Whenever spirit pulled me towards its saving light, an overwhelming curiosity to throw myself to the devil for no other reason than to sabotage my ascent cast me into a netherworld of self-doubt, only to spend an eternity crawling out of the pit in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. My story so far written in the Book of Life.

Countless discarnate entities swirled around a black hole of twisted kundalini cocoons. I was one of those coils of mystical energy. Just one. Yet I felt inextricably part and parcel of the whole. I remembered. I remember this extraordinary dream-time with the certainty of a sunrise or sunset.

The afterlife of this disembodied world I saw without eyes. Heard without hearing. Felt without touching. There was no shining maelstrom of divine light drawing me upwards into its loving embrace.

Being dead was having every one of my non-existent molecules imbued with a meta-magical awareness that spoke yet had no language.

All the ghosts of my past lives were present in this current state of ectoplasmic entropy, calling out to my last incarnation for answers. A reckoning of deeds!

But I had no confessions to unveil. No time to ponder my earthly lessons. There were too many colours everywhere… stratified layers of the light spectrum… rainbows of living consciousness… splintered prisms of varying fields of ascension moving in living quantum waves of awareness.