Excerpt for Journey Into Thoughts On Afterlife by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Journey into Thoughts on Afterlife

Voice in the Mist 4 0f 4

Writings by Sha’Ra On WindWalker

(in collaboration with Sha'Tara EarthStar)

Copyright (©) 2018 Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Published by: Cocoons to Butterflies Publishing

Chilliwack, B.C. Canada

Cover picture by: Agustín Newell

All pictures found on FreeImages.com

Space Picture: ESA/Hubble

Next Series: What the Sea Taught Me

I hope you enjoy these writings. Feedback is welcome.



"The Letter"

A Memory

A Woman In Search Of Her Purpose

About The Future Of Earth

Beyond The Stage

Beyond Time – Be On Time…

Creating Gods And Destroying Gods

Is Death A Door?

Death Of Self

Empty Hands

Fear Of The Alien Within

Essence Of Love


If Death Is Not Death, What Then?

Let The Dead Bury The Dead!

On Death And Being Alive

The Second Greatest Gift

Journey Into Thoughts On Afterlife

Springs And Wings

Suicide Or Freedom?

The Gift Of Flight

The Great Cigarette Story

The Great Fear

The After Life

The Immune System

Where To When We Die?

The Journey Or The Destination


Of Tides And Of Seasons


These books represent a varied collection of remarkable "outside the box" thinking (and subsequently, writing).

If you are one of those trammeled and importuned by strong beliefs that won't let go, this could be your chance to break free. I'm not asking you to believe what is written therein—I can't say I believe all of it myself—but it makes for an interesting "other than" perspective. Reading these books can be compared to painting by numbers. You have this standard picture outline and between lines are colour numbers. You match the numbers to the colours and eventually you have a painting. It's not great art, of course, and everybody knows that but it gives you the impression that you did it yourself. We all know that is how the System operates. It gives us a number of colours and our life is laid out and numbered, from cradle to the grave. There isn't much we can do about it, it seems. It's the System.

Ah, but there is something we can do about it. We can ignore the numbers. Use random colours and mix them. If "3" is green, we do pink on one of the "3" sections and arbitrarily use orange on the next, and so on. Pretty soon the System doesn't know us anymore and guess what? We discover what real freedom can be. It begins by breaking the rules; by daring to violate those imposed beliefs. Here's one for you: Did man ever land on the moon? Of course they did, you will say. You saw it on TV, or you saw the videos and read the reports and documentaries, right? Ok, fine. But that is not the point since landing on the moon or not did nothing to change the way people interact with each other. So the point? The point is to paint a different colour on the "moon landing" section of your life's canvas. A "fake moon landing" colour. Now really go into this idea. Break the template here, convince yourself it was all faked in some studio, for whatever political reason. Then proceed to prove to yourself that it was so. Study this bit of history; look at the clues. What happens in the end? In the end you realize it doesn't matter at all whether they landed on the moon or not. What matters is, you dared question it.

The material in here questions "taken for granted" ideas, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour.

You know, it's hard to think these days, when everything is handed to us via TV and the Internet. Everything tells us how to think, and does so in the blink of an eye. We don't have to wait for the President's state of the union speech, or the preacher's rant on a given Sunday. We Google!

Can a mind atrophy? You bet. Look into these booklets and think about thinking.

"The Letter"

She ran across the freshly ploughed field, bare feet digging in soft loam, long dress held up with one hand, the other waving a yellow envelope as she jumped uneven furrows.

"Samuel, Samuel!"

The team stopped and the man waited, leaning on the arms of the plough, sweat pouring down his dirt-streaked face and opened homespun shirt.

"A letter from Timmy...! she cried, breathless from her race across the rough ground.

"Now, easy, woman. How d'you know it's from the boy?" he answered cautiously in a soft drawl.

"I jes' know! Please, Sam, let's go have it read!" Her eyes danced with excitement."

"Now, Susanna? Ya know the preacher's on his rounds and teacher's off for the summer... and the notary charges for readings."

"Please, I've got to know how he's doin'! Please?"

He sighed heavily and looked up for a moment: "Alright, woman, we'll go. Hitch up the gelding. I'll bring these in and feed 'em. Reckon the ploughin' can wait one more day."

As they rode their battered surrey into town, she tried to imagine the contents of the letter, all the things her son would be doing and seeing. Even though the war was raging, he'd have seen the mansions with their armies of servants, the women in their pretty getups, maybe even been to some fancy do... "I jes' hope he ain't fallen for none of them fancy types. Who knows with young un's away from home so long? Two years, three months and nineteen days..."

She was jolted from her dreaming when the rig stopped in front of the notary's office. They went in, Susanna holding herself shyly, a distance behind Sam. They waited patiently until the rotund man sitting at a desk, a shade on his balding head, stopped shuffling the pages of a paper, took a cigar from his mouth, blowing the smoke to the low ceiling, and nodded for them to approach.

"Can I help you folks?" He had studied them and smirked inwardly. He already knew what they wanted by the envelope the woman was now holding tightly to her breast. He savoured the momentary power their ignorance and threadbare poverty allowed him.

"We need a letter read, sir." Sam said, matter of factly.

"Sure, no problem." He snapped his fingers, "You got the two-bits?"

"Two-bits? Ain't that a heap o' money for a readin'?" The farmer was incredulous.

"Tis the goin' rate these days, folks!"

"Look, please, Mr. Raines" she came forward, daring to interrupt, holding out the letter to him, "it's a letter from my son in the army, sir, from the war, an' I jes' want to know what it says... please?"

Pushing out his chair, placing his feet on the desk and looking past her at a rider on the street, he answered arrogantly, "This here's a business, ma'am. Gotta have money to make it run. If I read your letter for nothin' everyone'd want the same priv'lege an' I'd be outta business, see?"

