Northern_Lights_2019

7 Rebirth By Karlie Spiry I do not know how I got here. Endlessly floating, waiting for what? I do not know. When You speak for the first time, I stare at the white expanse above me, searching for You. I want to see your face, to see the origins of where the sun kisses the horizon. You say, “You are about to be on your way,” and I am unsettled. I want to drown. Feel the current glide betweenmy hair strands as I drift to the very bottom to sit and wait. But I am buoyant and the water does not swallow me. It keeps me suspended. “Are you god?” I ask. The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. “No,” You say. I feel myself collapse out of relief. There is nothing to fear now. “I am not god,” You go on to say. Nothing prepares me for what You say next. “I am so much more.” The water stills. I feel my heartbeat pounding all around me. I realize the sound is not coming from within me but from outside of my body. The water is no longer a smooth surface, but a pulsating beat in rhythm with the circadian vibrations of the space around me. I am afraid. Like my insides have become a vacuum and my soul is being sucked up and refilled with an alien substance. “Who are you?” I ask, feeling the weight of my body for the first time since being in the water. “I am so heavy now,” I say. “The weight of life is the heaviest to carry, but it won’t be much longer now. You are almost to the end.” The way you say things sounds so familiar, so warm and encouraging, and yet I am unsure. You say, “I am everything. I am the stars, the dirt, the particles in every space imaginable. I am one. I am infinitely many like the grains of sand shifting through time. But most importantly, I am you. I am every instance of you since the beginning of everything, and I will be you beyond the very end.” I feel the weight of those words beat against my chest and they shatter into a thousand pieces. Or maybe I shatter. I do not know. I do not feel like myself anymore. “You have waited a long time for this moment,” You say. The echoes of the heartbeat begin to slow, and the water begins to turn, swirling around me. I feel mournful. A deep sadness winds its fingertips around my lungs and squeezes, and I cannot breathe. It hurts too much. Like everything I am is significantly not enough. “Give it a moment,” You say. “This is Death and it is the scariest part.” The water around me rises, and I am sinking. I close my eyes. The heartbeats stop. I feel nothing. I am the inadequacy amongst all the multitudes of existence. Everything pauses for the briefest moment of time. You say, “Happy birthday” like it’s casual. I feel the implosion within. My ribs pinch as every molecule that is me ignites. I break the surface of the water. There is a lightness to me that I do not recognize. “You are on your way again,” You say. “You will not know me the next time we meet, but I will welcome you nonetheless.” A moment of fear ripples through me, but it is fleeting and it is gone as fast as it came. What I am left feeling I do not have the capacity to explain, but I am ready for it. I am distant from You now. The current has picked up again and I am on my way once more.