It’s over. I can’t move anymore. Sitting on the cold floor with my legs crossed, I prepare to meet my Maker. My frozen hands are resting on my knees and I wait. If I have to die, I shall die in peace and with dignity. The cold is piercing my face and chest with thousands of needles. It’s sinking deep into my lungs, like the claw of a giant ice dragon. I decide to ignore it from now on. Obedient to my final wish, the pain fades away soon and is replaced by a comfortable numbness.
I start dreaming. I hear a voice telling me to sit on a higher stone, set my ankles over my thighs and let my knees touch the ground. If this position is too difficult to maintain, it can also be done by putting one of the ankles on top of the other. The voice also suggests me to keep my back and head straight, my hands in the center with the left on top of the right and the thumbs touching each other.
This whole body posture looks a bit unusual to me, but what do I have to lose? With my last powers I find a flat stone and sit on it the way the voice from my mind indicated. Like in a dream, I adjust the position of my body, as suggested. I don’t care at this point anymore if the voice is real or only coming from my imagination. It makes me feel that I’m not alone and that is good enough for me. It’s always easier to have somebody near you when you die than to fade away from this world entirely alone.
I’ve lost count of time. I’ve lost the sensation of cold. I’ve lost the information about who and what I am. There is nothing else, only the Universe outside and inside me. That’s all that ever is, all that ever was, all that ever will be.
The Universe, the real one, is not in the world of manifestations. Everything else, including myself, is an illusion. My body is burning like a flame. Life is an illusion. Death is an illusion. Pain is an illusion. The illusion is an illusion. The illusion of the illusion is an illusion.
(excerpt from "Butterfly's Dream", a novel by Marian C. Ghilea)
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