Past life songs (3): The calm before the storm.

I have noticed July is a weird month for me in regards to reincarnation. I have commented on this before, probably somewhere in this blog. Maybe this year the feeling is even stronger. Things are going great for me at the moment. Three months ago, right after my accident skating, I decided to start physical training six days a week, alternating yoga and fitness routines. My main objective was to fully recover my left knee and shoulder, but then I found I was absolutely loving it and I couldn’t stop. I have lost three kilograms in three months and I am feeling stronger. I also found some inspiring guys like Frank Medrano or Elena Malova who also follow a vegan diet and so I have started to focus even more in the positive things in life. In a way I feel like in my most recent past life during the Cold War, when I decided to leave drugs behind and work for the American Army (now I really hope I won’t die in some kind of crash). But at the same time... there is this uneasiness deep inside, a restlessness whose origin is not clear.

My life as an active reincarnationist is not fulfilling at all, that is no secret. As I have repeatedly said in several places, remembering past lives is a lonely path. The forum and various blogs I administer are running non-stop, growing each day. They keep me quite busy and that is fine, but I miss the old times, especially the old times when I first arrived to Military Past Lives and found my people. People who had gone through similar experiences to mine, people who at last could understand, who knew how to listen, people who could teach me lots of things. It is quite funny to hear certain forum users (trolls) say I am an egotistic person, when I am always searching for people who can teach me new things. I am no leader. I was a warship captain in one of my past lives and I still don’t know how I could do the job. Even when I created my forum, my thought always was: “I don’t want this to be my forum, it is a forum for its members”. Circumstances, such as my insatiable curiosity or my thirst for knowledge, have made me an expert in my field. The Spanish-speaking countries are full of reincarnation beginners who want answers, and yes, I am there to help and answer those questions. But I am not a guru, I am just a reincarnationist who wants to find other reincarnationists to talk in deep about past lives. Not the theory, not the superficial talk that is all around the internet, but those things that really matter to people who remember past lives: how to deal with them. I always like to go beyond, and you just can’t do this with beginners.

So, here I stand, feeling restless, feeling this inner turmoil that was already there when I started to remember past lives, perhaps because we wouldn’t move if there were no inner turmoil inside, something to drive you on in search of answers. But years go by, and after all I have come to know, this inner turmoil is still here, only I don’t know where it is going to take me now. I keep feeling this strong need to express myself, to put into words all those past life emotions left abandoned in some corner of my soul. But when it is time to write, I am blocked. I can ramble for hours, but the important words will remain unsaid.

I am weary. Weary of hearing always the same doubts, of having the same discussions with scientists who don’t even bother to talk to us, of being added against my will to stupid Facebook groups about the afterlife where only inaccurate and frivolous articles are posted. Weary of finding (sometimes) great accounts, but being unable to shout it out loud, due to the witness’s completely understandable fear of being ridiculed. Weary of having to keep it all inside, as if remembering past lives were a dirty secret that might get you institutionalized. Weary of a world where money is all that matters. And to avoid more weariness, while I wait for more memories to arrive, I spend my days doing things that make me feel good, like exercise... or listening to music.

One of those precious gifts of life came to me unexpectedly the other day, when I listened to a special radio broadcast in which my elder brother participated. It was about the progressive rock band Arena. I know almost all their discography, but this jewel had gone unnoticed until now: it is called “Sirens”. And quite eerily (as always happens with Arena), it perfectly describes my actual mood in relation to past lives. I think it sums it all quite well: from the first whispers of your intuition, calling you to start the journey, to the last moments when you are about to get smashed into the rocks and you wonder why you paid any heed to those voices. Of course, the storm in the middle is when you are dealing with the past life memories themselves, engulfed in those strong emotions, fearing you will get drowned. It even mentions the one I miss the most, the one I can’t stop calling but only rarely comes: my spiritual guide and soulmate, the real culprit of all this inner turmoil... or is he my siren... or, better said, my merman? His song is so tantalizing, and at the same time, so deadly. Right now I am just drifting on the sea, wondering where the tide will take me.

I love those moments when you just have discovered a song and you just can’t stop hearing it, but you still don’t know the melody and all the verses by heart, so it keeps surprising you and taking you higher and higher. It is pure magic. 