"Please..." she hesitated briefly, then tried again, "would you take some eggs, or milk, or a chicken, maybe?"

"Didn't you read my sign? 'Course not, you cain't read! Look at these here big letters" -he got up and poked viciously at the sign on his desk, then slammed his fist down -"How many times do I have to tell you people the same thing? NO PAYMENT IN KIND ACCEPTED. That means, cash, understand? Good day!" He went back to his chair, relit his cigar and exhaled with extra satisfaction. He flicked open his paper with a noncha¬lant gesture, ignoring Sam and Susanna who turned and left the office, the droop of their shoulders accented by another of life's endless defeats.

"I tried to tell you, woman" Sam said to her, not unsympathetically, as he helped her into the rig. "Edjicashun cos's money and Ben's edjicated and we're jes' dumb farmers. Like preacher says, we gotta accept this from the Lord an' not go put on airs. Jus' wait 'til Timmy returns and he'll read us the letter. By the look o' that envelope, I reckon it's a mighty fine letter."

Moved by her silent, bitter tears, he reached for her with his large, calloused hand and brought her close to himself, flicking the reins with his free hand. She turned her face to him for a moment, then leaned against him, holding the letter between them.

She rode the rest of the way silently, crushed by her ignor¬ance and shamed at having taken Sam from his work. Approach¬ing their homestead in the early fall twilight, she did not experience the usual sense of happiness and security which the sight always gave her. She could not articulate the deep sadness which held her as she disembarked and entered the shack.

She placed the letter on the small wall shelf above the table, next to the Bible and the faded blue ribbon Timmy had won at school in a spelling bee.

Sometimes, on sleepless nights, Susanna would take the letter and hold it tenderly, visualizing her son standing by her side. She saw his green eyes sparkle as her hand went through his unruly reddish hair, his freckled face open in that special smile he had always kept for her alone. She would cry a little, then put it back. She never again dared to have it opened and read, although the preacher passed through several times, and the schoolmarm returned for another year.

Rumours that the war had ended began to circulate through the county, but it was only when some of the boys returned and Timmy did not, nor send any more letters, that Samuel realized he had not written the letter and that Susanna had always known.

A Memory

Upon green hills rolling down

to an ever-changing sea,

in white and gold, flowers bloomed,

nodding in whispering breezes

caressing the island;

dancing in passing storms

sending the sheep to shelter...

til the rain came no more.

As a flower, she withered away

under the fiery summer sun.

Empty of her laughter

the world lies in leaden slumber,

parched, brown and silent

beneath my tired feet.

I believe

the universal pool of tears


to ever again paint the hills

in that tapestry of white and gold

above the green of hill and sea.

"A masterpiece in time's silent museum,

she remains,

forever etched in memory."

A Woman In Search Of Her Purpose

They let me out of lock-up yesterday and I went straight home, poured myself a triple scotch, dry, from a bottle I picked up on the way. Then, I thought, to hell with it and polished off the bottle and slept for eighteen hours. Now, although I feel sick and I've got a mega headache I'm going to tell you a story you aren't going to believe. But it's true, completely, however impossibly, true!

I don't even know if I should use the past tense, or the present. I'll just wander in and out here, so bear with me. It'll be worth your while and it won't be a novel, just a nice little short story, the kind you don't read to your grandkids. Here goes.

I met Sophie, or Sophia in the Starbucks across the street. I was on my way to the office and she came in soaked to the skin in the late April rain. She didn't have an umbrella, not even a raincoat, so I offered her mine. I saw the most beautiful velvety hazel eyes twinkling at me, and a smile that just about knocked me over. I introduced myself and we made plans to meet in the evening. "I want to return your raincoat Harry!" she said to me. Her voice -- honey on warm sweet rolls. She made me hum the song that goes this way:

"The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes

and the moon and stars were the gift you gave

to the dark and the empty skies my love..."

(Gordon Lightfoot: The First Time I Saw Your Face)

Two days later, May first, she moved in with me. Love at first sight and all that. We made love "like sea otters" is one expression. I had never dreamed life could just turn like that and be so good. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven every time I came home and she was there waiting, or she'd walk uptown and meet me for lunch. She wasn't demanding either. Never asked for money even though she did not work. I was too caught up in her loving to give it any thought but if she'd asked me for my last dollar I'd have given it to her.

What makes Sophie so wonderful, so attractive, so desirable is not just her physical beauty: she's not short on wonderful attributes that way, but it's her way. Her way of saying things that leave you feeling warm inside. Her way of looking at life that gives everything a kind of puppy dog look. Seen through her eyes the world is a beautiful place. Her way of making every day perfect because, she says, it's different in every way from the day before. Her way of touching you. Her subtle compliments about everything. Nice, yes, that would describe Sophie. Nice and warm and, well, as much as I dislike using absolutes, I must repeat myself: perfect in every way.

For six blissful months I got to know her, revelling in her charms. Everything was good for me. Work became not only easier - I could see my way through problems faster - but I began to relate to fellow employees in a way that emulated the relationship I was having with Sophie. I treated telephone solicitors with courtesy. Door to door sales or religious people I invited in for honest appraisals of what they offered. I gave my seat on the bus to others I thought needed it more. I lost my tendency to quick anger when I observed ignorance in action. I made inner excuses for the perpetrators and I noticed my health improving and my stress level dropped. My doctor was happy with the changes.

I could go on. The list of personal improvements is long. Sophie, I would say to myself, you must be an angel from heaven on some personal assignment. Thanks for picking me. Indeed it felt like she had "picked" me.

