Author: Tapi Writer (Page 1 of 20)

We gathered in camp for Naked Wednesday and opened with a quiet prayer from Whisper, asking for inner peace and a gentle spiritual cleansing. The fire crackled, breaths slowed, and the mood shifted from chatter to calm as we set our intentions for the evening.

From there we walked up to the hill for a round of tai chi, slow under open skies, then kept the energy light with a short trivia session and a mix of games to keep everyone smiling. Thanks to all who joined, helped, and played along.

This Thursday, the Tapí and Xoco hosted storytelling at the Tapí Camp. With Día de los Muertos approaching. Every tale stayed true to the theme and more than a few sent chills through the crowd, and some were unsettling enough to keep us glancing over our shoulders on the walk home.

Here follows the stories that were told.

Micke’s story

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.”

The Ghosts, an elite military special forces unit, were renowned for their ability to execute missions in hostile, uncharted territories. Led by the unflinching Captain Gavora, the team was deployed to the Amazon jungle with a clear objective: locate the wreckage of a military aircraft that had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Initial intelligence suggested no survivors, but the plane’s cargo—top secret material”—was classified as a priority retrieval.

After days of trekking through the dense, suffocating jungle, the team located a small Amazonian village near the suspected crash site. The villagers greeted them cautiously, their wide eyes betraying fear and desperation.
Captain Gavora, inquired about the plane. The village elder shook his head, explaining that they had seen no plane, but their goats had been vanishing, stolen by the “shadowed monks” who haunted the jungle.
“They are not men,” the elder warned, his voice trembling. “They whisper to the jungle, and it listens. They move without sound and leave no trace. Even the spirits fear them.”

The team exchanged skeptical glances. Ghosts didn’t believe in legends. They dealt in facts, in enemies they could see and fight. But Captain Gavora, known for his instincts, decided to investigate.
The Ghosts found the crash site as the sun began to set, painting the jungle in shades of amber and shadow. The wreckage was scattered, the twisted metal of the fuselage half-buried in the undergrowth.
“Strange,” muttered Sergeant Danick, examining the debris. “It’s like the jungle’s already reclaiming it.”
No bodies were found, only empty seats. The black box had been ripped from its housing, but claw marks on the frame suggested it hadn’t been an animal.
Captain Gavora surveyed the scene. “This doesn’t add up,” he said. “Secure the site. We’re staying here tonight.”

As darkness fell, the jungle came alive with its usual cacophony of insects and distant animal calls. But around midnight, the sounds stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence. Then, faint whispers drifted through the trees, in a language none of them understood.
Private Maddox froze. “Captain, did you hear that?”
“Yes,” Gavora said, his voice low. “Weapons ready.”
The whispers grew louder, circling the camp like a predator stalking its prey. Suddenly, the fire extinguished itself, plunging them into darkness.

When the Ghosts switched to night vision, they saw them: shadowy figures their faces obscured by wooden masks carved to resemble animal skulls. The monks moved unnaturally fast, their bodies seeming to flicker in and out of existence as they approached.
“Identify yourselves!” Captain Gavora barked.
The figures raised their hands, and the jungle seemed to respond. Vines coiled like serpents, roots tore through the earth, and a cold, unnatural wind howled through the trees.
“Open fire!” Gavora commanded.

The Ghosts unleashed a torrent of bullets, but the opponents seemed unaffected. Their forms shimmered, and the bullets passed through them like mist. One monk raised a staff, and a wall of vines erupted from the ground, separating the team.
DMaddox screamed as he was dragged into the darkness by unseen hands. “Help me!”
Gavora fired blindly into the shadows, but the monks were everywhere and nowhere at once. “Fall back!” he ordered.

The Ghosts regrouped near the river, panting and shaken. Maddox was gone, and the jungle was silent once more.
“These aren’t men,” whispered Danick. “We can’t fight this.”
Gavora’s jaw tightened. He hated retreating, hated leaving a mission incomplete. But he wasn’t foolish. This was a fight they couldn’t win.
“We’re pulling out,” he said, his voice firm. “We’ll report what we’ve seen and let others decide what to do with it.”
The trek back to the extraction point was tense. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig made the Ghosts flinch. But the monks didn’t follow them. It was as if they had been allowed to leave.