SIRENS 

Silently calling 

I hear myself speak 

My breath is in my hands 

I cry out your name

Silently calling 

I feel so at peace 

And the time to surrender 

is the time you will take a hold of me 

What did you do when you woke today 

What did you feel, were you sad or afraid 

Searching your thoughts 

for reasons or meanings 

and the choices you made 

Silently calling 

in a field of dreams

where memories fade 

They keep passing through 

this soulless maze 

What did you do when you woke today

What did you feel, were you sad or afraid

Searching your thoughts for hope or relief

Looking for safety in the falling leaves

Splinters of virtue

from splintering hearts

The door is always closed

as it was from the start

Masters of freedom

Masters of light

Will you ever let me go

Take away this second sight

What did you do when you woke today

What did you feel, were you sad or afraid

Searching your thoughts

for warnings and traps

Nothing in your life will be the same!

Hanging to the sail

Caught behind the storm

Wait for the waves to come

Know the fear

Hide behind your smile

Crying for mercy

Hanging to the mast

Caught behind the storm

Wait for the sea to foam

Climb... Climb... Climb up to me

Hanging to the sail

Far beyond the storm

Lightning across the sky

Catch the rope

Cling to hope

Watch as our lives flash by 

Hanging to the mast

Beyond the storm

Saltwater burning

Shield your face from whiplash sprays

Hold your breath and

Neptune will make his next move

Hanging to the rail

Caught within the storm

Watch for the jagged land

Follow a line

From another time

Washed up on stone and sand

Grab the mast

Caught within the storm

Reach for a helping hand

We could share this calm experience now

In shadows I can see light

I whisper your name

But it’s lost in the night

Watching reflections of my own solitude

Heartfelt indifference

towards actions and truths

in shadows I can see light

I whisper your name

in the night

Spare me from those sirens’ lies 

Spare me from this grand illusion 

Spare me from those weeping eyes 

and promises of absolution 

Shall I stand without defence

Now that death is all around me

Did you hope for my surrender

leaving me to die on the

bloodstained ground

It’s only a lifetime

where heroes need heroic deeds

It’s only a lifetime

where children dream of breaking free

Follow the cause

Follow the signs

Drawn by a song to our own demise

It’s only a lifetime

dragged across the rocks

by the sirens’ whisper! 

Holidays and shadows.

A few days ago I returned home after my usual holiday season (the first of this year) at the beach. I have been quite hectic: exercise in the morning, preparing part of the lunch in advance, a couple of hours lying in the sun, walking along the shore or swimming in the water, a short break, and then more time out, relaxing both mind and body. Sounds great, doesn’t it?

Lately I have been enjoying these holiday seasons more than ever before. When I was young I used to feel melancholic when I was near the beach, too many past life memories in the back of my mind, struggling to go out: my long-gone days as a British Navy officer, my days waiting for my Norwegian sailor almost in despair, the feelings of being already dead in a very different beach... No wonder holidays always depressed me.

Now those memories are not hidden, they are clear and very present, and they don’t depress me so much. Now I still love the sound of the wooden planks beneath my feet as I step on them, when I walk down the sea wall. It feels as if I am aboard a ship... a real ship manned by real men. I love to wear hats that resemble cowboy hats, because that makes me think of Colorado and the sun hurting my eyes. I also wear a beach dress with Native American people drawn on it, in memory of my family who was massacred by white men, and if I have a chance, I will gladly buy a pair of earrings with the shape of dreamcatchers for the same reason. I pretend to watch a ghostly Norwegian merchant ship on the horizon, getting near, bringing my love home again. I do all this hoping I will get more memories, something new I don’t know, or maybe some happy scene I had forgotten.

But, who knows why, this year it was the turn of the widow, so she turned up unexpectedly in the middle of my holidays, maybe reminding me I can’t escape, not yet. I have a slight idea of what could have triggered these new memories. Nothing I saw, heard, wore or watched... but just a weird feeling related to a decision: should I stay or should I go? The feeling of knowing you have to go, but not being sure what is best for you. The feeling of having no past, no option to come back to what is familiar to you, because you screwed it up and no one wants to have you near, ashamed of what they say you did, no matter if it is true or not, no matter you were declared not guilty by a judge. Being so scared of the future ahead of you, wondering if it can get any worse, as it eventually did.

So, I am suddenly in this filthy inn where a charitable couple agreed to give me a job and a bed, making clear to me that “This is no brothel”. But the meager pay they give me for serving the tables and cleaning the living room is not enough for my goals (just having a home and money to raise the daughter I had to leave behind, for God’s sake!) and I have to ignore their warning. Of course clients whisper and the charitable couple found out in the end. This is when they came to visit me in my room and told me I must go. My crying wasn’t enough to convince them otherwise, though at least it served me to buy me a week or two, so that I can think what to do next and look for another place. The worst part is I seemed to decide I’d better look for another man to give me the money and house I would never be able to have as a poor widowed woman who could barely read. Did I really think I would find a decent man in such a filthy inn, soldier and all? And would I be able to feign love for him? Well, why not, when I had been forced to fake that same love for my late husband in public for so long?

