
The road is hard, difficult. It goes straight ahead, but the slope is steep. Always higher. Until more thirsty. There is a lack of air in the lungs. My head is spinning. Here, in the wild Andes, I experienced the same altitude limit as before, on the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. 5000 meters is my threshold, my upper limit. I am not a climber. Not anymore. I’m dying. Farewell.
Can we die on astral travel? Yes, and if you die in your astral body, the physical body also dies dry, wherever it is. If this happens to me, don’t be surprised, pseudo-miracles are a very convenient screen. Can we fall into a trap on astral travel? Yes, it is obvious. Most wizards and witches love to challenge each other senseless. They fight through time and space in a shower of dazzling lightning.
Can we never come back from astral travel? Yes, it is also possible. I personally intervened to retrieve lost travelers in a world where they had no landmarks. The child who lives this experience is not more surprised than that, it was my case. But I guess when you first experience this at a certain age, it’s shock, it messes up, panic takes hold of you and you can’t even find your way to your physical body anymore, whereas every night, yes, I mean, every night you go out and re-enter your body without a shadow of hesitation or the slightest difficulty.
Listen, lumberjack. Have you finally understood that our whole imagination is open to the inner gold? You carry within you all the knowledge of the world, and knowledge from many other universes, at other times, in other living organisms. You know everything, in any case you know a lot more than it takes to run this world, this astral system and the whole galaxy. And you remain a taxi driver?
Sorry ? Uber driver? It’s even worse.
Can’t you see that they quarantined you until retirement? Just the word, already! RETIREMENT !! Why not retreat? We fall back to positions prepared in advance, according to the coward formula. We fly away with the tail between the legs,this French expression means: in a coward way like Napoleon’s army in its retreat from Russia. While waiting for yours, you only live a few weeks a year, during the holidays. But it shouldn’t last too long, otherwise you will miss your work routine, your coworkers assholes too.
You have within you all the power of an army of gigantic terminators. You are the seed that makes the baobab. Your roots go deeper than those of the giant sequoia. They pierce the planet and make an astral thread to the moon.
Sad sad song
Listen, sincere friend. No need to skew, chew, twist your nose, it’s bent. We stop denying. It’s cooked. Yes, you only have one life, this one. Already well amortized. Use the little that’s left as best you can. No more mess. Wind nose Beethoven. Pist the mist. Freeze the breeze.
And then? Soylent Green