Back at base, Gavora filed his report. He described the supernatural phenomena, the missing black box, and the villagers’ warnings. But the higher-ups dismissed it as hysteria. The Ghosts were reassigned, their warnings ignored.
Weeks later, a supply helicopter flew over the jungle, searching for any sign of the missing black box. The crew reported seeing nothing unusual, but as they passed over the crash site, their instruments malfunctioned, and their radio was flooded with faint whispers.

The Ghosts never spoke of the mission again, but Captain Gavora couldn’t shake the feeling that they had only glimpsed the surface of something much darker. Deep in the Amazon, the monks remained, their secrets intact, their domain untouched. And the jungle continued to whisper its warnings to those who dared to listen.

Read more

Goo’s story

/me looks around shyly, then takes a deep breath and begins her story. Her voice is more of a fragile tone, as if it were thin ice that could give way at any moment under the weight of her words.

“The story is called ‘The Feast of Roots’, and nobody can say whether it’s true or not.”

/me “Here we go.” After a little break she starts “The villagers along the black waters of the Amazon whisper a warning every year on the Day of the Dead: “Do not follow the river into the forest at night. Do not call the dead where the roots still breathe.”

Long ago, two young women – Candy and Qoo – ignored this warning.

They were inseparable, bound by laughter, secrets, and a tenderness neither spoke aloud. On the Day of the Dead, when families prepared altars of marigolds and candles, Candy dared Qoo to go upriver with her, away from the crowded village.

“Why should only the men go hunting for spirits?” Candy laughed, eyes glittering in the candlelight.

Qoo hesitated. Her grandmother had told her stories of the Otros Muertos – the “Other Dead” the forest kept for itself. The ones who drowned in swollen rivers, were taken by jaguars, or vanished under the canopy without prayer or remembrance. Their souls, abandoned, turned to roots and vines, hungry for anyone who dared to forget them.

But Candy’s hand was warm on hers, and the thrill of being alone together was stronger than fear. So they paddled until the river narrowed into shadow, and there they built their altar: petals scattered, a candle lit, sugar skulls grinning in the dark.

The night pressed close. Sweat glistened on their skin, and Qoo felt every brush of Candy’s arm, every nervous laugh. For a heartbeat, she almost leaned closer, lips parting.

The candle flared green.

The marigold petals shriveled black. The air grew thick with a sweet, rotting perfume. And from between the trees came the Otros Muertos.

They looked at first like villagers in skeletal paint, faces white, eyes dark. But as they neared, their flesh peeled back like bark, ribs split open to reveal orchids pulsing wetly. Their hollow sockets fixed on the girls, and the forest itself seemed to breathe with them.

Qoo clutched Candy’s hand, trembling.

“You honor yours,” the tallest figure rasped, chest hollow as a shrine. “But who honors us?”

The soil writhed. Roots uncoiled, slithering up their ankles, brushing against their legs like searching hands. Candy gasped as vines slid over her skin, first gentle, then tightening. Qoo tried to pull her free, but the vines only entwined them closer, twining their bodies together in the dark.

“Don’t let go,” Candy whispered, her breath hot against Qoo’s ear. For a moment, the fear and the closeness blurred into something deeper, something unsaid for too long. Their lips almost met …

/me looks round again, wondering if anyone else is awake. Then she continues, almost whispering: “The candle went out.”

With a violent shudder, the roots yanked them into the soil. Their screams echoed once, then the forest swallowed all sound.

At dawn, villagers found the clearing. No altar remained — only two orchids blooming from the same vine, red and white, their petals curved toward each other as if whispering a secret kiss.

Now, the elders tell it every year: on the Day of the Dead, if you go too deep into the jungle, you must leave an offering not only for your ancestors, but for the Otros Muertos. And if you find two orchids twined together, do not touch them — those flowers still remember. They say if you lean too close, you can hear two voices in the wind: Candy’s laughter, and Qoo’s sigh.

And the roots beneath your feet will stir.

