Forty-Eight

I was sitting cross-legged in the sand in the desert, my breath circulating around my body like golden strings. There was a big storm coming, and I was worried. But the Siberian man came and sat down behind me, with his back touching mine. Our breaths joined, golden threads brushing our skin. “That is not our storm”, he said. I felt calm, centered. All was raging around us but we were not touched. I raised my head to look at the blue sky above me, the clouds were gently wandering about. No signs of upheaval up there.

When it calmed down, we were still sitting there. Suddenly, I started to see in a different way, like staring into the Sun with eyes closed. It felt as if I was watching with my skin or through my skin, from the inside. At first, it was dark, then very blurred. Slowly, I could make out a huge eye, of somebody very old, somebody very ancient. She was so close to my face that I could feel her breath. And she was looking at me.

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