Dying in Your Sleep

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Some people go to bed at night and thank God for all the wonderful things that happened to them during the day.

Not me.

I go to bed at night feeling disgusted, and also relieved that the day is finally over and then I ask God to please let me die in my sleep.

I have a friend who died in his sleep.  His life situation was similar to mine.  He was married, in his forties, had four kids and was healthy.  He died in 2011.

I had not been in touch with him for quite a while, so one day I decided to do an Internet search using his name to see if I could find any information concerning his whereabouts.

I found his obituary!  So then I searched for his sister on facebook and found her.  I sent her a message immediately to get some info about the cause of his death.  She said he had “heart arrhythmia” and died in his sleep.

I thought how lucky he was.  I can’t think of a more pleasant way to die.  I wondered if he had actually wanted to die in his sleep or if it just happened unexpectedly.

Ever since that day, I think of him every night before falling asleep and I wish that the same thing would happen to me.

Depressed people will understand.  There is nothing negative about death.  It is the ultimate metamorphosis of the human being.  Of course I believe in an afterlife, so basically I visualize death as some kind of release, where the real me (the soul) detaches from its eggshell (the physical body) and starts a new life.  To me, death is a birth.

Every morning I wake up, open my eyes, look around the room and think:  “Shit, I’m still here.”

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Will I Live Forever

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Looking back at my life, I realize how much time I have spent trying to connect with others.  And in the end, what do I get?

I know that I am not at the end of my life yet, but let’s say that I was, that this was my last day.

I am all alone now.  Everyone I have known is going their own way.  I wonder if my presence matters.

My presence matters to me, but does it matter to the others?

Take my best friend, for example.  He was my cousin.  He was my best friend from age 10 to probably 25.  Then both of us got married and with time we stopped seeing each other, then we stopped writing and now he is nothing more than a facebook image.

We could reconnect and make our friendship meaningful again, but then we could never reconnect ever.  At this point in his life, I don’t think my presence matters to him.  And his presence does not really matter to me either.  It could be him or it could be another, but it would be nice to have a friend.

But friends don’t last forever.  Or do they?  It depends on my life.  Does my life last forever?  Will I live forever?  Will a part of me never die?

If I live forever and all the friends that I ever had live forever also, then how can I say that friends don’t last forever?

So many things depend on whether or not I live forever.  And THIS, from where I stand today, is a question of belief or faith.

From what I perceive with my five senses, death is a reality and death is the end of life as I know it.  Death of the physical body that is — deterioration of the flesh and bones.

But some say that my consciousness will remain… alive, or aware.  And there are many indications that this might be true.  But no physical proof, of course, since consciousness is not physical.

It’s funny that the Universe did not bother giving me more concrete proof of everlasting life if this is indeed my destiny.  As if it didn’t matter.  It DOES matter!  Every decision I take could and should be based on the fact that either death is the end or it’s not.

Why does Life think that it’s a good idea to keep me in the dark when it come to this question?  If my life is eternal, why does Life choose to show me that the death of my physical body means the end of me?  It seems like a very important question, but Life seems to mock me.

Short-lived Existence

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I spent a good part of my life thinking that I would die soon.

Why?  Where did this idea come from?

Let’s take a walk down memory lane.

My father.  He would often speak about the “end of the world.”  He would read on the subject and leave his books lying around the house.  I remember one book in particular: The Vision by David Wilkerson.

Wilkerson was an American Christian evangelist.  I think I was 13 years old when I read his book The Vision.  My father was a firm believer that the Second Coming of Christ was going to happen soon and that we should therefore prepare ourselves for the afterlife and not bother making long-term plans to attain temporal success in the material world.

I was a naive, impressionable boy.  My dad’s way of thinking had a profound impact on my thinking.  I expected the end of the world to happen any day.  I thought more about my death than about my life.  I wonder how normal this was — if it was a good thing or a bad thing as I was growing up.

I know one thing.  It greatly affected my mindset.

I watched my peers as I grew up and could not understand why they were so preoccupied with the things of this world: school, money, career, prestige.  I was concerned with something quite different.  My father used to say: “The most important thing in life is your relationship with God.”  I believed him.

Today I wonder.  What am I trying to prove with my blog?  That I have a relationship with God?  Am I just trying to impress my father?  Am I trying to convince myself and others that this life is unimportant?  Maybe this life is more valuable than I think.

My father died in 2004.  The end of the world did not happen during “this generation,” as he used to say.  He was quite certain that he would live to see the Second Coming of Christ.  He didn’t.  Or maybe he did, on some other level of consciousness.  I don’t know.

Living as though the end is near…  does it push me to live fully or does it depress me?  I think it does both.  It makes me ponder, for one thing.  It makes me turn inward.  It makes me introspect.  It turns me into an introvert.  It makes me think that perhaps the end of Daemon will never come…  or that it came already.

Within My Cocoon

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Something weird happens when I go inside my cocoon.  It’s like I become two.  My double appears.  But he doesn’t appear physically.  His presence appears.  I become aware of myself as if myself was another person.  So “I” become aware of “myself.”