Read more

Kart’s story – Holes

Once ago, there were two Tapirape fishermen. Jon-ass and his young son Poo. As the fishing grounds around the camp got more and more empty due to the arrival of pale men, Young Poo`s Fathers decided, to show his son, the old fishing grounds far out , from Mount Gedi. Filling their canou with nets and Spears and some water , they sailed south from the volcano. Into , the sun , smiled at them and soon the land gets out of sight. After a while , Jon-ass checked the wind , listened to the waves and smiled „here we are now where my grandfather fished the biggest amount on food ever“. Both eager to get more pray home than their ancestor, they throw out nets and tried to spear. Hour over hour they caught many fishes, even lobsters and clams. The tribe will no suffer from hunger anymore and they cheered, throwing again and again their nets. Pacha Mama, the earth mother, blessed them as it seems, but with all that fortunate work , they did not realize that darkness appeared around them.

A short glimpse on the light face of Mama Quilla , the moon, was the last light they saw , as dark clouds raised around them. The wind became stronger as their sail filled, and the movement of waves let their canou sway like a cork in a wine glass. And they get afraid that Supay might chase them, after they might have caught too much , even more than their ancestors. Jon-Ass bound his son with a rope against the mast, and tied himself too, as they bounced on the waves. A big dark storm hooded them in their wet and cold claws and they already thought , that their lives have ended, while praying desperately to all known gods, silenced by the turmoil and rage of the storm, with no sight of land around.

They opened their eyes, their body hurting, in a dim light. Laying with now dried clothes on a hard ground, wondering what happened. A far away, rhythmic sound surrounded them, like if strong waves crash against big rocks ..bumm…..bumm..in a very slow pace . Nothing of her boat could be seen nor any of the sea animals they caught, wearing only their torn loins, unarmed, the first looked at each , to secure they survived without bigger injuries, and then, looked around in the dim light. Only a seemingly endless dark cave vertically above them, through which they had apparently fallen, could be guessed. The will to survive and rescue his son, was strong in his father’s heart, and he started to explore the cave.

Jon-Ass never heard of this place before, in no legends or myths, but for his son he wanted to find a way to escape, and found finally the walls of the cave they awoke and guided by their firm hold, guiding his son by the hand, they followed the walls of the cave , to finally reach an opening. If good or bad they did not know, but their only hope for escape they followed the tunnel behind the opening , downwards . A more and more foul smell making their breaths more and more difficult. Rotten and preserved for aeons it seems, his son started to throw up in weakness , but his father held him and pushed him forward, just still the far away Bumm..bumm sound keeps to stay around them. Feeling along the wall, they felt the warmth of it , and the soft parts, like fleshy stones inside the wall. Through sheer willpower in the foul air they moved on.

Until they finally reached a bigger cave with a flickering light to be seen. A very wide and big cave with rocks everywhere around and …moving shadows. Carefully they sneaked closer, watching what moves there. With big hesitation they saw people moving , crawling or just laying around around small stinking huts out of fishbones , every where lay also fish bones , and the clothes of the people made from fish scales and rotting cadavers . Like undead that people moved and searched for food on the ground, like rotten fish and old clams, Fast they moved further, afraid of that newly dead fishmen, not wanting to discover if they are really human and afraid they moved faster , after leaving the village to another tunnel.

Stumbling more than a day through the darkness, drinking from small puddles with foul and shale water , the reached another cave with a pale green glow and a lake of acid. Where bodies of men and fish decomposed not recognizable anymore which body was which. But they found a path along the rim of that disgusting lake crawling along. Jon-Ass praying to Supay as he believed they reached his realm of death. The spark of life burning hot inside the father, pulling his son forward shouting „there must be an end and a way out of that place“ and so they finally found another exit to another tunnel, they happily moved in.

Without any light , they crawled forward on all four now and recognized a stinky foul mud on the ground thy tried to eat it even to survive, still accompanied by the constant bumm..bumm…. Hours and hours they moved bit by bit forward, and the warm mud got thicker and thicker and higher and higher. Until they finally stuck inside it and lost all hope. The father holding his son tight to his body full of fear and without any hope to see Intis light again, he felt the foul ,mud moving forward with them ..very slow but moving and loosing consciousness.

He awoke, his more dead than alive son in his arms, as the pressure of the mud gets stronger against him, fortunately all his senses were numbed already from the foul smell as mud enters his screaming mouth.
He felt acceleration , unable to move by himself he was pulled and pushed with the thick mud ..and finally pressed out to a blinding sunlight, slashing with the mud on a hard ground.
He and his son inhaled finally fresh air laying in that now dark brown stinking mud..as they crawled very slow at the end of their powers away.

