He
was just a few weeks short of his eighteenth birthday.
Already for
some eleven years
had he known the regular Celestial Visitors that entered
his home, seemingly by magic. Already he knew he would work
with them in years to come, and already he knew he would
live in a land far away. He had named these unusual insights “Future
Potentials.” They were prospective happenings of a
future time and, likely, they would come about if he followed
his instincts. They were “things that were meant to
be.”
What he didn’t know
was that something unexpected would interfere with the
plans the universe
had given him
previews of. It arrived in the form of a Defense Force call-up,
and he was to join a crack regiment that would protect dignitaries
from all countries, even royalty.
The family was ecstatic, extended family congratulatory,
and one enterprising fellow even had his music band compose
a song for the occasion, as well as having a few dozen gramophone
records cut from that song. The seventeen-year-old was hardly
concerned about delaying his college studies. Entering service
would be a welcome change. His older sibling by more than
seven years had much to say about it. Maybe he was jealous,
maybe not, but he had been in the infantry, and despite his
brilliant mind, hardly been promoted.
“You’ll crawl through endless mud puddles,” he
told the younger man, “drive a three-meter high tank
through a canal that’s four meters deep, and jump from
a plane at eight thousand meters.” That all sounded
just great! “But with your glib tongue you will do
many extra runs around the track with a full backpack, and
that sergeant from Indonesia will sure lick you into shape.”
****************
He was on the track with a full backpack with just two of
twenty laps to go at a jogging pace, and watching himself
run, knowing he was not at all sorry about speaking up when
his mouth should have been clamped shut. He had always been
a great runner, an untiring swimmer, and forty laps should
have been fine as well. Suddenly he staggered off the track,
clasped at his chest and fell face down on the grass by the
side of the gravel.
A short, stocky, oriental
man in uniform casually walked up to him, kicked his boot
underneath him
and turned him
over without using his hands. “He’s dead,” was
his unemotional response to the trauma. The man shrugged
and walked away, signaling some nearby recruits to take care
of what had dared to spoil his pleasant afternoon. The dreamer
woke up in a sweat, knowing this had been another future
potential—a message forwarded from Paradise, where
all things of all time past, present and future are already
known.
Within the space of three
short weeks he was out of the place, and in “the land far away” as if by magic.
He’s your list-op and the designer of your Akashic
Construct.
May your mind always be at peace, your intuition sharpened,
your guides by your side, and may your future potentials
be the good things that are meant to be.
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