Last night I was enjoying wine and excellent company. We were delighting in the night air, that had finally cooled down from a skin crisping ninety-five degrees. The conversation somehow got to past lives. They were talking about how they felt they must have been these various versions of themselves. “I must have been a pioneer, and that explains why I hate camping so much”. Things like that. I was afraid to contribute.
When I was young I could remember before I was born. It’s weird. I’ve never met anyone else who can remember that. Busting out, “I know I wasn’t looking forward to coming here ’cause it’s just a dreamy illusion, but I know I was really lucky too, a lot of souls wanted this spot”, is a dicey conversational move. It’s fucking weird, man. That’s not a normal thing to say.
Then the conversation moved onto ghosts. After my mother killed herself there was very direct, palpable things that happened. Light dimmers would slowly move. A phone fell across the room, the cord landing in a perfect heart. My little sister, who was hardly old enough to speak, would talk about “Linda”; my mom, whom she had never met – telling us that she was telling her eerily sound things, like “I’m sorry”. When someone’s talking about strange noises and cats wigging out, it seems inappropriate to bring up such things. Bit of an overshare, plus it would bum folks out.
Maybe it was the conversation last night, but I’ve felt very outside of myself today. The definition of non-attachment. Wrote like crazy. I felt like I was wholly observing this experience for the sake of expansion. Everything is honored, but nothing matters (Eckart Tolle).
I wasn’t meditating on my own or anything either; the end of the day, anyways. I had a friend visiting, then I saw another acquaintance from my hometown randomly and met all her people, then went somewhere else, and met all these other folks. Whilst identifying with the part of me that feels wildly like an outsider…