The third eye

And suddenly the third eye opened. Asleep for months, withdrew into silence, literally and figuratively. Bricks piled up one after the other to fill the hole, the white door opened on the blue light. Little by little, greenery regained its rights, ivy creeped between the bricks, gripped to them until they invaded the space, just enough to forget there was once a pathway. There was my lying dormant third eye, peaceful and hidden. 

It’s been a long time since I cried. Like the weather, the sun was arid and my river dry. Not a single drop would flow in its bed. I was empty. 

Oh, the bricks didn’t build themselves: someone put them there. The white door wasn’t barricaded alone: someone did it. This someone was me. Terrified by the blue light on the other side and the whispers slipping out, panicked to no longer be alone with myself, I quickly shut everything down and ended everything. I got scared. So I drank, partied, and smoked cigarettes to lower the vibration, this aura around me that attracts them. I did everything to diminish my own light, so it wouldn’t shine to anyone, not even on my own internal self. 

Then, I saw the world as it is. I came back down among the humans and I saw the world through their eyes. I saw the politics, I saw the wars, I saw the fear of growing old and the fear of dying, I saw the sorrow and I saw the pain. I saw the joy, too, but it was superficial, forced, fake. It wasn’t enviable, I wasn’t attracted to it. The world, as I saw it, my back up to the wall I built, was hideous. It was ugly, dull, banal.  I started to realize that life as it was had no interest to me. Things, matters, people with no open door seemed terrifyingly empty. Suddenly, I was homeless, like an angel locked out of heaven. And if I knew loneliness before, then it appeared to me differently. Not only was I alone, but the torment, the voices, the tears, everything was gone. I was truly lonely. My motivation was gone, along with my longing. I slept, ate badly, drank a lot while trying to be a normal human again, with limiting beliefs, well-defined ambitions, and unsatisfying desires. 

This is the moment I understood my friend’s quote: Hell is right here, right now, down on earth in every human’s life. 

Then I asked myself: Would I rather have this life, or the one with longing, singing and dancing spirits? 

Would I rather see the dark in the soul of the world, or listen to its wisdom whistled in the wind? Did I really want to close the door on everything that moves me, raises me up above the world to see it better, just because sometimes the wind is strong and cold? 

The misery of a struggling soul is more acceptable than the misery of a man stuck in his life because he’s too afraid to die. 

Of course, death is scary. Because we don’t know what’s after. We don’t know what level of consciousness survives once the only remain is the little piece of being, that soul without the body that used to be attached to the brain, allowing us immediate response. Of course, we think that after death is just darkness, and the absence of existence. 

And of course, it is wrong. But it is way more difficult to persuade ourselves of that, than letting a rational speech rock us, since it seems harder than ever to find faith. 

I didn’t realize I saw all that, but once I did, it convinced me to step back. To throw myself at the wall, to bang it, hit it, break it with a shovel, with a pickaxe, a burin, pulling off the stems and the ivy so that the light springs back through the cracks, until it appears completely, flooding the space between my brows, my face and my eyes, blinded by the light. 

It is still shy. The boundary between these two worlds is thin, it is a thread I sway on like an acrobat. I know that reopening the door is demanding, because it means starting all over again. Elevate my vibration, warning the voices I’m back, learning how to hear them, and most importantly listening to them again. Elevating forces me to dig my feet in the earth. Removing these limits once again, and overcoming those fears that urged me to stop everything the first time. 

Now that the door is open again, I feel in my chest the sensation of weirdness, the tickles, the anguish that isn’t mine, but still well located in my stomach, as worrying as reassuring: I feel again, I am no longer broken. The river ceased to be dry, the dam broke and the water flows again.