lonewolf
Senior Registered
I did a regression last night that resulted in perhaps the strongest, most vivid memories I've had so far.
Near the end of a session with a Buhlman CD, after various other memories, I suddenly saw a shabby artists' studio, late 1700s early 1800s, where a struggling painter was doing a portrait. I thought I was him but then I saw his model, a young girl 8-9 years old. She was very poor, and came in occasionally to pose for him in exchange for food and an opportunity to wear decent clothes as she usually wore rags.
She left the studio. I saw her mother, a drunk. No father. The child struggled to survive by picking and selling flowers or other trinkets. Then the artist moved away, and she had nothing. I saw her walking, walking, walking through dirty streets (I think London, but maybe Paris). Then she lay down in a doorway on her side, and, now looking through her eyes, I gazed listlessly at the people and carriages going by as I slowly died of malnutrition and dysentery (which I felt). I felt her quiet stoicism, but also the utter indifference of everyone else, and when she (I) died I felt my soul released crying out with bitterness and outrage, and also such pity for the child. I was no more than 12 years old.
I saw the year, 1808, I think of my death.
That life, as well as episodes in the two lives that came between that and this, has led me to a deep distrust and bitterness toward people, a seperateness and isolation. I can never forget dying in that doorway, with not a word or gesture of compassion from others.
Lonewolf
Near the end of a session with a Buhlman CD, after various other memories, I suddenly saw a shabby artists' studio, late 1700s early 1800s, where a struggling painter was doing a portrait. I thought I was him but then I saw his model, a young girl 8-9 years old. She was very poor, and came in occasionally to pose for him in exchange for food and an opportunity to wear decent clothes as she usually wore rags.
She left the studio. I saw her mother, a drunk. No father. The child struggled to survive by picking and selling flowers or other trinkets. Then the artist moved away, and she had nothing. I saw her walking, walking, walking through dirty streets (I think London, but maybe Paris). Then she lay down in a doorway on her side, and, now looking through her eyes, I gazed listlessly at the people and carriages going by as I slowly died of malnutrition and dysentery (which I felt). I felt her quiet stoicism, but also the utter indifference of everyone else, and when she (I) died I felt my soul released crying out with bitterness and outrage, and also such pity for the child. I was no more than 12 years old.
I saw the year, 1808, I think of my death.
That life, as well as episodes in the two lives that came between that and this, has led me to a deep distrust and bitterness toward people, a seperateness and isolation. I can never forget dying in that doorway, with not a word or gesture of compassion from others.
Lonewolf