I said six months, didn't I? Ah, yes. I came home one day and she wasn't there. Not unusual. Her mother lived in a town some two hundred miles off and she sometimes caught a bus to visit her and a sister in that same town. She never asked me to go with her and I was so busy I was glad she did not. She'd be gone for two or three days, once for a whole week, then came back, pensive but as full of life as ever. So this time I wasn't concerned, although she hadn't told me she would be leaving and I could not find any note or message saying when she would return. A week passed and I began to get nervous, not to mention terribly lonely. Finally I called the police and explained the situation. They weren't very helpful. Another week went by and when I came home, that was on Tuesday, October 26 at 5:45 PM there was a police cruiser in front of my apartment and an unmarked car as well. The police had entered my place and done a search. I was questioned as to the whereabouts of Sophie Arlana. I told them everything I knew. The woman detective kept at me for hours and left after giving me the look that said, "I'm not done with you, asshole!"

Two days later I was arrested on murder charges and put in the local lock-up. My life disintegrated. I didn't care about anything. I just wanted to see Sophie again. I was arraigned. No bail. I stayed in jail and began the process of finding a "real" lawyer. Going through the motions, you might say. Meanwhile, a lieutenant Frank Steel, a specialist in cases involving crimes of passion and disappeared lovers was put in charge of closing the case. Here's what happened next.

Steel returned to my apartment and began a whole new search for evidence. He had been a psychiatrist before he became an investigator and used his abilities to penetrate people's thinking patterns to gather his evidence. Most other detectives left him strictly alone. You might say they hated him because nine times out of ten his discoveries made a mockery of previously gathered evidence.

In looking through our belongings he came upon a book of French poetry stuck in the "reading" basket in the bathroom. He carefully took it out and checked it for fingerprints. They were Sophie's. He went through it page by page and found a sheet of thin paper in a woman's handwriting: Sophie's. He read her note.

"Dear Harry: I have to leave you today. Our time has been wonderful and I've gotten all that I could get from it. I hope that my stay with you has also helped you see life in a different way. I'm not who you think I am. My name is not Sophie Arlana -- and yes I know the police are, or will be, reading this - happens almost every time I stay more than a few days with a man who begins to think I've become a permanent part of his life. I do not have a mother in Kingston, nor do I have a sister. My family, what's left of them, lives in a small country in Europe. Our family changed its name to survive revolutions and pogroms but held on to its fortune. I have access to money, hence why I never ask for any. I do not take on jobs for obvious reasons: they create traces. That's all I'll say on the subject.

Harry, you'll probably be devastated to read this. Sorry. Try to understand. I'm a free woman and I want to discover as much from life as is possible. So I made a covenant with myself that as long as I'm able I would spend a certain amount of time, six months at the outside, with a man of my choice. A man I would know nothing about but would choose from the results of an encounter. It could be any man, even a married one, as long as he was willing to spend that particular time with me. Part of my goal is to discover myself through the eyes of those men. To live through my responses to their advances... or rejections! To experience their needs and expectations of me.

You see Harry, I want to discover what a woman's purpose is on this planet. I haven't found it yet, not in myself, not by reading other women's thoughts nor by observing how women go about fulfilling their roles and duties, or going through the motions of expectations of fashions, of family and romantic relationships, of religious affiliation, particularly of those that worship male deities. What is a woman, Harry? Is she something designed to fulfill men? If so, in what way? Is she just a slave of man's system? A drone or sex slave? A house keeper, baby maker and caretaker? Does she have a voice of her own between each sunrise, each sunset? Who am I, Harry? Who am I, Mr. Detective reading this note?

To the authorities: I've left enough evidence in this place to show I have not been a victim of foul play. I chose to disappear to live another bit of life somewhere else, in completely different circumstances. By the time you read this I will be in another country. And I will be another woman, speaking another language. I speak thirteen languages fluently and many forms of local dialects. A small boast, forgive me.

You are a good man Harry and I apologize if I've caused you some inconveniences by leaving this way. Some places give the man a tough time but it's all part of the "lesson" for you as well as for me. You see, I am in love with you Harry. I tried leaving you on several of my trips to "visit my mother" but each time I was pulled back. Finally though I reached the end of my time and I cannot break my vow. It's who I am. I will never forget you. You made me a better woman, perhaps now closer to understanding myself. And I know that the "good woman" face I showed you made you want to be a better man. Please don't lose that now. If you want me to remain a part of your life, then continue to grow in love and acceptance of others. As I shall, thanks to you.

I will be, shall we say, "looking in on you" in a while to make sure you are fine. You will be contacted in a way that will leave no doubts in your mind it came from me. Enjoy the rest of your life, Harry. Thanks. Au revoir mon ami de fortune; Adjö."

About The Future Of Earth

Some believe life is but dust

blowing in winds of chance,

'til death stills the winds.

Here, in this silent stillness;

despair pervades thought,

creates a world of zombies

with rock hearts and ice minds.

And now, even angels

no longer set foot in this place

for who would frequent a world

where death is the final legacy

and the masters choose it this way?

Do the rhythms of the sea;

its tides and flux and streams

tell us there is more?

No longer: not the sea, why would it?

No, not the sea, but whales!

Ahhh, the whales who still sing

their strange songs within the waters

and halfway across the globe

their brethren hear and respond.

But technology rips the song apart:

a technology of instant gratification;

of instant death: the whale dies first

then the worshiper of alien thought,

the maker of death - the man

also dies, silenced by his own noise.

No good standing upon the shore

today: the song has died and yes,

earth life has become nothing

but a speck of cosmic dust.

Beyond The Stage

Like a comet, expected,

you appear on the stage

to perform a play called life.

