The Akashic Records
In the high silence of Tibet,
when the temple’s incense was fading into the cold air,
the Dalai Lama placed in my hands a vessel—
a humble bottle, yet trembling with eternity.
“Inside,” he said, “dwells a genie.
It shall grant you the one wish your soul most longs for.”
I bowed, but my heart did not hesitate:
“Let me gaze into the Akashic Records.
Let me see the scrolls of the eternal library,
the breath of beginnings and the echo of endings.”
He looked into me with sorrow,
and whispered,
“Once you see, there is no return.”
I hurried into the dark chamber,
extinguished the lamp,
and pressed my lips close to the vessel.
“Genie, Genie, hear me—
unveil the Records,
let me know what lies hidden in the ether of God.”
The voice came, trembling and merciless:
“Once you enter, the self you cling to
will dissolve like salt in the sea.”
Still, I whispered:
“I am ready.”
And the world broke open.
I was lifted into a boundless library of light—
walls not of stone, but of living flame,
each spark a memory,
each whisper a forgotten dream.
Time was shattered—
yesterday bled into tomorrow,
tomorrow dissolved into forever.
There was no birth, no death,
only an endless unfolding.
I read the secret of stars before they were born.
I touched the tears of men who are yet to weep.
I saw my own face, not once but a thousand times,
shifting, dissolving, reforming—
and in every form was the same cry:
I am not me.
I am everything.
I am everywhere.
The genie’s voice burned within my veins:
“You wished to see.
Now you can never close your eyes.
You are the Records,
and the Records are you.”
I searched for myself—
but how can one find a drop in an endless ocean?
I searched for God—
but God was the ocean,
and I was already drowned.
And so even now I wander,
half sorrow, half rapture,
not yesterday, not tomorrow, not today.
A flame without a wick,
a song without a singer,
a soul without a name—
lost, yet one with all.
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