You see?  We are two:  I and myself.

I become aware of myself when inside the cocoon.  Very bizarre.  And then what happens next?  “I” talk to “myself.”  Or is it myself who talks to I?  Is there even a difference between myself and I?  The two seem to be the same and they are interchangeable.

It’s as if I had a twin.  But this only happens inside the cocoon.  When you look at the cocoon from the outside, there is only one person, not two.  Why is it like this?

I don’t know about you, but it seems to me that this is how the metamorphosis happens.  The dialogue that goes on between myself and I provokes a change!  A change of Self, which is a change of awareness or consciousness.  A growth.  A metaphysical growth.

This might sound very complicated and esoteric but it’s really quite simple.

Metaphysical simply means immaterial, supersensual, not physical (or more properly, “beyond” that which is physical).

Supersensual means beyond the range of what is perceptible by the senses; not belonging to the experienceable physical world.  My dictionary gives a sentence using the word supersensual, which is:  Heaven is a supersensual realm.

Really?  Heaven is a supersensual realm?  Ok, but then so is hell.

So what am I saying?  Where am I going with this train of thought?

Let’s recap.

When my attention turns within, inside my cocoon, my invisible twin appears.  Then we talk to each other, but from the outside it appears that I am talking to myself (crazy person).  The others do not know that I am talking to my double.  The dialogue that goes on between me and my double, especially when written, puts things into place, like building blocks.  This process produces a metaphysical change or a metamorphosis.  It’s the process of building my non-physical reality which we sometimes call heaven or hell.

This thing I do is really important because it determines whether my present and future life will be joyous or desperate, painless or painful, happy or unhappy.

So here’s my conclusion.  Heaven and hell are not rewards or punishments given by some exterior God, they are the result of what I have built for myself while I was inside my cocoon.

Wishful Thinker

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I long for a stranger
My heart wants a flyer
One my size, one like me
The finer the better

Who could it be
Hero or fairy
He’s hiding from me
My eyes just can’t see

His phantom makes sure
That forever I look
Ahead and within me
Not in any great book

He draws me nearer
Inside his manor
Do I have a choice
When I hear his voice

He’s very tricky
And very strange too
I’m sure there must be
A reason or two

He shows me where to go
So I never get lost
Pulls me with his lasso
Weird kind of Pentecost

I’m sure he’s what I shall become
I’m attracted to my future
I wonder if you think it’s dumb
To be drawn to my true nature

I want to take him
I want to kiss him
I want to eat him
Infuse into him

I think that if I do that
My body will transform
I will no longer be flat
Mistaken for a worm

Pleasuring myself and you
Unafraid of the mirror
Maybe even turn into
My own secret admirer

Not to envy my body
Simply fluttering proudly
Stimulating the others
Implying that it matters

Understand what is mine
Meant to glow and to shine
Can’t believe that it’s greed
To find one’s own star seed

This seed is my core
Pushes me forward
I just can’t ignore
Love that is inward

Honor it, hug it
Give it importance
And presidency
Spirit is the key

But why is it like this
It hurts to not be ready
I’m not yet the reflection
Of the one I wish to be

The mirror is a liar
It shows the exterior
The bumps, the pits, the scars
An aging caterpillar

But this is not me
It’s just a fur top
It’s like an eggshell
A shield I must drop

Oh I can’t wait to get out
Geez I can’t wait to break free
Can’t stop dreaming of those wings
How beautiful they will be

I Can’t Help You

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Here is another wonderful “talking to myself” session.  This one will be recorded publicly though.  Perhaps to shame myself or to entertain bored readers.

I’m tired of thinking of her.  It’s a waste of time.  If I could change the way I think of her, that would be great.  I should hypnotize myself to make me love her.  That might work.

Love her?  No thank you.  “Like her” maybe.  No, not even.  Accept her.  Yes, I could start there.  Accept her current existence in my life.  Can I do that?

Well I think I have accepted her already.  I let her be, don’t I?  I let her affect me too.  Maybe this is what I should be working on.  I should not let her affect me.  Or, I have a better idea.  Why not let her affect me and then transform the effect into something good!

Let’s try it.  She said this yesterday, after I said to her that she already has everything:  “No, I don’t have a husband who loves me.”  I did not reply because I knew what it would trigger.  So I just kept silent.  I absorbed it.

Now the phrase is coming back to me and Oh!  I could smash…  never mind.  There is no use smashing things.  She sincerely wishes that I would love her.  Why should I let it upset me?

I cannot love her simply because I can’t trust her.  And that’s ok, I don’t have to trust the people I don’t trust.  There is a reason why I don’t trust her.  She is not trustworthy.  To me anyway.

I trusted her at the beginning and she took advantage of it.  She profited.  It was her choice or perhaps not.  Maybe she had been programmed by her family.  Or she programmed herself in order to survive within her family.

Whatever it is, the issue is hers, not mine.  And she refuses to look within herself.  That’s why she suffers from anxiety.  I can’t help her.  Would my hugs help her?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  I don’t know.  And you know what?  I don’t care whether I can help her or not.  I’m trying to save myself here.  I have spent enough energy for her already.  The little I have left I will keep.

