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<blockquote data-quote="taykair" data-source="post: 169620" data-attributes="member: 9418"><p style="text-align: center">Chapter Four</p> <p style="text-align: center">A Reluctant Explorer (1972-1981)</p><p></p><p>Though the dream of being outside my body seemed powerfully real to me at the time, I'm sure that eventually I would have forgotten all about it had it not happened again. And again. And again. For all of my teenage years and into my twenties, I regularly had these experiences. Once or twice I could have dealt with, but two or three times a week for ten years? Too much.</p><p></p><p>For the first few years, I was too frightened to even leave my room when these "dreams" happened. Yes, I still tried my best to think of them only as dreams because to regard them as anything more would lead me down a dark path. Or so I believed at the time. I said before that I was living a double life, and this was true. I did not confide in anyone concerning my "night travels". I was all too aware that what was happening to me bordered on the occult or the paranormal, and that such was frowned upon by everyone I knew. So I did what every good little fundamentalist does when confronted by something which does not fit into his world-view. I tried to ignore it.</p><p></p><p>I was not successful.</p><p></p><p>After awhile, as I became more used to existing outside my mortal coil, I began to explore a little. Even so, I was extremely cautious - merely sticking my toe into the great ocean of the unknown rather than diving right in. Eventually, I worked up enough courage to travel, disembodied, around my neighborhood.</p><p></p><p>Those trips could have been a lot more interesting than they were, but for two things: The first is that I was scared and confused for most of the time, as I have said. The second is that I was much too restrained. When on these travels, I would try to act as normally as possible, given the abnormality of the situation. I knew I could have floated - or flew - around the neigborhood, but I tried my best to walk. I knew I could pass through walls (because I had done so a few times by accident) but instead I would always try to use open doorways. I knew that I could have secretly spied upon my neighbors, but I never did.</p><p></p><p>In short, for most of the time that I was astral travelling (I can't stand that term, but it's what people call it), I proceeded as cautiously and as meekly as I could. I was just as boring outside of my body as I was in it.</p><p></p><p>As I say, I tended to restrain myself when out-of-body. My astral travels around my neighborhood were just as normal as I could make them. I suppose I did this because it made me feel as if I actually had a measure of control over my environment. It was as if I had constructed some kind of "reality shield" around myself by avoiding things like floating or flying or moving through solid objects. I know now that what little control I thought I had was merely an illusion, and there were a few times, even back then, when I got to see just how fragile my shield really was.</p><p></p><p>I remember a Sunday afternoon after church. I was napping. I heard the roar. The whine. The hum of many voices. I opened my eyes and rolled over. And out.</p><p></p><p>That's how I always did it. There was no technique or ritual involved. It was as simple as turning over.</p><p></p><p>Once I was out, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. As I was concentrating on not floating across my neighbor's yard, I was unaware that I was moving closer and closer toward my neighbor's dog, who began to emit a curious, whining kind of bark upon my approach. I backed away, and the dog became calmer. I moved closer. Once again, the animal seemed spooked.</p><p></p><p>'Is the dog aware of me?' I wondered. And then it happened.</p><p><em></em></p><p><em>I am running. Fast. Close to the ground. Running. Running. It feels so good to run! To hunt! The aroma of the ground. So overpowering. Hunger. Food? Run. Run! There! Food! Eat!</em></p><p></p><p>I was just about to dig in to a big bowl of dog food when I snapped back into my body. Yes, I said "snapped back into my body". Even though my beliefs at the time neither explained nor condoned so-called "astral projection", the events I experienced seemed much too real to me to be mere dreaming. I'll never forget what it felt like to be a dog for just a few seconds.</p><p></p><p>I'll also never forget my (almost) trip to the moon.</p><p></p><p>It was night. I was out and timidly haunting the neighborhood again, when I happened to look up at the full moon.</p><p></p><p><em>'Is there supposed to be a full moon tonight?' I thought, 'It looks different somehow.'</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>More beautiful than I've ever noticed before. As if the moon is producing light, and not merely reflecting it. And it seems to be growing larger. Larger. Closer. Closer.</em></p><p></p><p>I looked down to see the earth speeding away from me. I screamed.</p><p></p><p>Snap! Back home in my body. Heart pounding. Out of breath. Fright. Confusion. Sadness.</p><p></p><p>Until this point in my story, my travels, with the exceptions of becoming a dog or flying to the moon or passing through a wall or floating instead of walking, were rather mundane (or so I was determined to make them). Most of the time, my astral experiences differed only slightly from my waking experiences. About the only difference was that I was able to see perfectly well in the dark. (Pretty good for a kid who could barely see in the daytime without his glasses.)</p><p></p><p>The first time I noticed that my astral environment was changing started out as just another out-of-body walk around my neighborhood. Gradually, everything started getting lighter. I don't mean brighter. I don't mean shinier. I don't mean that some angel somewhere turned on some extra astral lamps. What happened was that everything started emitting light. The ground. The sky. Plants. Animals. Buildings. Everything looked as if it were made of light - only of light. You would think that everything would just be a white blur, but it wasn't. I could easily discern separate objects, yet I knew that nothing in this place was really separate at all. It was all one thing. It was One. I was a part of it.</p><p></p><p>This is starting to sound a little too New Age for my taste, so I won't continue to try describing was cannot be described. Except to say this: There was a <em>rightness</em> to this place. It was as if that Place of Light was the way things really were, and that what I had always assumed was real was only a pale imitation of reality. Also, the voices, which I would always hear just before going out-of-body, were more distinct in this place. I still could not make out words, but two of the voices seemed familiar to me. I couldn't place one of them, but the other was unmistakable.