I believe that anyone who dares to call him or her self a writer ought to have an active imagination; otherwise, he is just feeding us a lot of notions that we have already mulled over and kicked around more than once.  And so I decided, just for the fun of it, to write about life as we don’t know it—life in the afterlife.  But let me first settle your fears:  I am not a preacher, nor a theologian, nor someone on a mission to change, evangelize, or to proselytize anyone.  Nope.   I am not even going to express a deep-seated belief about Jesus, Mohammed, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster.  So get me out of your crosshairs, put down your rotten tomatoes, and relax.  Who knows?  This could even be entertaining.  

Let’s start with the conventional stuff.  You have just died.  And suddenly you realize you are floating above your body.  You hang around (literally), and you quickly realize that all those coming and going are looking at your body in sorrow or terror, while ignoring the real you like you were not there.  You call out to them, but nobody will even look your way.  That’s when a new reality hits you:  You are dead meat—to them, not a cool floating being in your new state of weightlessness.  Still, you quickly lose interest in hanging around in an environment where nobody will even acknowledge your presence.  You are now, at best, indifferent to everyone.  And we all know that indifference is the opposite of love.  You can’t handle non-affection. After a few minutes you therefore become motivated to “fly away.”  And so you do.   

You have just met the conditions for astral projection into a new realm.  Let’s just call it what it is—the spirit world.  You hear a roaring sound as you are being whisked away—down a swirling black hole, through a maze where every thing is jumbled, and all the laws of physics are transformed; thence you are thrust into a worm hole, where you are accelerated beyond the speed light; and you pop out into a bright and shiny new place. You feel great—better than you have ever felt—yet you slink and move ethereally, with the certain knowledge that you are invincible without a body.  But this new awareness that you cannot be harmed is also tempered by the additional knowledge that you cannot harm others.  The notion of doing combat with anyone leaves you—rationally—and it is replaced with something that is completely new:  You are aware that you can neither bully, nor be bullied.  Holy golf balls!   You must be in liberal heaven where equality, peace, and love rule the day—or eternity—in your new way of think-speaking.  Still, you are suspicious, and not ready to trust your new feelings. 

A tingling mist that had been permeating the environment dissipates.  And there before you is a throng of people.  You think you are prepared for battle that you can neither activate nor defend against.  And then you realize you don’t have to do either. There are all your old friends, all those who passed over before you.  Now you know you are really dead, or you are high on something.  Your suspicions are confirmed:  They are all a bunch of flower-bearing, smiling elves.  Well, maybe not.  But they are not warriors.  Why there is Bill, and Stinky, and that hot babe who lived just two houses from you.  And they are all waving at you.  This is getting curiouser and curiouser.   

In the next few minutes there are more hugs, and kisses, and back-slapping going on than you can stand.  None of them ever treated you like this before, so you are now leaning toward a new belief that you have been sent to the loony world.  On the bright side, there’s really good music playing, and everyone can dance really well, and the revelry is contagious.  So you join in.  You head straight for the hot babe.  She is all smiles, and love, but no funny stuff.  That’s when you realize that not having a body can have its drawbacks.  Fun without sex and booze was never your idea of heaven.  You wonder if there’s golf.

Before you can launch another attack, the Grand Counselor intercedes.  “Charles,” he commands.  “You have been summoned to the Great Temple.”    

“My name isn’t Charles, Grand Counselor,” I begin to say.  But he cuts me off.  “It’s your old name, lad.  As you will discover, you’ve been here before.  Just like everyone else.  You don’t remember the drill now, but you will.  Now come along.” 

The Great Temple is an eerie place.  There is no music or laughter in here.  You are taken before a tribunal of Grand Elders.  You know they are Grand Elders because you can feel mathematics, and algorithms, and precise notions of right and wrong swirling around in their heads.  You are chump change before them.  “We are here to help you decide your own fate, Charles.”   You think “OMG, this is my Judgment, and I am on my way to hell.”  Just as suddenly you hear “No, Charles, you are not going to a place that does not exist.  Hell is just a primitive Earthly concept.  But if you don’t listen to and follow our counsel, you will be sent back to Earth where you wish it were hell.  Am I coming through, Charles?” 

“Loud and clear, Great One,” I projected. “No, Charles, I am only wise, not great.  We are here to discuss your shortcomings, and all the misery and the havoc you heaped upon others during your most recent tenure on Planet Earth.  We don’t slap you around or imprison you for all of your tomfoolery.  That would be too easy.  We are here only to help you cleanse your soul from all that shit—and I use that term advisedly.  Now to help you see, hear, and feel your days, and hours, and seconds on Earth—with intensity.  We are all going to watch and listen as you feel every joy, every agony, every pleasure, every pain that you ever inflicted upon all other beings, and every animal, and every flower, every bee, every bird, every tree, etc.  And it will all be magnified a thousand times over.  Are you up for it?” 

“No,” you whimper.  “Good,” said the Wise One.  “Because if you thought life on Earth was good or bad the first time through, you ain’t seen nor heard, nor felt nuthin’ yet—in a manner of speaking, nonverbally, of course.  Roll the videos, turn up the speakers, and the feel-o-rama machine, boys. This could be embarrassing.” 

And so you rock and roll, and lie and drool, and you writhe in anguish as you see, hear, and feel yourself inflict pain and sorrow upon humanity and Nature.  After what seems like an eternity, the room falls quiet.  And there you sit, in a puddle of imaginary sweat, a contrite and humble soul, without pride or drive, and unable to conjure up a thought that would dare to cause a blade of grass to shudder—if there were any around to shudder.  You have been beaten into a pulp—so to speak—by your own words and deeds.  You have met the enemy—and he is you. 

“Well, Charles, what have you to say for yourself that hasn’t already been said by you?”  With much effort you manage to say “Only that I am an asshole, a whimpering, simpering asshole.” 

“That is a good place to start, Charles.  Now you will get your chance to work upward from there.  You see, Charles, you are your own judge, and only you can set your course for a new life, one that reaches for a higher outcome, a better outcome.  Does that make sense to you? 

“It’s crystal clear, oh Wise One.”   

“Good.  Now go out among the brethren.  Think, contemplate, and devise a new plan.  But it must be one that shows you have learned your lessons, and you will strive onward and upward toward a better person, a better life.  Otherwise, you will get to review your life again, and the one before that, and the one before that.  You see, Charles, you must become a believer in yourself, and your potential.  Otherwise, you could get caught in an endless loop of recycling old lives that even you judge as dreary as shit—in a manner of speaking.” 

The sun was shining brightly as you awakened that morning.  You shake your head several times before you realize you are back in your own body, and you had been dreaming.  A chill runs down your spine as you recall the Wise One, and his words.  You struggle to get out of bed, fearful that you might step on one of Nature’s creatures, or blaspheme against the sun, or not give your cat food and space to relax.   

As you pass by the mirror on your wall, you suddenly notice something strange about it. You slowly turn and peek into it.  To your horror, there is the Wise One from your dream looking back at you. You try to scream, but you cannot utter a sound.  You are transfixed by that look on his face.  After much agony you manage to say “What are you doing here?  Are you spying on me?” 

The image smiles.  “No, I am merely observing that you remain true to yourself, Charles.  I could judge you, I suppose, because I am you, and you are me. We are kind of stuck on each other.  Now get on with your life, before the shit hits the fan, and you get your ass into deep trouble—in a manner of speaking.”