We talk so easily about the soul, our higher self, as if it were some alter image of each of us just waiting for death to unfold and awaken. Like a butterfly, caught in the cocoon of life aging like an old and sage wine until it can be drunk by the Grand Master.
The Greater Being exhaled from the psyche at death.
I dreamed about my Greater Being, but it was a stamping machine in a factory pounding out lives one after the next: a fighter pilot; a Russian; Arab; Chinese, Black; Hindu; Muslim. As though it spoke a language of lives and nothing else.
As each person went by like the passing numbers of a roulette wheel I caught a glimpse into each one and some aspect of their character, time and activity.
So I have to ask, why on earth would this creator of a billion lives ever think of me?
