I've been feeling like writing all day--yesterday, too, for that matter--but I'm very busy keying in and proofreading the last of my past-life newspaper pieces from 1832, and I don't really have anything new to say. It's the "same-old same-old"...of knowing that I am doing exceptional work, and being studiously ignored by everybody.
It's not my fault. I'm not self-deluded, whatever you may think. Only, when I try to find something to watch on TV, I realize, I don't belong here. No wonder people aren't drawn to my work. Look at what they are drawn to!
Last entry, I provided some proof from my study. We are all led to believe that if someone comes up with proof, everybody will acquiesce, nay, applaud! But it's a lie. You can prove it, and they don't believe you. At least, that's been my experience. Because neither will they take my work seriously enough to give me a chance, nor will they admit that I've proven anything. That's a Catch-22--if they won't even entertain the possibility that you've proven something, how can you prove it?
But as I've said a million times, this study is not for people who stubbornly resist it. It's for people who are thirsty for the truth, and who are eager to immerse themselves in my presentation. For those people, it will be both fascinating, and life-changing.
I notice that my website daily visits plummetted just yesterday. It seems to me that often happens when I share proof. I wonder if that's a coincidence? When I say proof, I mean that proof admits of degrees. It strikes me that people say they want proof, but they really don't. What they want, apparently, is to believe there is no proof. Does that make sense? People are fond of saying, "Reincarnation can never be proven." But those people have never looked into it. They just assume this. The last thing they want is for reincarnation to be proven.
Reincarnation, as it is properly understood, is extremely inconvenient. It means you are not this physical body. It means perfect accountability. It means if you don't get it right now, you will have to get it right, later. It means whatever bad habits you develop now, will be even harder to break, later. It means that you are reacting to present-life situations with your past-life emotions. It means if you hate any particular ethnic group, you almost certainly will have to incarnate as a member of that group. It also means that heaven and hell, as states, are real. You thought, perhaps, that you had shed the shackles of religious superstition. But not so fast. They weren't entirely wrong--they only had it garbled. There is a heavenly state after death in the higher astral realm; and there is a hellish state in the lower astral realm. And while they may not be eternal, they may feel that way, subjectively.
Then there are the people who think they are knowledgeable about the subject. If you believe that hypnosis is useless to help prove reincarnation cases, I beg to differ. I have proved otherwise. If you believe that reincarnation is impersonal, I beg to differ with that, also, because my research proves it is. If you believe that all past-life contracts should be sloughed-off, I beg to differ with that, because I have finally made good on mine, even though my soul-mate is still in the astral realm, and I have never been more glad of anything I've ever done. What else...
Truth will out. Mathew Franklin Whittier wasn't properly appreciated in his time, being far ahead of it. Admittedly, he hid his light under a bushel. I recaptured his legacy, and I am being ignored again. But truth will out. It may take one lifetime, or two, or ten. Because if Society isn't ready for this now, I can find this body of work again. As Mathew, I pushed it forward to myself (quite deliberately, in one instance); if necessary, I can do it again.
Studiously ignoring the truth has never worked. If it isn't my study, there will be another study. It's all timing. But you can't stop it by sticking your collective heads in the sand. Meanwhile, half an hour of going up and down the channels, this afternoon, finally convinced me--it isn't my fault. I'm not crazy--they are.
Here's what I wrote on this theme in 1849, living in an attic in Philadelphia (I'll put the indents in later, I don't have time, now):
For in much Wisdom is much Grief.
In a garret, forlorn and high,
Wearily gazing upon the sky,
Lingered a thoughtful and toil-worn one,
Scanning the march of the setting sun:
Broad his brow, but his form was thin,
Dark and sad was the soul within,
Lofty genius the eye bespoke,
Burning words from the pale lips broke;
Want, and Sorrow, and stern-faced Pride,
In his garret stood side by side;
Poverty, too, like a well-known guest,
Leaned with her gaunt hand on his breast;
Day and night, in his lonely cot,
He felt their presence, but saw them not.
Hark! how sad are his trembling tones:
“Have I not lessened Oppression’s groans?
Have I not struggled with main and might
To crush the wrong and maintain the right?
Have I not fought with a ready pen
The thousand foes of my fellow men?
Loving, and patient, and true the while,
Well repaid, if a single smile
Of sweet and genuine sympathy,
In my darkened corner, was given me?
World! world! world! how thankest thou?
Well may an echo-voice answer, ‘how?’
By the chilling gibes, thy sneers, thy hate—
Even for these had I long to wait:
By thy heavy frown and thy bitter curse;
Pointing me on to the gloomy hearse,
Whispering constantly, from my birth,
‘Be thou forgotten—thou comberest earth;’
All my foes, with thy poison fed,
Hurl their venom upon my head;
Triumph till even friends disdain
Ever to love or to trust again.”
A rich light falls
On the garret walls,
Flooding the room with its silver streams;
With angel grace,
See a starlike face
On the lonely student beams.
A clear mild eye,
Like the pale, blue sky,
Bendeth on him, till he shrinks with awe;
So sweet a thing,
In his journeying,
He never before saw.
Her white robes glitter,
For heaven fitter
Their purity, than the guilt-stained earth,
So soft and even;
Surely in heaven
She had her birth.
Whispers she sweetly,
“Time passes fleetly,
Lend me, oh student! Thine ear awhile;
Thine is a mission
Near to fruition,
Thine heaven’s smile.
“Let Vice exult; let Error rejoice;
Virtue speaks with a small, still voice,
Though Vice may summon her hosts around,
Usurping humanity’s battle ground,
And Virtue, whose meek eyes seek the earth,
Nor dareth to boast her exalted birth,
Be thrown where the grate and the prison bars
Shut out the light of the moon and stars,
Be given a damp and narrow space
For a long and wearisome resting place.
If the soul rejoiceth to win the right,
If the soul foreseeth the coming light,
And the heart be pure, what matter?
“Loftiest motives may meet with scorn;
Was not our Lord in a manger born?
You will be wronged in a world like this.
He was betrayed by a follower’s kiss;
What though dethroned in the palace of power?
Scathed and dishonored thy cherished name?
Truth and their legions are on their way;
Slow in their journey, but long their stay;
Succor in this life may reach thee not;
Death and the scaffold may be thy lot;
Winds may sigh o’re thy resting place,
Centuries bend o’er thy buried face,
And the green willow of memory
Blighted in every bosom be:
Then, thy virtue shall Truth proclaim,
Shake from the dust thy forgotten name,
Place thee on high in her record book,
Where for ages the world shall look.
Student, thy work is a glorious one;
Finish it nobly, as thou hast begun.”
Beam after beam,
Of that pure stream
Melteth away on the dark night air— Voice, form, and feature,
Of that fair creature,
No longer there.
Vacant he seemeth,
Like one who dreameth;
Silent he sitteth, feeling no more
Sorrow and sadness,
Verging on madness— All, all is o’er.
In the garret, forlorn and high,
Cheerfully gazing upon the sky,
Lingers no longer a sorrowful one,
Scanning the march of the setting sun;
But a man with hope, and a glowing heart,
Cheerfully, willingly bearing his part,
Loving his brother with tender trust,
Teaching mankind to be good and just,
Striking the chain from the captive band,
Lending the erring a helping hand,
Guiding the faltering, leading the slow,
Blessing the friend, and forgiving the foe.
And claiming reward from Heaven.
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
Music opening this page, "Channel Z,"
by The B-52's, from the album, "Cosmic Thing"