a vision, by Sha’Tara]
It is difficult at times to determine if a vision is good or bad. I suppose it can be argued that it’s all on how it makes you feel, or the effect the memory of it has. In any case you may find the following entertaining, interesting, perhaps even intriguing. Perhaps you even know what this is all about. Perhaps this is also a part of your reality.
There was a girl on the street. A quite ordinary looking girl in scuffed runners, faded jeans and an oversized blue sweat shirt. Her dark hair was tied in a loose pony tail. How old was she? You don’t ask a woman her age.
She was kneeling by a broken vase someone had heaved out of an open window. It’s possible it had simply fallen. There were stems of dried, long dead flowers scattered all around, and some spots of rust coloured liquid spattered the cement under the broken pieces. Water or blood?
I watched this girl very carefully, though she could not see me. I was using a wide power pole to hide behind so I could observe the scene without disturbing anything, neither her thoughts nor her movements.
She picked up the broken vase, and carefully held it as she arranged the pieces so it would look as if it was still in one piece. It had been painted over with a cheap imitation of mother-of-pearl. So, rule out the possibility that it had been either a fancy or expensive item. She picked up the dried flower stems and put them in the vase. Then she stared at it, unmoving for several minutes.
I waited and wondered. What was the girl thinking? Doing?
You know those balloon things you see over the heads of people in cartoons? I saw one of those over her head. I saw what she was thinking. She wasn’t thinking in words, or perhaps I didn’t know her language, but what I saw did surprise me.
There was an image in the balloon. It was of the vase she had so carefully reassembled. A man in an outlandish uniform was holding the vase, and it was filled with the most beautiful bunch of red roses. He was handing it to a woman. The woman was veiled, her face hidden behind a white lace and her hands, as she reached for the vase, were covered by white lace gloves. In contrast, she wore a floor-length black dress with a high collar. They were standing in a large room and I could tell from the man’s uniform, the woman’s dress, the curtains and pictures on the walls, that this was of another time, and of another part of the world.
What kind of past life memory had I come upon? What old love story was being brought forth from the nether worlds by this strange and unexpected vision?
The girl on the sidewalk slowly let the broken vase slip from her hands and its pieces spread out as before. The balloon image vanished. She got up, holding her right hand over her eyes, found her balance and looked around. I had stepped out from behind my hiding place and when our eyes met, I saw her eyes welling with tears, and more running down her face.
Her lips made a surprised “O” and she turned abruptly, running away from me down the street. I looked down and there was nothing on the sidewalk, just the dirty, old, cracked cement. No broken vase, no dried up flower stems, no rust-coloured stains. Down the street, no woman running.
I knew instinctively that I had no need to go running after her and try to glean the story from her. In my mind I knew I had seen her thoughts because I was one of her “partials” as my people explain it. A piece of her mind linked to mine.
I will find her again and I will get the story (if I want it), whether in a restaurant, in a dream, in a vision, in a walk by a lake, in a memory, even in another life, in a lovers’ embrace, none of those particulars matters. We are linked in a shared mind, that’s what matters. It’s what I needed corroboration for: the shared mind theory.