Spectators of your drama

share the love of their hearts,

encouraged by your wisdom

even as you speak, laugh,

or sit quietly and sometimes weep,

for joy, for compassion,

for the common sorrow of man.

or the common joy of being in life.

And the play ends.

Today you lie still, as in a dream

from which you do not awake;

silently, unseen, the you that was

fades away from this consciousness

to a life beyond this stage:

the final curtain of this one drama

has fallen over a silent audience

without applause or encores.

You've concluded this part;

rejoined the boundless light

of infinity in some other reality -

clearing the stage for others

to try on your measured teachings

developed by your earth drama:

O friend, I salute you one last time!

Beyond Time – Be On Time…

A play on words? A homonymous construct? A contradiction? But what is a contradiction? We find a degree of order and lock it in, only to discover that chaos always manages to slip in and over time our safe and predictable set of rules falls apart. Are ‘chaos’ and ‘order’ contradictory states?

A better question would be, at what point do we stop guessing and hoping, choosing instead to know our conceptual reality? Do we need divinities, angels, prophets, gurus, psychics, historians or theoretical physicists to know and own our history? One dream, one vision understood and accepted is all it takes.

Once upon a before-time in the Cosmos a group of ascended masters (AM)came together and decided to safeguard their ‘inventions’ from continually returning (they called it ‘falling’) into the common chaotic mess forever emanating from Source. They came to believe that Source was calling them to ‘order’ its creation. They wanted to believe that so badly, they made it so. They knew they could not shield infinity; they could not ‘order’ the flow of energy emanating from Source. So they did the next possible thing: They took a chunk of free-flowing energy from the Cosmic outflow and closed it off from the rest.

To shield their particular piece of real-estate from further upheavals by unpredictable surges of Source creative force they made it into a closed system within the living Cosmos, a system bound by an arbitrary and artificial concept they called space/time, or simply, “The Measured.” Of course, in order for this space/time construct to maintain its power to withstand chaos, to ensure it would not become corrupted by further influx of unpredictability they had to make themselves a part of their own creation, to become its lords and masters, its pillars as well as its law-givers, rule-makers and enforcers.

The Master-creators became locked within the great walls of their own creation and it became a universal prison. At that time the great original creator Gods were born. These invented matter, from gases to the heaviest elements known. For yet uncounted eons, they joined particles and formed their worlds. They lived in a very big place so whenever their experiments clashed they simply moved farther apart from each other. The Gods were not all equal in power. In time lesser ones appeared, puppet masters (PM) who, by permission, grant, or stealth, took charge of lesser systems. Those who stole or conquered weaker systems then consolidated their holdings against possible returns of the Great Ones. But these never returned and the reason for it, however obvious it is, is another story.

In the early eons of divine rule there were female elements among them called Goddesses. But the Great Ones had a terrible time with these female entities. They were easily seduced by them and once under their influence, would do things they were angry about later. The Great Ones secretly came together to discuss the matter of the Females and it was determined that the Females were of Chaos and could never be made to obey the rules of Order. It was further agreed that they were bent upon destroying the carefully erected order (CEO) to reinstate chaos and destroy the works of the Great Ones. Unanimously and without warning the Gods turned upon the Goddesses, stripped them of their creative powers and enslaved them and their worlds. This was the second great mistake and greatest evil which separation from Source caused within the God’s domain.

Proto-history then tells us that within the worlds of the Great Gods, now fallen into a realm of Time Lords, war became a way to resolve conflict. As we are told (however biased the tale in these times) there was war in the heavens. But it was not just one battle; it became an endless series of conflicts. Entire galaxies vanished, worlds exploded, billions upon billions of lives were engulfed by the conflagrations and proto-humans, or half-human, half-divine entities were scattered throughout the universe. Some were helped and given new homes far from the great conflicts. But always, inevitably, the conflict found them, or else, it arose from their own minds and hearts and they too turned to oppression and killing.

What had happened? Quite simply the great time/space shields had failed and original ‘chaos’ had begun to seep into the Time Lords’ worlds, destroying the old artificial balance of despotism, calling its imprisoned life to get back into the flow of infinity energy.

It is at that time that a new, very simple, very basic, system was put together as a possible home for remnants of battle and time-traveled weary ones. It was named Sol and each of its worlds was designed to accommodate a particular type of sentient life seeking refuge from the endless wars. Each group of sentience admitted to these new worlds was ordered to relinquish all technology or external form of power and to naturally engage its custom world’s life. Disillusioned, weakened, tired and in shock from so much loss of those they had loved, the newcomers, or pilgrims, agreed.

The concept, however primitive, was sound. The worlds were designed to give and sustain life. For the briefest of time spans the sentients of Sol experienced what would come to be called ‘a new heaven and a new earth’ for themselves. But evil was now rampant within the Time Lords’ worlds and Sol would not escape.

And so, now we leave proto-history and enter the history of Earth, a history indelibly written within the mind-heart of every sentient on this world. A simple matter of ‘remembering’ or what my teachers call ‘entering your remembrances’ – the power to remember.

Another ‘if-then’:

If the Time Lords had not declared themselves to be Gods and if they could still learn from their mistakes, then they would know that life cannot be ‘measured’; that it cannot be separated from its source; that each and every source is inextricably linked to its previous source all the way ‘back’ to the Original Matrix, or OM.

It is life’s connection(s) that makes it come alive, not its shape or place in space/time! Chaos and order as inimical states is but the skewed perception of lesser, twisted minds.

