It’s my personal undertaking to study the mysterious, the unknown, the peel back the darkness, and stretch with blind eyes,

to see.

I write; I explore mystery and the depths of human emotion and perseverance, possibilities. I hunt; I walk into the darkness on weekend evenings and I pore over recordings, frame by frame, listening for the tiniest whisper, and watching for the fleeting shadow. I study; I sit in classes and I learn about the philosophy of perspective, of science, of religious experience, of how much we truly don’t know and how much we can only imagine.

And then some days it strikes me. I look at what we’re doing, breaking a divide for millennia unknown.

Right now, loved ones are contacting the dead. They’re talking to those dead for years and the dead are speaking.

Whether through ITC, induction probes and spirit boxes, whether conversation about the work or their family, whether an hour or three seconds, a whisper, a murmur in dark corridors and basements or through a cutting-edge device, we’re listening.

They say, “It’s beautiful here.” I hear it more and more. Or they’re trapped in a loop of the scene of their deaths, hospitals as they were in the nineteen seventies, revolutionary war forts.

Like a reaffirmation, that difference between the bang you question and the apparition, the sound of footsteps above your head that cannot be anything but a human being, a human being not there, not in our space, not that we can see.

“The mystical experience is often ineffable,” the professor lectures. “We try to describe in words what we cannot. An inherent paradox. The mystic experiences a new life-changing perspective on the universe. We throw out questions of sanity, we study the experience itself, common elements, what the experience implies and…” And the professor lectures. And we brainstorm. And we study the logical and the sensical. And we write our arguments. And we publish.

And in the darkness, we meet with them and we ask what it is like and they say, “Like nothing we thought.”

Or a sigh, words unclear, a rise and a fall, a syllable, a break,

a breath

It doesn’t matter how deep the conversation. How insightful. There’s a veil. And it’s torn.

And every one of us that pushes from our side is a part of it.

And some days that just strikes me.


My inspiration tonight was again the work of Andy Coppock and Michelle brown,
this time through the blog of April Slaughter,


One thought on “Striking.

  1. Beautifully written. Thank you for taking the time to read and respond to my blog 🙂

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