Surprisingly an old smiling men threw them a rope to pull them further, „I will not touch you but get away from that fast“ said the old man. In safety he gave them fresh water and some food, which seemed like a royal dinner to them and they praised Pacha mama, together with the old man. After a nights rest, the old man, a shaman as it seems, told them they were in the belly of Kukulcan, the world snake ..and left at her rear end, here in Deep drop….

Of course they went home safe, but since that time , the tunnel entrance on the chaos highland in Deep drop, is called Kukulcan`s hole. Which explains that most treasure seekers there are called ass-kissers, and chaos place was called a shithole. And if you go there , despite the foul scent, and feel the rim of the entrance, you feel a dirty softness …and if you are silent, can hear the far away heart beat of Kukulcan..bumm bumm.

Read more

Whisper’s story – Night songs of the Jungle

“That night, the moon rose swollen and red … not the gentle moon that watches over hunters and children, but the moon that sees everything the jungle tries to hide. The air was thick with the scent of orchids, smoke, and rain yet to fall. Even the frogs were silent.

“I sat by the fire. Zazulu twitched on a branch above me, tail coiled like a vine. “Wind…” he whispered, “the jungle’s holding its breath again.”

“And there was Catten, clever as ever, crouched beside his latest invention … a little box of copper and stone that blinked like a beetle’s eye. He called it his ghost listener. We laughed when it hummed. But then the ground beneath us began to hum back.”

/me lowers voice ” It started as a murmur, like wind through roots … but soon we heard voices. Hundreds of them. Whispering from beneath the soil, weaving together in sorrow.”

“Catten looked at me, pale as river clay. “Your jungle’s talking again.” he said. I threw marigolds and crushed sage into the fire … offerings for the ancestors, for their time to walk among us was near. The flames turned blue. And in the smoke, faces began to form ….faces made of ash and moonlight, eyes glowing like old river stones.”

“But they were not peaceful. They were angry. Someone had broken the bond between the living and the dead. Someone had dug where they should not dig.”

“We followed the whispers through the vines, deeper and deeper, until the air itself seemed to tremble. Finally, we came to the old ceiba, the tree that connects the underworld to the stars. Its roots were torn open … the soil ripped, bones scattered.”

“Catten knelt, running his hands over the broken earth. “Someone’s been here recently,” he said. And there, half-buried in the mud, we found a red cloth, the kind worn by men from the logging camp beyond the river.”

“Those men had come to steal the ceiba’s heartwood, believing the stories that it could make charms of power and wealth. They had hacked at its roots, laughing as the jungle cried… never knowing they were cutting through the resting place of the ancestors.”

“Now the dead were awake. Their whispers filled the night with sorrow so deep it made the stars flicker. The ceiba wept sap like blood. I felt the fury of Tupi, the spirit of the jungle, rise in the wind …. slow, ancient, and merciless.”

“I called on the sacred words … “Tupi, hear me. Forgive the living. Remember your children.”
And Catten set his machine into the soil, letting it pulse with the heartbeat of the earth.”

“Together we sang the Song of Returning, the chant that calls lost souls home. Light rippled through the roots, golden as sunrise.”

/ me sings softly …Tupi anaka, Tupi maru,
Echa nou, echa uru.
Roots that sleep, roots that weep,
Hear the drum of earth so deep.

Soulu, soulu, takarima,
Return to soil, return to dreama.
Let no spirit walk in pain,
Let the forest breathe again.

Tupi, Tupi, omo yara,
Guard the hearts where shadows are.
Let the fire die, let green arise,
And peace be sung beneath the skies.

/me looks around silently pointing finger to the night…..the jungle wind answers softly, carrying the scent of wet leaves and smoke. In the distance, owls cry once, then fall silent. then continues telling”The spirits began to calm. Their voices changed from grief to song … low, soft, full of peace. But balance required more than song.”

“The jungle demanded that the wrong be righted. And so, as dawn approached, we heard screams in the distance …faint at first, then swallowed by the mist. The loggers’ camp was gone. Their axes were found days later, rusted solid, vines curling through the handles as if the jungle had taken them back.”

