The air lies still.
A docu-series rambles on, recanting memories of generations past.
A storm batters the trees outside with violent gusts, endless rains ravage the view beyond my closed windows.
I close my eyes for a long few seconds. A familiar light bulb clicks on in an old dusty attic bathed in bright moonlight on a clear, chilly evening – emitting an aqua blue hue, suspended from the center of the ceiling.
I travel here when I think of death and the afterlife, either on my own or from external stimuli – sometimes a dangerous daydream scene emerges from a quaint reality:
For instance – I’m waiting for a bus and wonder what would happen if it hit me, resulting in death on impact – how do my five senses respond? Where does that leave ‘me’? Or maybe a plane goes down on a trip and before I know it I’m on a new found post-life trajectory.
Be it a heart attack, something else sudden, or a terminal expectation that everybody sees coming, I’ve thought about what death would be like here and there as far back as I can recall. I remember looking out my window as a toddler, and wondering if I fell and died where my mind and soul would come to reside, where I would travel to, where would my soul wander – where does consciousness go after this life?
The aqua blue lightbulb in the attic is in my mind’s eye, on a different plane where all my inner imaginings lie – I have an old journal as thick as a small brick. Pages frayed, leather-bound. I flip to the nearest blank, past thousands of older hand written engagements, I write it all down in the aqua blue-lit attic while imagining another possible path or experience that may come to pass when this life is finished.
In those few seconds with my eyes closed on that dark, stormy evening, I visited the attic where the blue light glimmers – opened my old journal, and wrote down my latest vision. – RSM