Creating Gods And Destroying Gods

First, a silly:

Pascal's Wager (Blaise Pascal, mathematician and philosopher, 1623-1662)

1. If you choose to believe in God, and if God exists, you go to heaven: your gain is infinite.

2. If you choose to believe in God, and if God doesn't exist, your loss is finite and therefore negligible.

3. If you choose not to believe in God, and if God doesn't exist, your gain is finite and therefore negligible.

4. If you choose not to believe in God, and if God exists, you will go to hell: your loss is infinite.


"Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important." [C. S. Lewis - undoubtedly a take from Pascal's Wager]

Now some sad reality:

We have been taught that our "gods" (or God for those stuck in the singular) created us. But we were lied to. What Earthian history shows is the opposite.

I'm not saying that some advanced civilization from the stars didn't have a hand in forming the physical being known as Earthian man. Obviously, these weren't gods at all. At best, they were what we are to the ant. What I have to say has nothing to do with this.

Observation: Whenever humans express force against other humans (group to group) they create and empower gods of resentment, anger and hate. A downtrodden group, unless it is physically eradicated via genocide, will always remember its downfall, whether it was deserved or not. Generations upon generations may pass but the "remembrance" will remain to haunt and shape each succeeding one until such time as its oppressor has in turn become weak and the wheel of time says, "pay-back time. " How do we know there are gods behind this pay-back? Because the people involved are willing to commit unbelievable atrocities against helpless individuals or willing to knowingly and deliberately sacrifice their own lives to assure pay-back is achieved.

Remember this whenever you see a process creating "terrorists." It is empowering gods, not human beings. Destroying the human "terrorists" will only create more terror - on both sides and forever.

In his book, "Stalking the Wild Pendulum" Itzhak Bentov explains the process of creating a god. Anything can become a god - all it needs is recognition for having the power to be or do something its "worshipper" cannot. Any such god's power increases with recognition and diminishes or disappears when no longer recognized as a power. A mountain can become a god, by definition, then return to being just another mountain when those who worshipped it move on, or are assimilated into another belief system.

There are gods, however, who are eternal. Of spirit and mind, they span time from beginning to end. These eternals do not change their nature because if they did, they would cease to exist! So if they were "created" from fear, anger and hate (as was the infamous Jehovah of the Bible) these will be their attributes and worshippers who invoke these gods will be empowered with the same attributes - whether they like it or not! The problem with "believing" is you give up the option of personal choice in everything.

And that is how we explain endless wars between certain factions and the impossibility to ever reconcile the two. It's not the humans who are actually fighting, but the created, eternal gods attached to an unchanging (from their view-point) landscape of mind. The Greeks certainly had a better handle on this process than the modern believers with their mindless, impotent, hidden and silent "One" god endlessly engaged in Earthian conflicts and a schemer to boot.

Question: how would we go about disempowering or "killing" these Time Lords or Eternals? Is there a power that can destroy them, since time cannot do so?

Is Death A Door?

Could death be but a door?

Not an end, not a punishment

but simply a new beginning?

Can we choose to become

as the mythical Phoenix

and rise from our dying?

Or better yet, can we transmute

the energy called death;

walking through unscathed?

Leave the aging and dying

to those who do not know -

by-pass the unpleasantness.

Walk from place to place

shedding inappropriate garments

at the appropriate moment.

We were not born to die,

but to live: this we know -

yet who rejoices at death?

Death indeed is a door:

but how do you open such?

Traditionally with fear.

If this be so, I say it is high time

we changed our paradigm:

Who could say “no!”?

Death Of Self

Say what you will:

when speaking of humanity

one speaks of selfishness.

Humans are selfish beings.

How did this come about? -

I don't know.

I don't know even why we know

this is so.

Evolution of mind?

Growing awareness?

Growing unease with our excesses?

It's now quite obvious:

being selfish is not a good thing.

So how do I change this?

How do I become something I am not?

There is, it seems, but one way:

the old path of self-discipline;

of personal sacrifice.

Ugly thoughts in today's narcissism

but what else is there?

I would speak of death here,

not death of a body

but death of one's character.

If it is a truism:

“You do what you are”

I can only do “other than”

if I change my nature.

So, some will challenge me,

say it is impossible.

But I will contend:

all things are possible

and given the alternative,

I'll take the impossible:

the death of the selfish self

and welcome the new self:

the empathic, compassionate


Empty Hands

Time slips inexorably

from my empty hands;

life ebbs away;

understanding flees.

Life propels me forth;

I move as blind,

my future hidden

in clouds of doubt.

How will I ever know

if I have found

the river of life

dissipating slowly

in the sea of dreams,

If I cannot dispel

this darkness?

"Life, why don't you stand still

and give me time to think?"

Fear Of The Alien Within

Futuristic science fiction scenario: an Earthian astronaut (Keith Stoner) sent in space to capture a wandering alien starship gets stranded aboard the alien vessel and spends 5 years "frozen" beside the dead body of the alien who's ship it presumably was. After another 12 years in suspended animation on earth Stoner awakens, escapes from his keepers on earth and goes on a walk-about of the planet. But now he's not just an Earthian. The alien has somehow entered his mind. And the alien intends to learn all there is to learn about Earthian humanity.

"He watched the humans bustling and scurrying through the train station, hyperactive monkeys jabbering away their lives, not a shred of dignity about them, living on their emotions, letting their glands and their mammalian brains dictate the ordinary moments of their existences. It's not fair to think of us that way, said one part of his mind. But that's the way you are, replied another voice within him. You have the power of abstract thought, the capability of comprehending the universe -- yet you behave like monkeys in the forests.

"Stoner shook his head, as if to drive the alien voice out of his thoughts. It went silent, but he could feel its presence inside his skull, watching, observing, analyzing. There was no hint of censure in the voice, no anger or disappointment with the human condition. No pity either. Nothing but precise objective measurement."