Sorry dear.  I know you’re drowning but I can’t help you.

Spontaneity

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Writing without an agenda.
This is an experiment
With spontaneity.

I chose a picture that I like
Because it’s beautiful
Created by Jack Haas

Is this a poem?
I don’t know.
There are no rhymes.
Or maybe some will pop up.
Spontaneously.

Writing is how my soul breathes.
When I stop, I suffocate.
Sorry if it annoys you.
I’m simply keeping myself alive here.

I can’t go for a walk, it’s raining.
Well I could still go but
I usually do it after lunch.
In the morning I write.

There is too much I could write about.
Sometimes it’s just frustrating to have to choose.
So I said to myself:  “Why choose?”
Why not be spontaneous.

Spontaneity is scary.
What is the next line going to be?
What if something ugly jumps out suddenly?

Heh! heh! heh!  It is a mystery.
Flirting with the unknown.
It’s involuntary.

I might lose control.
Should I look behind?
What if I lose my mind?

Who will take over
If I let go of my own senses?
Chaos, Cosmos or Cyclops?

Is it even possible to go astray
There must be beauty
Even in spontaneity

Should I stop here?
Or should I continue…

Too much of it might get boring.
Yeah, breathing does get boring.
But I have to keep going.

If I hold my breath
My face will turn blue.
I would not want that.
My blue hand is causing me enough trouble.
Do I want a blue face to match it?

I know what I’ll do.
There is a word count
At the bottom right.
It’s at two sixty eight.
When it gets to 1000
I will stop
No matter what.
Even if I’m not finished.
Now THAT is scary.

It’s like approaching death.
The death of this blogpost.
The end of it.

I still have six hundred something words to go.
What will these words be?
Maybe I should write something important.
Which reminds me…

My father used to say:
“Shut up if you have nothing important to say.”
Daddy must be very disappointed in me right now.
Sorry dad, but you are dead now, so I am free.

Can the zombie hear me?
Is it disrespectful to refer to my dead father as a zombie?
Will God punish me?
I just broke commandment number three.
No sorry it’s number five.
I just checked.

I don’t think I’ll make it to 1000 words.
At the word “word” it was only 400.
It’s never too late to say something important.
To make my father proud of his illegitimate son.

Now why did I write the word “illegitimate?”
This was really spontaneous.
What does it actually mean?

Illegal?  Against the law?
Born of unmarried parents?
But my parents were married when they had me.

Illegitimate also means illogical or incorrectly deduced.
Maybe I am not my biological father’s son.
When I was young I sometimes felt like I was adopted.
Because he didn’t like me much.

But I look so much like him.
I’m sure he’s my real father.
Even my personality matches his almost perfectly.

So that’s not it, I am his biological son.
Why did I write illegitimate then?

The word also means “not genuine.”
So does that mean that my father is not my genuine father?
What does genuine mean?
Thank God I have a dictionary.

What did I just say, again, spontaneously?
Thank “GOD” I have a dictionary?
God?  Who’s God?

My genuine father perhaps?
Of course, God the Father.
But who would that god be?

Yahweh?  Don’t tell me!
Not that blood thirsty
Son of a b****
The ultimate source of love.
He!  He!  He!

Allah?  I think he’s the same as Yahweh.
Bhagavan Krishna?  Yeah, perhaps…
Since his son Krishna is sometimes painted blue
I foresee a definite possibility.

I already wrote a blogpost entitled “A Real Father”
So why am I still writing about this.
Do I miss my daddy?

How can I miss an unknown person?
Well…  I think that if one wants to know the father
All one has to do is look at the son.

The son would be me.
So the father would be just like me.
This means I have a pretty cool daddy.
LOL!

In a sense I am my own father.
I am my own creator.
I am my own guide.
I am my own authority.
And I am my own god.

This is spitting in the face of Christianity.
My mother would not be proud of me.
Some of my sisters would spit back at me.
In fact they already have.

One told me that I had been seduced by an evil spirit.
Another said that my ideas were satanic.
The third one agreed with the first one.
The fourth one is not sure.
The fifth one is not bothered by the rest and accepts me.
Yes, I have five sisters.

So where am I going with this?
Nowhere.  I’m being spontaneous.
I have just revisited my family.
I visit them virtually and rarely physically.

I am a lonely bastard.
And I think that this is the way I like it.
I enjoy my own company.
I think I am funny.
I don’t need my brother to make me laugh.
Yes, I also have a brother.
He’s a clown.

Why did I use the word “clown” to describe my brother?
Let’s look it up.  A clown can be:
1-  a performance artist often associated with a circus
2- a person who acts in a silly fashion
3- a stupid person
4- a man of coarse nature and manners; an awkward fellow
5- one who works upon the soil; a rustic; a churl.

Yup, that pretty much describes my biological brother.
Not to be confused with my cosmic brother Jahele.
Two very different individuals.

So I had to conclude at one point that I had two separate families.
One down here and another up there, in the clouds or above them.
I’m related to one by blood and to the other one by spirit.

One thousand words.