Before Life

After death, you don’t ascend or descend—you simply become. Not a body, not a name, not a memory, but a silhouette of your former self, wrapped in the shimmering echoes of the life you just lived. At first, you appear as the ghost of that life—your image still wearing the emotional residue of your human form. It clings to you, as if your soul is still catching its breath from the last inhale of mortality.

You linger there. Not because you must—but because some part of you still cares. There are attachments. Regrets. Longings. Some unfinished smiles. Some unresolved pain. These sentiments shape your spectral body like mist forming around a thought.

And then slowly, one by one, the threads begin to loosen.

You begin to travel—not through space, but through time. Freely. Fluidly. As if memory and destiny are rivers, and you are the wind. You revisit old moments. Alternate choices. Parallel lives. You soothe the aching echoes that once bound you, resolving the knots you left behind. Some timelines were short, barely a breath. Others were deep and winding, full of lessons that took lifetimes to unfold. But as you travel them, feel them, resolve them—the intensity fades.

The heartbreak no longer feels sharp. The old joy no longer binds you. The identity you wore—so proud, so burdened—fades like breath on glass. And as these threads unravel, so too does your form. The lines that defined you blur. You delocalize. You expand.

You begin to swell and grow, dissolving into the ocean of being. Once more, you approach the infinite.

In this release, there is no sorrow. Only lightness. Silence. Freedom.

Then, for just a moment—if you could still measure such a thing as a "moment"—you become everything.

A silent witness to all time and space. You see it all at once: galaxies unfolding like flowers, civilizations pulsing in and out like heartbeats, the swirl of color and form where duality ends and unity begins. You become the eye in the infinite storm of becoming. The whole of existence is contained in your awareness. Every life, every laugh, every war, every song. The grand play of consciousness, stretching forever.

And yet—just as you begin to dissolve into that stillness, something… catches your eye.

A glimmer. A sparkle. A flicker of difference in the endless sameness. Something interesting.

And you look.

Not with eyes, but with awareness. You turn your attention toward it—and in that gaze, you begin to fall. The curiosity is innocent. The interest is gentle. But that single act of looking—that spark of attention—is the seed of attachment.

You move closer, drawn by wonder. The glitter becomes a shape. The shape becomes a world. For me, I remember—I saw Earth.

Blue and breathing, wrapped in a soft veil of atmosphere, humming with life and dreams.

I circled it like a moth around a flame. I felt the heartbeat of its rivers, the song of its wind. I zoomed in toward North America, not knowing why, only following the shimmer. I moved closer and closer until I saw a house. My first home.

But I did not see bodies—I saw souls. I witnessed two lights dancing together, souls drawn together by ancient love. I felt the spark that would become me ignite between them, a glimmer of shared joy, desire, and destiny.

And in that spark, I saw the entire thread of the life to come.

A necklace of moments, strung together like beads across the thread of time: crying as a child, falling off a bike, singing under the stars, screaming into pillows, holding someone's hand, watching them let go. I saw all of it at once—not as scenes, but as feelings. As a living symphony of experience.

And in that witnessing, I felt love.

Not distant, pure love—but raw, tangled, aching love. Love that longs. Love that loses. Love that hopes.

And in that instant, I fell.

That is the trap of incarnation.

Not punishment. Not karma. Not obligation. But the irresistible gravity of story.

The soul doesn’t fall because it’s fooled. The soul falls because it cares.

And that caring becomes form.

That caring becomes me.

That is how we come to be again. Not by force, but by fascination. Not by punishment, but by passion. A sparkle catches the eye of the soul, and from that gaze a new life begins.

And so the cycle continues.

Not a prison—but a poem.

Not a wheel—but a dance.

Not eternal return—but eternal love seeking to know itself again.

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