At the small temple, we were many; and yet, there was no one. The chants got through the wall and into the soul.
There, he sat for a moment, for a while, for hours, until his body became a large, heavy, lifeless rock. Numbness crossed his body, and settled at the bottom of his skull. He was not unconscious, nor was he awake. He was somewhere, hanging, roving, moving between two worlds or more.
His breath became slow and intermittent; his strength flagging. He was incapable of movement. Thus, he remained there for a moment, for a while, for an era.
At the small temple, there were many candles on the altar. They provided the only source of light in the place. The shades of light were dancing on the walls and on the few faces in a celebration of something that we did not understand at that moment.
A familiar warmth settled in the place as if the spirit of those who prayed here for hundreds of years before are still present.
At that small temple, the soul was an extension of a far away light, and a darkness very near. It was a shadow and the space. It was a shade and the laboratory. It was there among the chants, and it was not. The time contracted at that moment, dimensions diverged, and the light was the bridge to everything.
At that small temple, simply sitting on the bench was like climbing a high mountain in the morning, or going into the wild at night when the moon is full in the sky. It was as if the ancients were there to baptize the soul before it sets on its journey.
At that small temple,he did not recollect specific memories, but relived an old feeling that was familiar to his soul. It was a sentiment that led his spirit to old eras that the present body did not experience.
The heart was awash as if submersed by rain in a stormy night. At that moment, he did not want anything from this world but to retain some of the passion and fire to continue his way to the top of the mountain.