I’m reading Michael Newton’s “Destiny of Souls,” a frivolity that would get me excommunicated from church. Good thing I left awhile ago. But I digress, again.
I’m half-in/half-out of belief in any one spiritual path, be it Christianity, Buddhism, or what hypnotherapist and author Dr. Newton has witnessed with his patients over a considerable time period.
There’s a lot to Newton’s theories, from as far back as his first book in this series, “Journey of Souls,” and my first fully comprehensive introduction into reincarnation and what might really happen in the after-life.
All that to say that the part which intrigues me the most is parallel lives, as well as leaving behind a bit of our energy behind when we incarnate on Earth or other planets. I’m fairly sure I’m a hybrid; most of my memories are of other worlds and dimensions. I’m also fairly sure I wasn’t always a good girl trying to do the right thing at the expense of my own happiness.
There’s a boy (isn’t there always) in my current life who I am drawn to for reasons that remain beyond my comprehension. I can’t blame it on physical attraction alone; he’s not my type, although he’s certainly very attractive, tall, dark, handsome, brooding, withdrawn, with these piercing blue eyes that look through you but not close enough to the soul — just piercing the skin, like a human x-ray.
I know him through my husband. Bryon’s a drummer, my husband’s a keyboardist, the two are musician friends who shared the occasional gig in and out of this church we all once attended regularly back at the turn of the century.
His ex-wife used to be my friend, a friend of convenience, truth be told. Our sons were best friends. She was… hard to take, so eventually I had to break away from her hold over me and my family — at great cost to our emotional well-being.
Bryon and I never gave each other a second thought. Yet, I’ve repeatedly dreamed of him, precognitive dreams for the most part.
The other part stymies me.
Parallel lives, perhaps…
Today your warm hands startle my face, cold and compressed from this business of carrying life to the bitter end. “Are you feeling under the weather?” until I am spellbound into a feverish mist that seeps through the cracks of other people’s windows, open, open to the blue sky I float upside-down to see the girl without a torso and legs spellbind this upright soldier into what is considered love in war-torn times.
You laughed at my tendency to ask awkward questions, afraid to take my hand down this sun-dappled, maple-lined street toward the oblong buildings we once called home. So you looked back, catching my eye in the glimmer of light and shadow, a falling away of dust into this eerie musicality we once sprung from.