He is dead but I still hate him so much. He is the one to blame for my current situation. He is the one who turned my life into a living hell. It could have been fine: such a beautiful house, those gardens and the mare, those beautiful dresses and social meetings. But then came the slapping, the harsh words, locking me up in a bedroom, the black eye, the bathtub and the hairpin, the broken rib, the silence, the white powder. “I should be happy and this is where I am”, are my last thoughts.

When my current self had a thought about how many lies I was forced to tell, the widow almost shouted inside of me, saying that I shouldn’t judge. She won’t show me anymore if I judge, as that is what everyone does. And I know. And I do want her to bring me deep into that hell, as I feel there is so much rage and sadness and suffering down there, beyond the coldness and the falseness. Unlike Katrina, the widow is made up of so many layers, it is hard to get to the bottom. Still today it is so hard to know where the victim ends and where the murderess begins.

Coincidence or not, right after these bitter memories, I read one of the best chapters of Song of Ice and Fire, Book 3. Jamie was telling Brienne everyone is quick to judge him for slaying the mad king without even knowing what really happened. I think I must have felt like that for so long in my past life.  

Drugs.

I’ve been avoiding this matter for days. After a hectic short period in my life, where I couldn’t do much past life work, apart from the book on children who remember I was writing, I have plenty of leisure time to spare again. I guess one day I’ll tell what happened with my great “premonition dream” and the “wonderful” job I got and quit, but right now I need to talk about serious stuff... really serious stuff.

I’ve talked about drugs before in this blog, but when past life scenes repeat again and again, it usually means there’s something that still needs to be processed. And this is the only place I can do it safely. Drugs are a very delicate matter, and also have a morbid component that causes attraction and revulsion at the same time. But most of all... it brings me to the darkest side of human nature, to the darkest side of... myself. Talking about it is always hard. But keeping silent doesn’t help.

June has always been a strange month for me. It’s not as tough as May, but it often makes me feel uneasy, not completely down, but unbalanced... as if I’m walking on a tight rope knowing I’m going to fall into the abyss. These words have reminded me of this Supertramp album cover that reflects so well what I mean:

Coincidence or not, the other day I was feeling weird like that. I meditated, and the images I got were very similar to what I described in that other entry I’ve mentioned above. I was in my old and dark flat in Köln, in the 60’s. Car lights shine through the window and reflect on the walls. I see the coffee table in the living room, the threadbare sofa where I sleep, rather than in the bed (actually, I think I don’t remember any bed, save the hotel beds where I took the women). I see the cigarettes and matchbox on the table. Though I don’t have a clear image, I know there are other drugs too (the flash of a spoon). I feel the anxiety, the inner rage, the hole in my heart. But I can’t understand why.

I don’t remember much of my college years, though I have the inkling my friends were some kind of extremists who loved to protest against our Government, and I even suspect we considered to take some kind of violent action at some point. I don’t know if I ever got involved in that. I only know I was very angry. And though I had a few personal problems, they were not enough to create so much anger inside me. And my only wish was to forget all that darkness, to escape the emptiness of my soul.

It wasn’t the first time I saw how I did it, but it was the first time I saw myself in front of the bathroom mirror, bare-chested, syringe in hand, ready to inject the heroin. “It’s easy”, were the words coming to my mind. Looking at yourself in the mirror is like doing it to another person, so the first times it was easier that way. There was less pain, more distance. It was easier to control the trembling of the hands. And the relief was immediate. Dreamless sleep and sweet oblivion... that was all I needed. Death was all I wanted.

I felt like shit afterwards, of course. Not because the effect of the drug (or not only because of that), but disappointed with myself, perfectly knowing I might not wake up again one of those nights... and not caring at all.

Now, looking in retrospect, I can understand. I see Katrina inside the man I was in the 60’s. I see the same desires of killing myself, of ending so much suffering. It was as if I had been in Hell before, and that Hell still attracted me strongly, like a giant magnet stealing me the will to live. Coincidence or not, my age then was very close to the age Katrina was when she died. It’s the same age I was when depression reached its maximum peak in this life. The same old patterns were repeating again.

The positive part of all this is somehow I decided “No more” and left all that darkness behind, to make something good of my days and become a real man who fought for freedom and justice. I still wonder how I made it, but I guess this proves light and darkness always go hand in hand.

I am a zombie.

No, don’t get me wrong. This is not a new fiction blog about walking dead. I’m talking of real life, of decisions made, of wanting to go in a specific direction in order to fulfill your dreams or at least earn a living, and encountering a wall again and again.

