I was ready to die.
The trouble with acceptance is there are many layers to it.
I love, you see and as long as I love and am loved, that infinite sleep had to wait.
Like I said, acceptance is a multi-layered energy.
As the room span and yellow glass blurred, pain paused and with it I heavily descended, expecting to float as some stories report or at least levitate long enough to witness some form of other realm except the one called reality.
There was nothing.
Less than nothing.
Total blackout.
Void-like blank.
Less than blank.
I'm not sure if I found relief in such a void or if it has stirred a profoundly deep passion within me to push further and seek more proof of life after internal lights burn out.
We're going to Varanasi, I told him.
Pin-prick filtered Dante.
Except no hell.
No heaven.
No...self.
Cold metal cushioned, one ceased to be.
Temporarily.
I think I know now.
While you were kept alive, there was no chance of reaching you.
Experiencing that nothing myself, how could I be so foolish to believe I could have brought you back while machines jolted your lungs daily to give false hope.
Perhaps it is a choice, I am not convinced but perhaps.
I made a choice to return before clouds suffocated jagged breaths.
The blankness will always maintain its own order but some find a home within such depths of gravely silence.
I know now.
I couldn't have reached through to you.
The haunting curses of regret have lessened in volume somewhat because I truly feel you would not have heard my voice. The veil is too thick and impenetrable for you to have heard my pleas to survive. I've realised there is a sort of peace there also and I hold on to that notion. The notion that you were at some level of freedom, away from this dense frequency.
Is there another level of higher frequency unknown?
I always thought so but as that room span and fractured vision locked shut, there was only an engulfing feeling of untimely burial. All else when those machines kicked in and kept flesh warm was a silken canvas of night without moonlight, no stars can be seen in such a vast tomb of emptiness.
Whether the soul, if such a thing exists, roamed or will roam, I remain as much a believer as a sceptic.
When sedating numbness of not existing mutes the life of self there is only the rhetorical unknown.
I know now.
You were saved before prayers hit the floor, hospital monitors simply echoed your detachment. There's a small mercy in that.
Myself...I came back to share more kindness with the world.
True epiphany breaks you.
The aftermath, a sense of not belonging.
I wonder if you felt the same as life became unglued.
Angels sing in slow motion since my return and the reason is understood.
Acceptance.
Of which there are more levels than even Dante could fathom.
©Words Among Trees
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