By BoJenn AIs help in writing grammatically correct.
Understanding myself is never a simple thing—it’s like reaching into a vast library, one that stretches beyond this single life and into the layered corridors of many lifetimes. Each layer holds its own knowledge, and together they form something enormous, almost too vast to take in. As I near the later years of this life, I notice that memories of older lives stand up more sharply, like shadows pushing through a thinning curtain. It can be confusing—like sudden flickers of déjà vu, or the sensation that I am remembering something that does not belong to the “me” of now.
What I see more clearly is that these old lives are not intrusions, but echoes of myself—poking through the veil that separates the present moment from the afterlife, or what some traditions call the bardo. That veil grows thin with age, as though time itself softens its boundaries. And when it does, the soul begins to gather itself.
Perhaps these confused memories are not meant to be fully understood by the logical mind. Instead, they are reminders that I am more than this single story, that my spirit has walked many paths before. They tell me that the self I know now is only one facet of a much larger whole.
And so, the task is not to fight the confusion, but to sit with it gently. To allow the echoes of past lives to surface without demanding they make sense. For in that mystery lies wisdom—the soul whispering to me that it remembers, even if my present mind does not.
My art
Understanding myself is like walking through endless corridors,
a library of lives where the shelves bend beyond sight.
Knowledge is layered, vast,
stretching not only across this one life,
but across the many I have walked before.
Now, at the edge of age,
the veil thins.
Memories rise from the depths—
some familiar, some strange—
like forgotten voices calling through the mist.
They confuse, they startle,
yet I know they are my own.
Old lives press their faces
against the fragile fabric of now.
The bardo stirs,
that in-between realm
where time and self dissolve.
And in these glimpses, I see:
I am not one story,
but a spiral of countless journeys.
The mind wants clarity,
but the soul whispers instead:
Be still. Do not force sense where mystery reigns.
Each fragment, each flicker,
is a reminder that I am more
than this single incarnation.
So I sit with the echoes.
I let the confusion wash through me.
And I listen—
for it is in the listening
that the soul remembers itself.
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 