“Some say the men ran, cursed by guilt and fever. Others whisper that the ceiba took them, binding them into its roots, turning their greed into silence.”

“When the sun finally rose, the tree glowed green again … alive, peaceful, whole. The whispers faded, the earth closed, and Zazulu landed on my shoulder.“Spirits happy now,” he murmured. “They go dance in the light.” I smiled. “The dead do not leave us,” I said. “They walk beside us … in the water, in the wind, in the roots beneath our feet. We must only listen… and never forget to respect what sleeps.”

/me lets voice fade with the last line. Looks at the fire. Pauses. Then says softly “And so, every year when the veil grows thin and the moon turns red, we sit by the fire, we whisper their names,and we tell this story again … so that no one forgets what happens when greed cuts through sacred roots… and the jungle remembers.”

Read more

Sara’s story – Kijimuna

The strange looking girl with bright red hair bows to the assembled people.”Hello! I am Kijimuna, a tree spirit of Okinawa.”
.
Kijimuna are common in Okinawan folklore. They are known to be mischievous spirits, sometimes playing pranks on people. A common one is to lay on someone’s stomach while they sleep, keeping them from moving even when they wake up. If you see a strange light bouncing along the beach at night, maybe a Kijimuna stole your paper lantern as a prank.

But Kijimuna can also make good friends. They sometimes help fishermen and give them all the fish they catch. But only after eating the eyeballs (they’re the best part, yum!) But their friendships can be fragile, often short-lived, as they are fickle and easily offended.
.
I will tell you one such story.
.
A young boy from a small village was very sad, walking slowly though the mountains, all alone. He sat down to rest under a banyan tree and fell asleep. Some time later, somebody woke him up. As he rubbed his eyes, he looked up to see a figure with bright red hair. In an instant he knew it was a Kijimuna!
.
The boy had just happened to fall asleep under the spirit’s tree, but proper greetings were still required. “Hai sai!” blurted the Kijimuna, making the boy jump. “Hai sai,” replied the boy, still surprised at the spirit’s unexpected appearance. But the boy was not afraid, as he knew Kijimuna did not normally bully humans.
.
The Kijimuna looked at the boy curiously. Something seemed wrong. “You look sad… Why do you look so sad?” The boy lowered his head in shame and spoke.
.
I come from a poor family, the poorest in our village. All the other children have more money, they have new clothes, they buy nice things. But my family has no money for such things, so I feel ashamed every time I see the other children.
.
The Kijimuna’s eyes brightened. “Then I will help! Be my friend and I’ll take you to my secret fishing spot. We’ll catch many fish, and I’ll make you very rich! But you must be my friend forever if we are to become friends. And we’ll meet every morning at my tree to go fishing”
.
“Really? Thank you! Thank you very much!” The boy jumped with joy. He knew that Kijimuna were well-known for their fishing skills.
.
The next morning they met as planned. The Kijimuna took the boy on his back, flew him to a special fishing spot, and they fished all day. They caught so many fish! The Kijimuna let the boy keep all the fish (after it ate the eyeballs, of course. Yum!)
.
This went on for weeks. They went fishing every day, the boy brought back loads of fish, sold them in the village, and made lots of money. Eventually he had more money than any of the other children. He was so happy, being able to buy new clothes and nice things for his family and himself.
.
But one day, the Kijimuna waited and waited, but the boy never came. Maybe the boy was sick? That evening, the Kijimuna secretly entered the village to see what had happened to the boy.
.
The Kijimuna heard voices near the center of the village. He hid in the shadows and crept closer. It turned out that the boy wasn’t sick after all. The boy was talking loudly to all the other children. He was bragging about all the nice new things he bought for his family and himself. And he was bragging about how he was a great fisherman, that he had caught all those fish by himself!
.
As you might guess, this did NOT go over well!
.
The next morning, the boy woke to see that all the money was gone. All the nice things he had bought were gone too. In a panic, he ran to the forest to find the Kijimuna. He ran to the exact spot, but the banyan tree was gone. It was as if the tree was never there. The Kijimuna had flown away to the mountains, and the boy never saw him again.
.
This story teaches us several lessons. Always act and speak with honor. Never brag and tell false stories about yourself. And never, ever break your promise to a Kijimuna!
.
Thank you for allowing me to share my story of Kijimuna, tree spirit of Okinawa. smiles