</p><p></p><p>It was <em>my</em> voice.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="taykair, post: 169620, member: 9418"] [CENTER]Chapter Four A Reluctant Explorer (1972-1981)[/CENTER] Though the dream of being outside my body seemed powerfully real to me at the time, I'm sure that eventually I would have forgotten all about it had it not happened again. And again. And again. For all of my teenage years and into my twenties, I regularly had these experiences. Once or twice I could have dealt with, but two or three times a week for ten years? Too much. For the first few years, I was too frightened to even leave my room when these "dreams" happened. Yes, I still tried my best to think of them only as dreams because to regard them as anything more would lead me down a dark path. Or so I believed at the time. I said before that I was living a double life, and this was true. I did not confide in anyone concerning my "night travels". I was all too aware that what was happening to me bordered on the occult or the paranormal, and that such was frowned upon by everyone I knew. So I did what every good little fundamentalist does when confronted by something which does not fit into his world-view. I tried to ignore it. I was not successful. After awhile, as I became more used to existing outside my mortal coil, I began to explore a little. Even so, I was extremely cautious - merely sticking my toe into the great ocean of the unknown rather than diving right in. Eventually, I worked up enough courage to travel, disembodied, around my neighborhood. Those trips could have been a lot more interesting than they were, but for two things: The first is that I was scared and confused for most of the time, as I have said. The second is that I was much too restrained. When on these travels, I would try to act as normally as possible, given the abnormality of the situation. I knew I could have floated - or flew - around the neigborhood, but I tried my best to walk. I knew I could pass through walls (because I had done so a few times by accident) but instead I would always try to use open doorways. I knew that I could have secretly spied upon my neighbors, but I never did. In short, for most of the time that I was astral travelling (I can't stand that term, but it's what people call it), I proceeded as cautiously and as meekly as I could. I was just as boring outside of my body as I was in it. As I say, I tended to restrain myself when out-of-body. My astral travels around my neighborhood were just as normal as I could make them. I suppose I did this because it made me feel as if I actually had a measure of control over my environment. It was as if I had constructed some kind of "reality shield" around myself by avoiding things like floating or flying or moving through solid objects. I know now that what little control I thought I had was merely an illusion, and there were a few times, even back then, when I got to see just how fragile my shield really was. I remember a Sunday afternoon after church. I was napping. I heard the roar. The whine. The hum of many voices. I opened my eyes and rolled over. And out. That's how I always did it. There was no technique or ritual involved. It was as simple as turning over. Once I was out, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. As I was concentrating on not floating across my neighbor's yard, I was unaware that I was moving closer and closer toward my neighbor's dog, who began to emit a curious, whining kind of bark upon my approach. I backed away, and the dog became calmer. I moved closer. Once again, the animal seemed spooked. 'Is the dog aware of me?' I wondered. And then it happened. [I] I am running. Fast. Close to the ground. Running. Running. It feels so good to run! To hunt! The aroma of the ground. So overpowering. Hunger. Food? Run. Run! There! Food! Eat![/I] I was just about to dig in to a big bowl of dog food when I snapped back into my body. Yes, I said "snapped back into my body". Even though my beliefs at the time neither explained nor condoned so-called "astral projection", the events I experienced seemed much too real to me to be mere dreaming. I'll never forget what it felt like to be a dog for just a few seconds. I'll also never forget my (almost) trip to the moon. It was night. I was out and timidly haunting the neighborhood again, when I happened to look up at the full moon. [I]'Is there supposed to be a full moon tonight?' I thought, 'It looks different somehow.' More beautiful than I've ever noticed before. As if the moon is producing light, and not merely reflecting it. And it seems to be growing larger. Larger. Closer. Closer.[/I] I looked down to see the earth speeding away from me. I screamed. Snap! Back home in my body. Heart pounding. Out of breath. Fright. Confusion. Sadness. Until this point in my story, my travels, with the exceptions of becoming a dog or flying to the moon or passing through a wall or floating instead of walking, were rather mundane (or so I was determined to make them). Most of the time, my astral experiences differed only slightly from my waking experiences. About the only difference was that I was able to see perfectly well in the dark. (Pretty good for a kid who could barely see in the daytime without his glasses.) The first time I noticed that my astral environment was changing started out as just another out-of-body walk around my neighborhood. Gradually, everything started getting lighter. I don't mean brighter. I don't mean shinier. I don't mean that some angel somewhere turned on some extra astral lamps. What happened was that everything started emitting light. The ground. The sky. Plants. Animals. Buildings. Everything looked as if it were made of light - only of light. You would think that everything would just be a white blur, but it wasn't. I could easily discern separate objects, yet I knew that nothing in this place was really separate at all. It was all one thing. It was One. I was a part of it. This is starting to sound a little too New Age for my taste, so I won't continue to try describing was cannot be described. Except to say this: There was a [I]rightness[/I] to this place. It was as if that Place of Light was the way things really were, and that what I had always assumed was real was only a pale imitation of reality. Also, the voices, which I would always hear just before going out-of-body, were more distinct in this place. I still could not make out words, but two of the voices seemed familiar to me. I couldn't place one of them, but the other was unmistakable. It was [I]my[/I] voice. [/QUOTE]
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