It's risky but I'm going to tell it anyway. I sat in my quiet place, my study, and invoked the imagery of the theater, about which I have previously written, only this time the "director" walked across the empty stage to a staircase going down twelve steps. The theater was completely empty except for the director, quiet and only dimly lit (the real body was completely relaxed.)
The stairway led down to a storage room that was locked from the outside. The key was hanging on a peg next to the door. It is kept locked to avoid things getting out without being taken out.
The door opens into large room, lined with shelves and bins which contain scripts, pictures, and memorabilia from performances past. Seeing it brings back sweet and bitter memories but all are accepted just the same. It is understood that these performances are all ended, good-bad-indifferent, and even though the sets have long been stricken, the memories make up the career and life of me, the star of the show.
At the far end of this storage area is a doorway covered with a thin curtain. Going to it I pushed it aside to find myself in a large open area; a manicured garden of trees, shrubs, and flowers even though indoors. And floating about, like blobs in a lava lamp, were the indistinct forms of the souls of the departed who are still "at large."
I recognized some of them, names came to mind, but I didn't interact with anyone. The experience of the storage room was still being strongly felt. I can come back to this part of the theater any time I please to do so. I shall, and perhaps I'll be able to interact with some of those still there.
Meanwhile, I am still busy accepting the contents of the storage area.
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