I’m not afraid of hard working. I like challenges, I like my job, I have knowledge and a love for all kind of animals (yes, not only pets) beyond the average. But I’m not stupid. And I’ve already known slavery in other lives. I’m not up to go through the same for the umpteenth time.

I may have seen my actual coworker in a dream before I actually met her, but turns out I was right about not wanting to be part of the job. I was reluctant to join her for a reason. It’s a shame because she’s a very nice person and a valid professional, but I think she’s wasting her time trying to make a business work in such conditions. Maybe it is worth for her, but it is not worth for me.

So, I had my doubts if this new job meant I was still alive. I’m finding out I’m not. At most I’m prolonging the agony I already mentioned in my last blog post. I am a zombie, ready to die and this time, yes, forget about my current shitty profession. Not even until my next life. Forget FOREVER, if I can.

I need someone to kill me, quick. Cut off my head, throw a spear through my chest, whatever you think is best to prevent me from wanting to be a vet again.

Death is better than being a zombie.

Beliefs and facts.

I have been having a small disagreement (not even serious discussion) with someone on the internet about astral projection. I was trying to make her see astral projection must not be mistaken for mental projection (also known as remote viewing) or other type of psychic phenomena, which for her all belonged to the same bag, little more than “deep altered states of consciousness” such as meditation. She was intended to claim our disagreement was just due to semantics, and I insisted it is more than that. There is a difference, because I KNOW it, I have experienced it, and I have been doing it, along with lots of research, for two years now. You are welcome to believe in anything you want, you can doubt until you have your own experience, but please, keep an open mind and don’t throw my experiences to the bin just because I use the word “astral”, because you prefer to believe in scientists who suddenly had eye-opener experiences rather than in an “average” person like me (who funnily enough happens to be a scientist too), or because you just can’t understand those experiences and can’t bring yourself to believe in such “lunatic claims”. Reality is much wider than your beliefs or what your eyes can see. Eventually it looks like we were only having a misunderstanding and she didn’t want any help, which is fine with me, but in the meanwhile some feelings turned up.

I often feel so frustrated. It’s like talking to kids. It’s like witnessing those stares of disbelief when you are explaining a dog’s owner that their beloved pet has some “little bugs” (also known as mites) inside his ears, and that’s what’s making him shaking his head or making a bloody mess of his skin with his paws. That stare of disbelief becomes one of bewilderment when you take them to the microscope and invite them to take a look to the sample you took with a cotton swab. I think I have rarely felt such a pleasure in my clinical practice.

With astral projection is just the same. Only when you have experienced it you can begin to KNOW there is something real about it. You can doubt about it and have thousands of interpretations about what kind of phenomenon is. You can choose whatever names you want and try to classify your experiences in a thousand phases like Robert Monroe did. But you just can’t doubt it is REAL. Astral projection is not a fantasy, or “a very real dream”, or the delusion of someone who wants to believe in them. Astral projection is literally that: an OUT OF THE BODY EXPERIENCE. You are in a different body moving in a different dimension. A non-physical reality? Another plane? Those are all different names to explain the same reality. And that reality is a fact. But it seems certain people just don’t want to listen when a fact contradicts their beliefs, and they seem to think you just “believe” in them and you are trying to convince them of something, when you are just trying to explain to them a reality as real as the sun being a star or a disease being transmitted by water due to other type of “little bugs” living in it. It is just one step more from ignorance to actual knowledge. But some just want to go on blind. Others experience it spontaneously or learn to control it thanks to my advice... and then I feel the same pleasure when I see they have finally discovered another small part of the Truth.

Well, yesterday night I meditated a while before going to sleep and concentrating for another of my “delusional journeys” in the astral realm. I got asleep. But before that I started to get flashes from a past life. Flashes that are not new but were very important in that almost forgotten past life. My mother was being raped on a wooden table by a wild and strong man, while I was cowering in a corner gripping a knife in my hand, unable to move to save her. I was only a kid of maybe six, seven years old. I was hearing the screams of my mother, and I was willing to stab that damned knife in his back or his foot to stop him. I am not sure whether I eventually did it. If I did, it is likely I was pushed back or slapped and then I crouched, and I stayed there paralyzed, until he left and my mother and I could hold each other again, both trembling and weeping. That moment marked the rest of my life. Even my family knew it, but they always said I was too young and small to do anything to protect her. That wasn’t comforting to me, and I kept blaming myself for not being able to prevent that from happening. That feeling of frustration was always with me and determined a lot of the things I did afterwards. I grew up to be a really strong man, but I never was strong enough to protect my family. Sometimes you just can’t change things. And that same feeling of frustration is the one that haunts me when I feel there is nothing I can do or say to change the course of nature. I guess human beings are also part of that “nature”. I just can't change people's mindset, I just can't make stupidity disappear from the Earth, that same stupidity that makes people kill others just because they believe in different gods.

