You claim to recollect your existence from seven centuries ago. Can you recall the name you carried during that time and the circumstances surrounding your demise? I’m intrigued by what transpired between your prior existence and your present one.
This inquiry may appear meaningful at first glance, but it’s not. Life signifies ongoing occurrences, and during the interval between two lives, nothing transpires.
Between these lives exists a void—a gap. If events are unfolding, it signifies another life. In this gap, nothing occurs; you can only recollect it as an unfilled void.
The term “alive” implies something transpiring within an individual. Life resides in the domain of happenings. When detached from the body, nothing unfolds; the body acts as a vessel for occurrences. Beyond the body, you either retain awareness or become unconscious. If conscious, you can reminisce, but the recollections pertain solely to the gap—devoid of any events.
Were you acutely conscious of the chasm between your last death and your current birth?
Yes, during those seven centuries, I was acutely aware. My awareness was rooted in the gap, the vacuum, the emptiness where nothing transpires. “Happening” necessitates embodiment. Only within a body can anything unfold.
But isn’t it monotonous to exist without a body?
No, because the concept of boredom belongs to the realm of happenings. Boredom thrives in continuous events. If you consume the same food daily, monotony sets in. However, when nothing transpires, boredom cannot take hold. You cannot be bored by nothing.
Did you harbor any desire to be reborn during those seven centuries?
In the gap between lives, desire remains elusive. Desire emerges when you’re on the brink of death. Even desire necessitates life and a body. The final desire in one life becomes the initial desire in the next life. Yet, within the gap, desiring is absent.
Consider this analogy: before sleep, note your last thought—it’ll become your first thought upon awakening. Yet, in the gap of sleep, thoughts cease. The last thought halts at this threshold, this checkpoint, and remains there. Upon reawakening, you pass through this same boundary, and your last nocturnal thought reemerges in the morning.
The same applies to death: the last desire in one life becomes the first desire in the next.
In the interlude between lives, all aspects of life cease, including time. When I mention “seven centuries,” it’s not a memory of the gap but a reflection. Time is absent in the gap itself.
Time thrives on events. Many events make life feel lengthy retrospectively, even if the day seemed prolonged due to inactivity. On the contrary, if numerous events occur in a day, it appears short, but upon reflection, it seems lengthy.
Time and space consciousness is tied to events. When nothing occurs, time and space awareness dissipate.
Dreaming doesn’t occur between lives; it requires a body. Without a body, you can’t experience anything—the body houses the tools of experience.
If you remain conscious between lives, you’re solely conscious of your consciousness. Nothing—no thoughts, desires—except the last desire, affects you. This final desire’s effect is automatic, as re-entering a body was your mind’s last suggestion. If you die fully conscious, devoid of desires and thoughts, rebirth becomes impossible.
Going to sleep fully conscious, devoid of desires and thoughts, results in a morning awakening with no thoughts or desires. Similarly, the last thought at death serves as a seed, it’s working automatically. When the opportunity arises for rebirth, it occurs. If consciousness permeated your last life, it will manifest in this one. Your birth will be conscious; you’ll comprehend the unfolding.
This becomes your final life. If your birth was conscious, your death will be too. No further births follow. Once born with full awareness, it’s your last birth. Another death may come, but after that, no more births, no more deaths.
So when I mention seven centuries passed before this birth, it’s merely a reflection.