(From "Voyagers II - The Alien Within" by Ben Bova)

And what is it the alien saw? What was it thinking as it surveyed this Earthian scene? Analysis: Earthians fear being alone and have never understood that each and everyone of them, no matter how crowded they become on their finite world, is alone. Totally alone. That's the difference between humans and animals: the instinctive link to the species is broken. In fear of this reality, the Earthians drown one-another in noise and repetitive, dead-end activities, including sex without "love".

When a rising ISSA (to clarify: ISSA - acronym for Intelligent, Sentient, Self-Aware) race breaks its link with nature it becomes fearful because it feels naked and vulnerable. It thinks that something's gone wrong with the world and does any number of idiotic and fruitless things to recreate that link. It invents endless ways to re-group. I can't be alone in the universe, it cries out - so it invents specific gods to fill the empty space. These gods need people to serve them, so the mind invents collectives to serve the gods so they will remain a viable force.

Once invented, the gods become absolute dictators; make "rules" that all should abide by - but eventually only those who don't believe in the gods are censured by those rules. Believers are basically exempt by virtue of belonging. Wars ensue, of course, because once a god has declared a nation or group anathema, they can be freely exploited, oppressed, their women raped, children enslaved and those who object, killed outright. The god gives the might that makes right.

These gods are not necessarily creatures of the spirit realms. They can be forms of government, military forces, belief systems, a nationality or race, or, as is the case today, money. Serving political systems or money is just another form of worship. That becomes obvious when you see people serving institutions that do nothing but take from individuals to feather the nests of the powerful; who destroy natural resources, the environment, and foment endless wars of conquest and resource exploitation. Earthians fear being alone and will pay any price to belong to someone or something. They fear their next giant step in evolution.

So they collect at their computer terminals, in churches, arenas, gambling halls, malls, hospitals, sports arenas, board rooms and parade squares, accompanied by slogans, cheers, jeers and flags. They jabber, argue and fight. Their children are bored to tears, fidgeting or screaming, attempting to shake the sickness from further shrinking their stunted brains. Doesn't matter. They are in the trap with their parents or guardians. The dead-end trap of the growing collective fear.

But the madness doesn't stop here. Earthians are for the most part paranoid about anyone else showing up at the gathering - anyone not of this world, or of this reality. Anything "out there" has to be either of demonic persuasion, or intent on doing harm to Earthians. How many times have we been served the cheap drama of invading little green men? Lapped it up so deeply that presidents of the number one military power on earth felt it safe to follow through on defensive measures of a star wars system knowing the masses would support it if the collective fear was properly manipulated? After all, Earthians are so loving and caring of one-another, it wouldn't do to let some nasty "aliens" come in and spoil our gentle and peaceful global relations now, would it?

The alien within would laugh at such idiocy, were it not so destructive to the ISSA mind. It would rather reach out into each individual mind and make it feel comfortable in being alone. But such can only happen through self-empowerment. Of course. Catch 22. You cannot become self-empowered as long as you depend on some external presence to protect or fulfill. You cannot feel safe unless you are thoroughly self-empowered.

The alien within knows how an ISSA gets past that conundrum. But how does it reach into the Earthian mind without violating it? The Earthian mind must seek for, and dare, open itself to this new presence. Must make that presence an integral part of itself and function on that new level. That's the next logical and necessary step in human evolution on earth. "We" will never arrive at this with current processes. A new mind, a new way of thinking must "infect" the Earthian mind before it can begin its laborious climb out of its old, obsolete and destructive assumptions.

"We" - that is myself and the alien within - propose the Golden Path to all. Our "New Year" gift to the planet.

Your mission, Earthian, should you decide to accept it, is to individually, by deliberate personal choice, become a (singular) compassionate being. You must be willing to bear the entire cost of the mission from your own private funds. No fund raising allowed. No seeking external help or hiring of support staff. No conning anyone else to join. No creating new institutions. No claiming you are invested with decisiveness by this or that power or god.

You are alone. That's the deal. Good luck.

This message is self-empowered. It will not self-destruct.

Essence Of Love


What is it we call “evil”?

That which some call “wrong”

but which is enjoyed by others?

That which some abhor

but others find necessary?

God is Love, some say,

yet a law of God demands death:

death by stoning no less

for a woman who gave birth

out of wedlock

and abandoned to her fate

by the man she loved!

To some, this is barbaric;

to some, this is a necessity;

to some, this is vindication.

How should we see this?

Horrible? Normal? Honourable?

It depends on one’s point of view.

How can we know what’s right;

what’s wrong?

Simple: through a sense of empathy;

we feel what we inflict on others:

within months; perhaps within days,

gratuitous violence would disappear.

Something to ponder.


I left on a quest, a spiritual undertaking;

on a desperate search for detachment

from lust, money, luxury, power,

and the senseless need to always win.

I stood looking at the mighty river

river of dreams, river of choices...

hoping a friend, a great Master

would give me a bag full of spiritual wisdom

to make this a pleasant journey; a happy time,

but all I found was a bag of stones

left there for me...

In great disappointment,

I wondered what this meant;

I knew I must carry this bag of stones,

of that I had no doubt,

but what if I became too weary to walk with this burden?

What if I failed in this strange task?

Mostly, what was the point?

From within the swirling waters a voice spoke:

“The friend you seek

could have left you a bag of good wishes,

promises of love, and many a false hope

of nothing but smooth walks without hills or valleys

a bag of spiritual candy, if you will,

as the world of man gives of its lies

to unsuspecting seekers...

but being a friend and Master,

he left instead this bag of stones..

What should you do with this gift?

Why not try this approach:

each time you come near a body of water:

a brook, a lake, a river, an ocean,

take a stone from your bag

and throw it in the water.

