Fiction

Story: Sadhaka

By: Brian Barbeito

sadhakaIn the before, yes, before he incarnated, the beings gathered round and said, Why? – Why do you want to go there and what do you want to do? He told them that he wanted to know what the real of realness was. They were perplexed, even with their gnosis and guidance systems, with their trainings and overview of souls. You should pick a normal life, if any, they cautioned. Three dimensional life is often arduous. No, he said. I heard some others talking about it, and I want to do it. I want to go for it. I can do it. They looked at one another. Looks of quiet resignation and even disappointment. You could get hurt, they told him. I know, but long is the journey and great is the reward. Where the hell did you hear that? Don’t say ‘hell,’ one of them remarked, and –Sorry…, called the other. I don’t know, said the naive sadhaka– I just heard it, or made it up, it sounded right. And the decisions were made and the course was set. It was difficult. They chose with the young soul a mother that was already troubled, and no father. He would be taken down to her womb and feel the stress in her cells and blood, the trouble of her psyche and body and aura- a troubled start. And off he went———-borne and borne and borne….taken one morning to the next, and he was sickly but full of quest and hurtful joy if there could be such a thing. He had an apgar rating of 9 and a regular enough body- if frail, and his hair began to curl- he was of an indecipherable descent- mixed, like a mutt- and also with a double crown, with brown shining eyes, but not really for this world. Smiling sometimes- laughing- laughing at odd things sometimes. The real world looked like an uneasy carnival without rides, like a textured and labyrinthine oddity, lurid, and grossly confident in this luridness. He saw the spirits and heard them almost always, though he found it difficult to understand just what they were saying. Sometimes they sang songs, such as in a metaphysical choir, but they were ominous songs, notes of warning and deep sadness-…things went along- the people of the earth seemed so adjusted to the world, and he roamed around and watched like s ghost though he was indeed now one of them. Years and years went past and his body and mind sometimes crumbled. He had barely much intelligence as anyone else had- but not too much lower. His IQ made triple digits by only one single digit and he had achieved an IQ of  only 100. Phew. Close. So he was not gifted but had heart, a gusto or verve and nerve akin to an underdeveloped boxer, but a valorous boxer nonetheless-or simply an underdog that was determined but without solid aptitude or gifts. Oh, it was a troublesome world. He created what he could, and soon fell into depths and depths of despair and hellish nightmare realities. But he never forgot his mission, his search for truth. He would be victorious even if he died. He would be the winner even if losing found him again and again. The existence was vast and the fire that burned within him- the spark of light that sought to join the largest, the infinite spark of light and nothingness combined, could not be stamped out, would not be stamped out, and would find its way somehow at some point through the samsara, through the karmas, through the maya, through the concrete and heartache, the blinding days and dreadful nights, the storms of ignorance, the haughty laughter of others, the condescending and sardonic smiles of others that thought they saw him but did not, the ill-fated attempts at communication with kindred spirits so-called, and the rest of it. In the before, when the beings had gathered, the course had been set and against any and all type of obstacle, Providence would  prevail.

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Categories: Fiction

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