"Don't go to the Light! It's a trick!" my roommate said. Guess it's not a crime to be pessimistic on your death bed. But I could see the light, even with my eyes closed.
The light I saw had character, lights within lights. Nuances of color, nothing as garish as a rainbow. These colors were whispers of intent and they expected something of me.
Once I saw a man in the light. He made it clear that "his skin" was reflective and what I was seeing was my own projection. It was awesome.
Later, after much more listening, I didn't need the illusion. I perceived true spirit. Don't know what "he" is other than a friend.
When I spent more time in the real world than this dark one, my medication was increased. That made it harder to concentrate on our dialogue; I would drift off into artificial dreams with commercials.
I willed a pair of scissors. Slowly cutting each silver thread that kept me from floating away. My family weighed me down with prayer and ego.
A wise preacher moved these bricks away with psalms and comforting words for my loved ones. I became a mist - at last.
Wish I could tell them I'm really awake now, but they can only hear me in their dreams.
photo: taken w/ iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Ina's 1969)
