Black Sky Days

Dearest Soul,

I opened my eyes to a new year and didn’t remember who I used to be. I reveled in the freedom but found myself wandering the streets looking into glass windows desperately trying to forget places I knew. People brushed rudely past, pointedly ignoring my knowledgeable look, their eyes shifting away as they retreated from the Now back into the past and future of their regrets and fears, their own attempts to forget as clear to me as the clashing shades and hues of their auras. I chuckled knowingly. This was the way of the world.

Did you recognize it when your world changed?

Did you see the signs in the sky?

Were you aware that tommorrow would be fundamentally different, set apart from all that had come before?

Are you ok with the fact that the past is gone, never to return? That the good old days no longer exist and are best left to stories told to children and strangers, gathered ’round? That what was true back then is only an indication of the way things used to be, and not an indication of how they are going to be tommorrow?

At least not in the ways that matter.

The laws of nature still apply, only it is questionable whether we ever knew them at all. Does everything that goes up come down? Is there life on other planets? Is there only one person in each body? Do machines dream, and if they do, do they dream of me and you?

Does the fact that the sun rises every morning mean that it’s going to rise tommorrow morning? Or every morning thereafter? What if it doesn’t? What if you wake up one morning and the sky is black? What would you do? Would you go back to bed, convinced you were dreaming?

What if you woke up tommorrow and looked into the sky and there were two suns? Or an image of Jesus painted on the clouds?

The night I found out that I could fly was an important milestone for me. I remember it vividly. I was escaping from a situation and found myself walking. The lightness of leaving lifted my spirits and body simultaneously and I found myself bouncing higher and higher with each step. By controlling my emotions I found that I could regulate my height and I explored a prison for psychic criminals, passing recalcitrant Yogins, Fallen Angels and social Deviants alike, searching for her.

Does the fact that it was a dream mean that it wasn’t real? That I can’t fly? I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?

If there are an infinite array of Quantum universes, one after another receding into the timelessness of the eternal, who is to say what is real and what is not? In an infinite Creation aren’t all things probable? And, if they are, does that mean there is a Disney universe out there somewhere where Mickey Mouse is King and Minnie is his Queen? Daisy could be his Courtesan while Donald plots jealously to murder Mickey in his sleep, reclaim his woman – and make Minnie his Ho’ – then take over the Kingdom. Could it be possible that we access these universes or travel through them with each random imagination and daydream, and that we sojourn those dimensions/universes closest to our current reality with each decision that we make, shifting through them like fish through layers of the ocean? That the possibilities that we envision become real if our intentions are clear enough? That our ability to manifest our desires takes us irrevocably through higher or lower dimensions along the trajectory of our eternal journey, depending upon our innate spiritual propensities?

I don’t know about that, but I do know that I  can fly.

I observe the daybreak from the vantage point of a convict, trying to figure out how to break out of this prison I’ve created for myself. The walls close in around me and I chafe beneath the weight of my chains. The stars seem so close as the sun rises and they fade, leaving me with only a vague memory of their position. If I can only remember where they are, I know I can find my way back home, where you are waiting for me, knowing that I will come when I can.

When I look in the mirror, the man on the other side isn’t me. I wonder sometimes how he found me. The look in his eyes is confident and serene. When he first appeared, I thought I was going crazy. Then I figured out that everybody experiences this, and that this is the biggest secret in the world. Sometimes I think he’s the one who is real, and I am the illusion. Sometimes I wonder about his looking-glass life and come to the conclusion that it must be the total opposite of mine. Maybe someday I’ll talk to him. Maybe. I’m not sure. What if he answers back?

Random moments find me wondering about you, and what it is like living your life. When I pass people on the street sometimes, or see them in cars or sitting in restaurants, I try to envision their lives. I wonder how their houses smell, where they work and do they like it. I try to see the state of their relationships in their eyes and body language, how they interact with the ones they are with, are they restless, and whether or not they know the Secret of Life. I find it most difficult to imagine the ambience of your life. The feel of it.

If you remember the places you’ve lived, you’ll realize that each one had a different feel. The images possess body and tone, marking them as singular occurances in an eternity of difference, each time of your life a subtle flavor that you recapture sometimes in a sudden memory, as when you smell something that transports you, takes you instantly back to a place and time, that immerses you in what was as if you’re no longer here, Now.

Because, in that instant, you are not. We are magically teleported, manifesting our destiny as time travelers, spanning all of the space-time continuum within the confines of our own minds.

If the sky is black tommorrow morning, I won’t be surprised. I won’t go back to bed, either.

Will you?

Much love and light, always. Your friend and confidante, ~Mark



  1. If the sky is dark in the morning; I will be elated and explore whatever it holds…! This is light! Much love to U Mark, I hope to get on board and sail in your Great Ship someday!

  2. Mark: You’ve asked all these questions addressed to your ‘Dearest Soul’ so there’s probably no appropriate response can come from passing strangers. And the gap between where your own soul is doing all the work up there in the NOW and trickling it down into the ME you believe yourself to be operating downstream in time can sometimes be an abyss. The YOU you consider yourself to be doing whatever creatures of the past do in whatever they believe they experience as NOW allow themselves the illusion of doing a lot, when in fact it’s already too late and it’s already been done by the busybusybusy dear soul over where now really is. Maybe the dear soul will explain it all to you next coffee break, but until then there’s an awfully lot going on in the real NOW and not much time to do it in. Busybusybusy.

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