Suicid: After-death experience

All intellectual culture that I brought fromEarth did not worth nothing. Was not more than a small bubble Soap, taken by the wind of truth.
Spirit André Luiz

Advertisements

Spirit: André Luiz  Medium: Francisco Xavier

Youtube: https://youtu.be/0v0aSO6nnKk

Date of Publication 09.07.2012

I will introduce myself as André Luiz, but this is not my real name. I beg pardon for it. Anonymity, in my case, is a form of respect to fraternal charity. I do not have the right to hurt beloved hearts, my family yet involved by the illusions of life on Earth.

Furthermore, names do not have the slightest importance.Modestly I think it’s much more important to hear what I have to say.

You guys, starting today to know my story, believe me: Life does not ends, it is the eternal source. Death is the dark set of illusions. Before emptying into the sea, the river have to fulfill a whole trajectory. Just as the human soul has to go all his way, before reaching the ocean of wisdom.

Dying is a simple process to change clothes. But change clothes not solve the fundamental problems of human beings. It is childish to believe that the simple down of rag solves  forever all questions.

An existence is an act. A body, a garment. A century one day. A service, an experience. A triumph, one acquisition. A death, a renewing breath.

Even with no notion of time and space, and with the most quite sure   no longer belonging to the so-called world of the living, I could not understand why my lungs were still breathing normally. The physiological needs also not have changed.

The gnawing hunger made me devour strange vegetation leaves. The scorching thirst forced me to suck the stinking mud in search of water. I ran, falling, dragged me through the dark and stinky floor with my clothes in tatters and filthy. The stubble, the intolerable tiredness, deep exhaust an endless flight, always with that range horrifying of monsters chasing me, relentlessly.

Gloomy figures, half human, half animalistic, continuously shouting “suicidal, suicidal”, a full of hatred accusation. I did not understand because I was sure of not having committed suicide.

I do not know how many days, weeks, months or years maybe I wandered around in circles by that infernal Region of whitish light and shrouded by a heavy fog, frightful that rarely seemed to filter sunlight. A distant sun, weak, struggling to shed some light warmth and bring hope to the people of darkness.

With bristly hairs of dread and heart pounding, I cried desperately for a minute of peace. The answer, while not the insane clamor was the terrifying silence.

At these times I asked myself if I had gone mad and found the vigilant conscience, responding that did not. I continued  being myself, with all the culture and feelings picked on Earth. For a few seconds I felt oddly lucid. A lucidity that was at same time relief and punishment.

Because it reminded me with an intolerable longing all that I left behind: My dear children, my adorable wife.

From all the torments I have experienced, the longing is the worst. Nothing compares the pain of longing. It’s sad, a great suffering.

I came often screaming and begging for  something that arose from darkness and rip from me my consciousness and awareness, but this was also refused.

And what seemed a strange trip still, remain continued. How long and where, it was a complete mystery. The unknown horror followed me from the moment I turned off me from the the last physical rope in the grave.

All intellectual culture that I brought fromEarth did not worth nothing. Was not more than a small bubble Soap, taken by the wind of truth.