Do not look where it lands, let it go

and know that the water

is purified by your action

and will turn it into love for you:

for each stone represents an attachment

to those things that create suffering,

and when every stone is gone

your path will be joyful

and you shall go upon it without stumbling.”

If Death Is Not Death, What Then?

Will death overtake me

in the night?

Will I find myself still alive,

without a body?

There's a considerably wide belief

that asserts this is so:

can that majority be so wrong?

Perhaps I should have a plan

for such a contingency;

a means of intelligent input

should I not die when I “die”

but continue on

interacting with whomever.

Do I want to have some say

in what happens to me?

Or do I wish for the best

and let “them” dispose of me?

Should I assume I won't exist at all

without a body?

Should I assume if I do

everything must be just fine?

Who says

things just motor on perfectly

in the afterlife?

Seems to me after all

life is based on free will;

that whatever happens to me

will be because I chose

or refused to choose -

My final point:

if I prepare for an eventuality

that never comes about,

the doing of which

has made me a better person:

what have I lost?

Let The Dead Bury The Dead!

Why are the dead embalmed,

so carefully packed away in boxes

like paraffin mummies

bearing no resemblance

to the incarnated soul now gone to rest

(or so it is said)?

Strange creatures to believe

they can live outside the bonds

formed by the Earth upon their flesh;

to believe a body should be saved

from the hands of Earth,

put in a box like some great treasure

to be preserved - for whom?

For how long? Is it expected

the owner will return?

The Earth cries out for you

to acknowledge her gift of life in flesh,

today: give her a blessing

because you are! Because you are!

And should a loved one die

take the body in your arms;

gently lay it to rest naked

upon a field, in a marsh, on a mountain

and walk away, neither sad nor happy:

just walk away. The Earth knows

how to embalm.

Let the dead bury their own dead.

On Death And Being Alive

Some "ancient" truth, as shared with me by my friends in attempts to answer my questions about life beyond the limitations and boundaries of Earthian thinking.

"Listened to these words, they possess a key to open doors to great changes."

(YLea and El Issa)

Being "alive" does not mean living in a state of "health, wealth and happiness" as some First World narcissistic teachings proclaim or at least imply.

Being "alive" does not mean to exist in some physical form even.

It means "being aware". To know oneself. To stand alone in relation to one's environment. The "environment" for the alive person is that by which she defines herself.

The attributes "good" or "bad" ascribed to the environment have nothing to do with being alive. This, the self-empowered individual knows.

If we are attached to our environment - meaning all environment, including all relationships, all belief systems, everything that is other than the basic "me" - we cannot be self-empowered. The term remains meaningless.

For example, if I believe in God then I am forced to depend on that. Since I depend on Him, Her, It, I will be forced to think of that as "good" and I will then seek to reinforce that belief by every means possible. Yes, emphasize: "By every possible means." I will create the mental reality that assures me God is good, regardless of evidence to the contrary (I will blame people when belief in God results in horror or tragedy).

Regardless of evidence, I will be forced to support inimical "systems" that claim to work within the will of God. I will live the paradox and won't see it for what it is.

If I believe that my well-being depends upon a pristine natural environment, I will suffer greatly from visions of environmental destruction over which I seem powerless. I will not be able to rise above the circumstances created by my belief system, and I will not be healthy. I may become despondent, or I may seek to escape to some "paradise" where I think I may have some control, some power, to create conditions that will ensure my environment, at least, will be safe from encroachments by society at large. If the encroachments threaten to enter my "closed" society, I will see "society at large" as my enemy.

Just two examples of belief systems that do not contribute to self-empowerment, but to enslavement, separation and ostracizing.

It is time to clarify "detachment" and "separation". These are not synonymous. Separation is delusional and leads to psychosis. Jehovah, Nero, Hitler, Napoleon, Alexander the Great - well-known historical figures who would have made the world in their own image. Psychotic entities, separated from their social environment who relied on conquests, perversions of power, false promises (lies and threats), bloodshed and genocide in attempts to reach their goal of total domination of a planet. (Note that they all failed!)

Detachment is the opposite of separation. This is the state of blissful awareness that all of life is sacred, so sacred that one would not claim even a portion of "it" as one's own. Detachment naturally dovetails with the working concept of "servant hood" -- another term grossly misunderstood, maligned and misapplied here.

The being in detachment has no belief systems. No debilitating dependencies. No fear, neither of death, life, past or future. This isn't denial. It's the most practical form of interaction with life anyone can ever know (as far as I know to date anyway). But how does one know one is in detachment? One knows through serving. Not slaving, not working as an employee. Not by force, but by complete choice. In total freedom. One serves others (life!) because that is simply the answer to the highest calling which is that of compassion.

How does one arrive at such a "lofty" lowly estate? By the contemplation of "death" in all its forms. The natural cycles of death; the unjust death of the oppressed of the earth; the death of man-made systems; and one's own death. By discovering the hidden doors of "death" that lead to life. By opening and entering those doors, seeing what lies on the other side, then returning empowered.

The greatest gift we can ever give our children, if we were unafraid, free and knowledgeable about the things that truly matter, is to teach them to die. When very young, children exist in a state of great innocence and freedom. They understand the things of the spirit much more readily than brainwashed and burdened adults. Children still "remember" life before conception and being in a physical body. They can walk between the worlds naturally. A parent would do well to encourage such a thing. But how could parents who are in the state of attachment do this? Take the chance that the child leaves and chooses not to return because she or he found a more suitable "place" outside?

So, sadly, the gift is taken from the children. They join the feeding frenzy of earth. They push "death" ever farther away from their mind and for many years, live as if it was never going to happen to them. Hence the horrors done on earth -- all of them. All can be ascribed to living a paradox: an irresolvable conundrum because a main ingredient of the human equation is deliberately left out.

