As a person, I am not very religious. The world is aware of that. I subscribe to dialectical materialism and most of the time, I use it as my framework of analysis.
Though I cannot commit fully, there are narratives I like. Endless incarnation, for instance. The ceaseless cycle of death and life. I would like to believe in that, I really would.
I just cannot — not fully. There is a lack of evidence to prove its existence. Consequently, this lack of evidence cannot disprove it either, thus we cannot rule out the possibilities.
So I stand here, unable to have faith, unable to commit in anything. Still, the idea of higher realm and infinite universes is indubitably fascinating.
I was sleepless again last night. To give my mind some pre-occupation, I ran some experiment.
I want to know how far I can bend my cognitive faculty before it disintegrates into shards, so yes, for quite some time, I have been treating myself as subject to my countless experiments.
A friend of mine said I was cruel to myself but last night I had past life regression.
And I saw things and events — strange and beautiful and frightening. It was like watching a film in an old theater — snippets that rolled and unrolled and vanished and reappeared.
I saw the eyes of this kid — golden and clear, curious and observant. I saw this woman in Victorian dress, running down the hill on a bright summer day. The end of her skirt brushing against the tip of the grass.
I saw and admired the arch of a university hallway — towering and imposing and powerful. I walked in a corridor lined with endless doors and I walked through a forest and saw faces of dead people — drowned woman with a plant sprouting out of her mouth, dead men in their wooden coffin, in black suit and brimmed hats.
And everything went dark, like a closing scene in a movie, and then the world flashed again. And I saw grains and tulips, swaying in the wind. I saw small flowers.
As a person, I am not very religious. Everyone is aware of that. But there are mysteries I cannot fathom, those that continue to haunt me, even today.
And sometimes — from time to time — they save me. When mornings were hard and covered in shadows. When curtains were drawn and windows forgotten. When sawdust cannot dance and when light cannot pass through.