And that kills me.

You can give crutches to the lame, but you forget maybe they don’t want to walk faster. You can try to take the blindfold off their eyes, but you forget maybe they are happy in the darkness. You want to make this world a better place to live, but you forget this world doesn’t need to be changed, maybe. It is a place for fools, it is a place to kill and burn, it is a place for confusion and suffering. You only can sit down and watch the madness reign.  

Inner conflicts.

I’m going through a hard stage in my life, that’s clear. It’s a time of change, a time of uncertainty. I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know if anything I’ve done so far has been useful. I can’t find any purpose on it. And in the middle of this confusion, reincarnation only plays a small part… but a worthy part nonetheless.

A few anonymous kind souls are helping me through this dilemma, though the majority of them don’t even know and possibly can’t imagine how grateful I am for their words. As a writer and as a reincarnationist, I feel the need to share my experiences, I feel the need to shout it out loud to the world, whoever is listening. But I’m finding it hard to decide the best way to do it and how far I must go in the description of those experiences. The reason for this is mainly that in my country reincarnation is not widely accepted, I feel as some kind of pioneer —a pioneer like those who die in a jungle and no one cares what happened to them… “the fool got lost, it’s likely a tribe of cannibals ate him”—. What’s more, I am someone who goes against the main stream of New Age and other spiritualist teachings that are very far to my way of thinking. In other words: I feel so alone. And, if usually everyone who talks about past life memories is going to be considered a loony, even more someone who is so independent and has to fight constantly against wide-spread concepts so ingrained in everyone’s minds. I’m taking an enormous risk here… but what alternative do I have left? Being quiet is not an option. Quitting is not an option. Keeping it secret and let it kill me little by little, is not an option. Being stubborn, and write, write, write… yes, that’s an option!

When I talk with English-speaking people, with many more years of experience than me, I’m somewhat comforted: “You’re not a loony”, “Knowledge is to be shared”, “We need to express ourselves”, are some examples of phrases I’ve read that make me understand not only that I have the right to talk, but also that I must do it. I’d even say it’s my duty. I was granted the gift of writing, and for one reason or another, I remember some of my past lives. I just can’t be quiet as if nothing had happened. We’re talking of experiences that have the power of changing us at a spiritual level like no other thing can do. And I’m convinced everyone who wants to do it, if they’re ready for it, can do it. Just like I did, as soon as I knew the techniques. I’ve already done a lot of work putting those techniques together… only, I feel no one cares in my country, or maybe they’re not ready to take that step yet. That’s alright, but I can’t wait for them, I need to keep moving, I need to keep learning and growing, I need to find others who can teach me new things and make me see where I only find darkness. That’s why I’ve started to write in English, because I think most people who care are English-speaking and they’ll find easily this blog, and I’ll be able to relate to their own experiences, and they’ll be able to relate to mine, and I’ll reach new places where I won’t feel so lonely anymore. And this blog wants to go further, so much further… but my mind is still stuck in this mistrust and fear to be judged, to be misunderstood, to find sarcastic smiles and unbelieving eyes, when this is so, so serious and important for Humanity.

I know, I have to leave all that behind. Probably it’s only a reflection of my own insecurity. I also know I don’t have to convince anyone. I’ve had enough of that. I’m entering a new level and I do want to go inside, where it truly hurts, where I can find my wisdom, where I can understand and find some light, and then share it with others who may be in need of finding others with similar experiences, just like happened to me in the past. I still need it nowadays. I need it like the air that I breathe… Remembering past lives is an extremely solitary path. Not even the ones who have been there can understand completely, we all are different and we all need different ways to deal with our memories.

Now the fight is over. I need a change in my audience. Non-believers won’t care anyway, so why should I care about what they think? I’m not the only one who is writing more or less openly on the Internet about their past life memories. Unfortunately, most of us have to keep our true identities hidden, and it’s true not all these accounts have the same level of sanity, but there’s also a great amount of good work that is being done. Perhaps we tend to think we are just a small drop of water in the ocean, all alone, all in our own journeys towards the Truth… but someday we’ll wake up to see those tiny drops of water have become a flood and nobody will be able to remain ignorant to the persistent messages we are leaving on the Internet. One day the tide will turn… for the better. And if I can’t see it in this life, I’ll see it in the next.

At least, I hope so.