Everything "dies" to become something else. In nature, there is apparently no choice. But ISSA beings are not, strictly speaking, natural beings. They are more than nature. They have free will, and free will demands the making of choices. Not "free" choice, mind you, but constant choice. Every choice bears a price.

To know "life" one must engage "death". That is the sacred duty of the evolving ISSA person. If the choice is not made, if the ISSA leaves it to nature to take care of the death thing, that person suffers an animal type of death. Much lost, little gained from the effort of having lived a life on earth as a human. If the choice is left to the gods, then free-will is abrogated. The same happens: no choice. You may hate the harp and be forced to play one for eternity! [Just a joke! Don't beat up on me about harps and halos!]

Death is not a state, but a series of passages, mazes. They must eventually be navigated successfully to another side. If one is detached, one can pass through the maze without being tripped up. Without stopping to gawk at (or partake in) attractive things based on previous addictions: romance, sex, food, physical beauty, greed, power over, etc. All the things that attract in "life" will be found in the maze. Beware, Alice!

Sometimes I am tempted to think earth is not a legitimate place where people live normal lives, but is this "death" maze!

To break free of the maze, we are given certain gifts of life, magical things that turn off the porno videos when we pass, and silence the roaring lions. We are given compassion. That would be the first one. With the practice of compassion, we become servants. As we choose to serve, we develop the state of detachment. At this point, the limitations of these lesser worlds shatter before us. What began as self-denial becomes, in truth, self-empowerment.

The missing part that creates the life paradox on earth is fitted perfectly into the gap - and we realize it is the capstone that holds the arch up while we pass unscathed beneath.

The above is not difficult to grasp. It just seems difficult to "do". That's why the endless "other ways" to enlightenment are so eagerly sought after - the ones that promise results without effort or pain. If they worked, we wouldn't be here today contemplating the mess we are making of everything. Sad.

But then, there is always to possibility that some will see their ways do not work and will choose those that do; the simple and self-effacing gifts of Galadriel -- the way bread that sustains where there is nothing to eat, the cloaks that give near-invisibility and the Light of Earendil that frightens even the most demonic of monsters.

"I will not fear. Fear is the little death. I will face my fear. I will let it pass through me. And when it has passed, I will look back and there will be nothing there. Only I will be standing there. (Bene Gesserit mantra against fear from "Dune" by Frank Herbert)

"To be reborn one must murder what one was" (R. Scott Bakker –the Thousandfold Thought)

The Second Greatest Gift

We may invent any kind of trick or gimmick

to ignore, deny, or cheat old man death

but still he remains here, right here

and at the appointed time (his, not ours) -

in humility or in pride, we'll take his road.

We may search til the cosmic cows come home

and lay quietly down to chew their cud;

we may re-invent the quest for the fountain of youth

or fill our heads with arcane knowledge

and still we won't have a clue

as to death's identity, nor where he hails from.

The statistics are in: they say one out of one dies.

That being an unalterable fact, why fight it?

Why not replace fear of death with compassion?

Replace the taking of life with the giving of life?

For, wouldn't you say it is fear of death

that makes us fight and kill one-another?

If I cannot prolong my own life,

let alone save it, however I try,

perhaps I can give to another

that which I cannot keep for myself

or even give to myself?

Journey Into Thoughts On Afterlife

My goal was to walk the high mountains that day

so I passed through forests of poplars and birches

eagerly shedding their golds and browns

in anticipation of Winter and avalanches

of branch-breaking freezing snows not so far away.

I observed their leaves fall to the ground,

and pondered this unalterable fact:

that such an act has been performed

for uncounted years in these un-humanly quiet places.

As I walked through these valleys of harsh shadows

it became inevitable I'd think of my own life,

a life well advanced and no going back,

the past now a silent memory, most of it lost already.

So to the future I must look: and what is that?

I've heard the theories, and seen many a face

imbued with its belief of heaven and of hell.

Safe beliefs, I thought, provided by Religion

to suck membership, money and common sense

from the frightened, the foolish, the unwary

(and of those icebergs I've always prided myself

I could steer clear).

Alone but for the wind and death rattle

of a thousand falling leaves scraping algae-speckled bark

I consider this future, this possibility, this thought:

Do we have existence of a kind,

a future beyond this one physical passage?

Can one know for certain?

I heard towhees and varied thrushes

scratching for their food in the underbrush:

What do they think, I began to wonder?

Easy it would be to dismiss

the idea they'd have thoughts on the matter,

being but dumb animals and all that,

and I a member of the Master Race after all.

But I'm the only one here, and this is their world

so maybe the scale is tipped back in their favor

and I'm the one who lacks understanding.

I stopped my headlong rush up the rocky trail,

to sit on a rotting stump and to listen.

Avian chittering, scratch of leaves and moan of wind

in denuded branches is the language

of the message I must hear, translate, understand.

It's not easy, being a brainwashed Earthian humanoid

to hear what the world of nature would teach,

but not impossible, for after all,

we are endowed with a universal translator.

I won't say; I cannot tell, what I heard

and what I came to understand there,

in the chill shadows of hulking grey mountains

under the veined, harsh blue sky of Autumn:

birds, leaves and swaying trees did their best

to explain, I'm not complaining. I did get it.

I did not continue on my hike that day, nor since.

Instead I heeded the call to return to my own world,

to the city, the man-made mountains and crawling streets

and see if there I could find a connection, fit in,

just like the birds, leaves, trees and wind

fit out there beside the trails to the high places.

For my thought was this, and so remains:

if I cannot fit in my own man-made world

however permeated with assured madness

how can I match myself to any kind of future?

You reap what you sow and as below, so above

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