Read more

Kwanita’s story – The Watchman of Souls

(Sound of wind whistling between the graves… distant percussion, like a slowly beating heart…)

In the small village of San Lucero, deep in the mountains, the Day of the Dead was always a time of celebration and remembrance.
The streets were covered with cempasúchil petals, the golden flowers said to open the path between the living and the dead.
The altars shone with candles, photos, pan de muerto, and small smiling figurines.
But this year… the sky was gray, the rain never stopped, and the wind blew like a lament.

The villagers had tried to light their candles in the cemetery, but the wind extinguished them one by one, as if an invisible hand were blowing on them. So they came home, soaking wet, murmuring prayers so that the souls wouldn’t be lost in the mist.

(We hear the sound of rain falling, slowly…)

Among them was a twelve-year-old girl, Rosa.
Her eyes shone like two little lanterns, and she loved listening to her grandmother’s stories—especially the ones about spirits.
That evening, her grandmother had said to her in a gentle voice:

“If the light goes out, mijita, the shadow will come and replace it. Always keep a flame burning.”

But Rosa didn’t like fear to decide for her.
So, when the house was asleep, she took a lantern, a lighter, and went out alone into the night.

(A door creaks, a squeak, then footsteps on wet earth…)

The wind howled between the crosses. The rain was falling so hard it stung her face.
And yet, Rosa moved forward, relit the candles one by one, her fingers trembling around the flame.

Each time a candle came back to life, a low murmur rose:
“Thank you, little one…”
“You read our guide…”

Rosa jumped.

Was it the wind? Was it the dead?

She wanted to reply, but her voice caught in her throat.

(A sound of footsteps in the mud. Then another. Then a breath behind her.)

Someone was following her.

She turned slowly, the lantern raised.

A figure appeared in the mist—a woman in black, her face hidden by a veil, holding a candle that would not melt.

Her skin seemed transparent, her eyes shone with a sad light.

The woman stepped forward. Her voice was soft, but icy:

“You help the dead, Rosa. But tell me… who will relight your light when yours goes out?”

Rosa took a step back.
The wind suddenly picked up, stronger than ever. Her lantern flickered…
One last flame, one last glimmer… then darkness.

(Silence. Then a breath. Then only the sound of the wind.)

In the morning, the sky had finally cleared.
The townspeople returned to the cemetery, and what they saw took their breath away:
All the candles were lit.
All of them, without exception.
But Rosa was no longer there.

They searched everywhere: the village, the river, the hills. Nothing.
But since that day, every Day of the Dead, when the wind blows over the graves, a small light wanders between the crosses. She relights the flames one by one, patiently, without ever going out.

The elders say she is Rosa, the Watcher of Souls.
And if, one evening, your candle goes out for no reason…
(low voice)
…look carefully into the night. Perhaps you will see her little lantern smiling at you, just before the wind blows your name.

Read more

Shui – The Egg
By: Andy Weir
​
You were on your way home when you died.
It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.
​
And that’s when you met me.
“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”
“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.
“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”
“Yup,” I said.
“I… I died?”
“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”
“More or less,” I said.
“Are you god?” You asked.
“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”
“My kids… my wife,” you said.
“What about them?”
“Will they be all right?”
“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”
​
You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”
​
“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”
“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”
“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”
“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”
​
You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”
“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”
“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”
​
I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.
​
“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”
“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”
“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”
“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”
“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”
​
“Where you come from?” You said.
“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”
​
“So what’s the point of it all?”
“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”
“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.
I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”
​
“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”
“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”
“Just me? What about everyone else?”
“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”
​
You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”
“All you. Different incarnations of you.”
“Wait. I’m everyone!?”
“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.
“I’m every human being who ever lived?”
“Or who will ever live, yes.”
​
“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”
“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.
“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.
“And you’re the millions he killed.”
“I’m Jesus?”
“And you’re everyone who followed him.”
​
You fell silent.
“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”
​
You thought for a long time.
“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”
“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”
​
“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”
“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”
“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”
“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”
And I sent you on your way.
​
Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6fcK_fRYaI

Read more