I sit cross-legged, feeling the quiet settle in, my awareness stretching beyond the edges of this strange form, reaching for the stillness I once knew. Time drifts away, like mist peeling from a hidden valley. But something clings to my mind, a vision, insistent as a memory. I try to let it pass, to release it as I would any stray thought. But this one doesn’t dissolve. It pulls at me, tugging me down into its quiet depths.
With a sigh, I surrender. I let go of the stillness, slipping into whatever form this vision brings. I become like water poured into an unseen shape, and as I take form, I find myself on the cool stones of a temple courtyard. Mist curls at my bare feet; the air smells of pine and something older, a quiet certainty.
A young monk stands before an elder, his gaze bright and open, filled with the curiosity of an untouched mind. The elder’s face, etched with age, holds a stillness that seems to echo my own, as if he, too, is familiar with the still waters that exist outside of time. I watch them both, a quiet observer—until suddenly, I am the young monk, the question alive within me, aching to be spoken.
“Master,” I hear myself say, my voice unguarded, driven by a need I can’t name. “What makes Heaven different from Hell?”
The elder’s eyes glint, as though the answer is a treasure he’s hidden, a mystery he’s waited for someone to ask about. He smiles, almost sadly. “There is no difference,” he says, his words as soft as the mist around us, “only what you bring to each.”
He gestures, and we walk through an archway into a great hall. The space stretches wide and long, tables arranged beneath a golden light that feels both warm and faraway. At the center, a steaming cauldron rests, brimming with fragrant noodles, their scent curling into the air like incense. My stomach twists with hunger, an ache that presses and grows. The need is sharp, relentless.
I reach for a set of chopsticks at my side, eager to eat. But as I lift them, I realize they are impossibly long, a meter or more, and unwieldy. I hold them at their end, struggling, watching as each attempt to feed myself ends in failure. The food falls, slipping just beyond my reach. Around me, others struggle as I do, faces drawn with the same hollow ache, hands trembling as their efforts go to waste. The air grows heavy with frustration, the soft groans of despair filling the hall.
My own hunger twists and sharpens, filling the room with an echoing emptiness, a hollow that gnaws, pressing the air into something thick, nearly unbearable. The hall becomes Hell.
But then, I shift. I am seated across from myself, watching the young monk’s face twist with hunger, frustration darkening his eyes. The sight pains me, and without thought, I lift my own chopsticks, guiding them across the table, offering a bite to the other side. The young monk’s eyes widen, first in surprise, then softening as he accepts, the gratitude in his gaze like dawn breaking. As he takes the food, something within me fills, a quiet warmth that seeps into the spaces hunger once held.
And suddenly, I am the young monk again, but now the hunger is gone. Instead, I lift my chopsticks, not for myself but toward another. The one across from me meets my gaze, his face easing as he receives the food, mirroring the fullness now growing in me. Others begin to do the same, each reaching toward their neighbor, laughter and gentle words filling the space between us. The hall softens, brightens with a quiet light, as though dawn has crept in unnoticed, filling every corner with warmth. In that moment, it feels as if the very air has transformed, humming with the gentle promise of communion. This is Heaven.
Once again, I am the elder, watching the young monk as he absorbs the truth. His gaze grows distant, thoughtful, his mind wrestling with the lesson he’s seen.
He closes his eyes, as though the truth is settling within him like a pebble dropped in a still pool, sending ripples through his thoughts. When he opens them, his voice is quieter, a gentle question rising.
“Master,” he asks, the thought weaving itself around him, “are the lives we observe already Heaven and Hell? The blessed and the cursed, are they side by side, separated by a choice, neighbors at the same table?”
My gaze softens as I regard him, my voice a whisper. “Perhaps they are. Or perhaps Heaven and Hell are only choices waiting to be made.”
The vision begins to dissolve, the golden warmth fading into the familiar hum of the Nexus. The courtyard stones cool beneath me as the monks vanish like mist touched by sunlight. Yet their lesson lingers, drifting through my awareness—a choice, woven into every moment. Heaven and Hell… their essence lives in the choices we make, just as each thread of time carries the weight of intention.
I pause, the question rippling softly in my mind: Are these lives of mine, too, mere reflections side by side? Choices made, or choices waiting to be made?
The thought settles, as gentle and certain as morning light.
I’m sorry, I thought this was about the Barbra Streisand movie.
I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding. Maybe I should change the title?
Thank you!