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Sam
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« on: December 23, 2011, 10:42:00 PM »

POSTCARD FROM THE DARK

Do you know what it seems like to die, when all the pain goes away and you stand on the edge of some mind-bending geometry that seems as natural as apple pie on a Sunday afternoon?

Today, all these years later, the images still stay fresh in my mind. Now, with all the elegance of the English language at my disposal, I wonder if I might find the words to share something of this experience, she muses.

It all began ... says she, hoping you might linger a moment over the word "began" ... with a pinprick of light on a wall, in my mind, as my eyes closed to some reality of always painfully struggling to breathe. The pinprick of light slowly and deliberately grew until a new reality showed itself. The pinprick had become a tunnel, a cone leading somewhere and I stood on the edge.

Behind me: The world of hospital, pain and monotony faded in swirling blanketing fog like a bad dream.

Before me: Colours and dimensions unimagined and inviting beckoned with some new familiarity and a dark ribbon of light that warped it way through this coned entrance. I would step onto this central dark ribbon path and let it take me where I should go. I start to move, drift. I see colours of light swirling away into some dimensional distance. Strange as this might seem, some of the NASA Hubble pictures of nebulae, these days, come closest to representing what I sensed then, so many years ago.

I start to move, drift. Suddenly, into this extraordinary geometry, a figure of a man appears blocking my way. An anachronism from the memory of a child’s world, you wonder? I do not know save that this most beautiful personage did not seem out of place in this multi-dimensional sphere.

“Go back child” says the white robed man, “Go back.”

I do not want to go back.

“Go back” he whispers gently, “Time does not call you to this now.”

Back, in slow motion returns the man image. Back, in slow motion fades the swirling colours. Back, in slow motion retreats the ribbon of light. Back, in slow motion bleeds the cone. Back, in slow motion until all that I have left equates to a pinprick on some wall in my mind.

I explode into a world of pain and sharp yellow lights with grey edges. Someone gently strokes my head … distortion through an oxygen mask. Vague chattering as I get wheeled back to my bed. Efficient white cuffed hands tuck me in firmly and walk away. Alone in the dark I can see moonlight through a window slit. Can I find the tunnel again? I feel so lost and abandoned and all of seven years old and it hurts to breathe. I start to cry very softly, not wanting some crisp starched nurse to arrive with stop watch and probing hands. Then suddenly, I did not feel so alone. Two wraith-like figures of moonlight mist stood at the end of my bed with their wings loosely folded behind them. The child slept confidently in the company of angels and no one ever knew.
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Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. -- George Carlin
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