A Separate Reality
No, not Castaneda's, but my own in which, on August 15 of this year, one louver from the left-hand, louvered door of the cabinet that resides below the stove in the galley of my modest motoryacht pierced my gut, in the fine tradition of naval battle in the Age of Napoleon, when splinters killed more seamen than did cannon fire directly.
I bled out semi-conscious. A bottle of Cabernet shattered on its shelf above me, and the wine and the blood ran together into the bilge and onto the boat's robust propeller shaft, which later complicated the preparation for her salvage auction, including most critically the communications around it.
Two questions. Where did this other soul go? And why? What purpose could it have served?
It seems that that soul evaporated into my own, but I believe that it might be accessed again via the right kind of hypnosis, rightly administered. An odd synchronicity in this with the post that I last wrote, a week or so before the boat exploded.
The "why?" Maybe for one so prone to feeling helpless before and defeated by one's fate, it was useful, for once, to see what invincibility feels like, so as to round things out. But of course that only makes sense if Someone is paying attention.