Akashic Records and Automatic Writing Meditation

12 October 2017 12:00 AM
Standing in the library, the lights are muted, except for the desk lights at each chair, station, up in the aisles, on the second floor you can only get to these racks stacks through the spiral staircases, metallic staircases, this is almost like a factory, all made of metal but this is the metal of a blacksmith, this place has been forged in fire and heart, mold these avenues with your mind, your hands, inner hands raised pointed to the door, the hallway, go, is the command, your feet are heavy against the floor, the dog accompanies him, her it, carrying the backpack, briefcase, lay your papers on the shelf, and start writing, first page, I am standing in the middle of the field underneath the tall oak tree, I see grass winding out like ribbons, these are crops, beans I think the sky is blue, no clouds, my back is pressed against the tree trunk, I can feel the bark against my flesh, through the thin blouse, he could be anybody, but today he is the tree, walking down the hill, through the rolling fields, open your hands and go somewhere else, this is trespassing into a memory and I'd rather not, the pillars in front of the temple, the stone building, the library, the pillars are like lumps pressed together, hmm, interesting image, what architect did that looking out across the horizon the top of the trees are like a hairdo, tresses up, and the colors are green, darker in some spots than the other I am walking down the street, cobblestones, it is market day