Please accept our Best Wishes for Mother and Child.
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I am about to suggest to you, based on my own experiences, which one can either take or leave as either a psychic set of impressions of an afterlife or an imaginative construction that is the creation of myself as an observer of my own model of reality, that there may be a truism veiled in this account, that death as well as life is a combination of the imaginative realm toward itself, as well as having a parallel of weaving a spiders web in tandem in which we become exposed, naked to our own assumptions as to what or whom we may be. Perhaps this is as much of a cautionary tale to you as it is to it's author, but then in some sense, I am only a correspondent whose narrative portends a fever dream or a eyewitness of self fulfilling prophecies or then again, perhaps both.
More specifically, death is not a singular state... but the many, from those allegedly dead to our world who are imagining they are alive, imagining one is in a environment that is free standing and existential, imagining delimited self expression .. as I now recall in hindsight within my childhood as recalled as "my Father's house has many mansions." Indeed. A chilling thought is that we unawares may be encasing ourselves in amber.
Let me explain this strange perspective by way of an experiential account lacking any proof, any tangible artifact other than the hand that selects the letters that are arranged to express this chain of events, both in the prosaic and in the metaphysical sense.
Further,this wayward and seemingly random account has a pattern as apparent to me as a leaf thst begs the question; Is reality, in it's highest intermediary sense formed in the eye of the beholder?
Is there not one heaven but an infinite variety of them, all of which are constructed by what we have sewn together from the material, the defining of what oneself may be as a purpose entirely invented, created by the observer and of course, no two observations in the subjective nature of him or her are similar, unlike a leaf or a automobile, sentience apparently not only borrows form, but mimics it's objectively rote nature with the freedom only limited by our own trans-personal models of Self, and many.. as I experienced... have none whatsoever.
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