Some remember childhood details like it happened yesterday. Others hold so few memories, you wonder if they skipped straight to grown-up. I belong to the latter group.
Luckily, memory spared a few impressions. Like watching diafilms when I was three or five.
A diafilm was a roll of film with fairy tale frames. In a dark room, the projector splashed colorful pictures across the wall. An adult read the text under each one.
Maybe kids back then had fresh eyes, or my imagination ran wild, but every diafilm cracked open a portal to another world. I vanished from here and popped up there—with them.
Later, a faint echo of it hit during rare movie nights or gripping books. Dreams come close, but they lack the diafilms' richness and color.
As an adult, I found those kid sensations again when I met... The Mystery. One that words can't describe.
First time, out of nowhere—no effort on my part—I felt what Christians call grace. I’ll tell that story one day. The experience was too intimate and too incomprehensible for the mind.
The next time it happened during a psychedelic ceremony in the jungles of Peru. Suddenly, I found myself on the other side of the portal. There was Another world — perhaps even more real than this one.
The cynic in the room snorts: all delusion, hallucinations then and now. I won't argue. I'm convinced enough to keep chasing this Mystery—and finding it in everything, everyone. Like in you.
Merry Christmas!
Sincerely yours,
-Alexander
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