I drop once again into my meditative state, floating in a galaxy. I see a bunny rabbit, jumping around, doesn’t relate to stars. She must have gotten lost. its a backdrop, to the galaxy, ironically. There’s also mushrooms, red and white, its a fairy garden. The bunnies are carefree, doing there thing with no particular place to place. Birds are tweeting. Smells of freshly cut grass. My heart centre feels liberated. It feels nice. I don’t like the word nice but that’s how it feels. Pleasant.

My Higher Self is still light shuttling back forwards and forwards from my feet to my head and beyond. I feel connected.

Does your Higher Self have a message for you today?

Go deep.

What symbol can help you hold this message?

The borehole drilling for water that is going on outside.

What lifetime do you need to visit to understand your resistance to being a writer?

Its 1942. I’m a man. I’m a writer. I wear small round tortoiseshell glasses, brown floppy hair. Shirt is done up to the bottom button, leather braces. I’m sitting at my desk. Feel despair. Lots of noise around me. There’s a war raging on outside, in the city I’m living in. I’m in Berlin. Bombs going off. Gunshots. Sound of aircraft. I’m trying to write and I can’t.

Why do you feel despair?

I need to earn money. And yet I cant write. So much noise. I can’t think straight. There’s fear. People are dying.

Writing seems futile. Pointless. Its a luxury. Nobody cares what I write anyway. People just want to survive.

How do you feel about yourself?

Frustrated. There’s a waste paper basket by my desk, with the beginning of 40 stories in every page screwed up and thrown in the bin.

What causes you to throw each one away?

I only write one paragraph. I don’t think its good enough.

Has your writing been published?

Yes in a medical journal and they went rather unnoticed. I thought they were ground breaking articles of discovery but it was met by the medical world as being ill thought out and nothing new. Stating the obvious.

How were your perceptions different?

Problem is I’m not a doctor. I don’t know enough about the area I’ve written. I’ve just scratched the surface on a topic that has actually been established for many years. I’m not an expert in the field. What observations were made? Distilling down medical jargon, spelling it out in layman’s terms, making it easy to digest for the masses.

Perhaps it was published in the wrong place?

Yes, although they were the only people interested at the time. It was my first offer and I quite desperately nneded the money.

What do you wish to communicate to others?

I’m trying to write a novel that is engaging, exciting, that creates a strong emotional response.

There’s a block in my head. Its like a pounding headache. Its black. Thick black murky smoke.

When did it first attach itself to you?

I’m 7 years old. A school boy. I’ve written a story. I’ve had to read it out in front of the class and everybody is laughing at me. My teacher is also laughing AT me. Amongst all her laughter, she tells me my story doesn’t make much sense. Not sure what I was trying to convey. It’s a story about a dragon that eats a little boy. And then the little boy eats the dragon from the inside out.

They’re laughing because it doesn’t make sense, the eats him from the inside out. I feel shame. In my head. Feels really heavy, so heavy my head is hanging down off my body. I feel embarrassed, not good enough. I’ve got it wrong. Tears well up in my eyes. I want to cry. I’d rather cry in my own space but I can barely hold it in. I don’t think they’ve noticed, they’re so busy laughing.

How do your family feel about your writing?

My mother feels sad that I’ve been laughed at. She cuddles me and tells me to ignore them.

My big sister tells me she loves my story and she thinks its funny. My Dad doesn’t say much, just tells me not to worry and to forget about it.

What drew you to becoming a writer?

I love doing it. The creativity. The ability to transport a reader into another world. I love provoking the reader into thinking.

What happens to you as a writer? 

I think I get killed. A bomb hits my building. I think I’ve gone into a hideout. The bombs have started. I’ve climbed into the attic. I’m waiting it out. A bomb hits my building. Everything is blown in smithereens. I feel relaxed, surrendered. It may be inevitable

Are the any other images, messages, knowings from your Higher Self?

Yes, that moment before I die, when I’m in a surrendered space, I’m in my head and a story unfolds. I feel very alive, connected, the story is flowing. It’s euphoric. I’m so in the story. I’m not even aware that I won’t get to share it.

Has this happened before?

No it hasn’t happened a lot. Before the war started, I did have moments of this.

What happened to those stories?

They’re sitting as manuscripts in my drawer.

I’ve had interest from publishers and an agent but I haven’t gotten around to sending them off. I get side-tracked by life, meeting friends, my girlfriend. I seem to run out of time. I tell the agent and publisher, very excitedly, that I’m going to send it to them but I don’t get round to doing it.

Where is being side-tracked in your body?

In my eyes. Sparkly. like snow globes. It’s slightly magical. It does serve me…it provides fun and I find it energising if I enjoy it.