The Death Diary (of Troy Burroghs)

The Death Diary of
Troy Burroghs



Extract #2
Day Three and Four of Troy Burroghs




Day Three


Being dead is going to take some getting used to. According to earth time this would be day three of my so called, death. I keep looking down on North America, I guess it’s still home to me for the moment anyway. A few hours ago, I caught a comet, the tail end of it and I noticed it was quite slow compared to my form of travel, that is, I think I was going as fast as 200,000-thousand miles an hour, and it somehow zigzagged, and jumped off or out of its orbit and fell back into it somehow—kind of speaking—by an asteroid belt is where I was, I’d estimate somewhere around twenty to fifty million miles from earth, who can say, surely not me for certain.
I thus far, have learned something in this new development of mine, that being, traveling in space in what I call shape-traveling, for that is all I am, simple a shape with some kind of energy source to me, one could even call it residue, soul or whatever they wish, a part of another dimension with substance: I used the thrust of the comet, the velocity—I used it somehow, not quite knowing how, allowing it to push me, that is, more likened to throwing me—hurdling me I would guess, out into the empty part of space, the black airless cold space…I actually felt something to my shape: I sensed something also, something like. the several world surrounding me produced other forms of life, ghosts maybe, demonic being trying to escape earth’s hell, other aliens looking down through their portholes, through layers of time and space and echoes, and so forth. I felt like a new born baby learning everything all over, I do think I have some source of natural feeling to my movements, should I want to use them, up to now its been more on the order of the elements in space moving me you might say. I, at this point cannot name it but I’d like to kick it, to see if how much control I have here in this new environment.
Nevertheless, what I was going to say, had on my mind to say, before I got into what I just mentioned, was—here I am, back where I started from, the day I died, overlooking earth, but again, here I am, in this asteroid belt—if you get what I mean, think-travel and there you are, among really simple, big fat rocks everywhere in space, and earth is no exception, other than it is more colorful.
Well, to make a diary note shorter, once seen is enough, and so it was a good visit, but I must learn how to control it. It is like going to the Rocky Mountains or possibly I could qualify it to equal the Bad Lands in South Dakota, going back there back and forth like a yoyo. But again, once seen, that is enough, unless this kind of thing is your thing, and it is not my thing by far: I mean, I’m only on day three, and this is what you get. I think that area is best for campers, not me. I’d prefer hotels, but I suppose you don’t need them out here. The more I think of it, something is missing. Oh well, I’ll investigate. Now it’s becoming evening time over Minnesota (St. Paul, is my home town (where my wife lives, Rosa), the sun is going down.


Day Four


Morning time in Minnesota, the sun is coming up, I got an inkling, I got to go back to see how my little wife is doing, Rosa. I know for a few hours after I died, she was upset, crying, hysterical. I didn’t know what to do for her, she couldn’t see me, and I did not know how to communicate with her other than trying to set a mood, by way of producing calmness about her immediate space: prayer helped.
She got me to the hospital, and I know I was getting better, a heart attach I heard them say. Then she stayed overnight, and I died in the middle of the night, she had fallen to sleep. I was happy about that, happy because she was so tired: everyone thought I was in a coma, but I was really between life and death, a new kind of order they didn’t anticipate, one that is dreamy like, a stage before death, one you can see about you, hear sounds and sense people, but cannot talk, it is not a coma, although folks think it is, or could be, it is in-between where you touch the hand of Christ, but cannot feel it, only see it, and where your pours are filled with the light of God. Then I died, and got sent here, not sure for how long thought.
For the longest moment, I hovered over the bed, looking at her, but I had no power to say or do anything—that was of course after the in-between period, where I was in a dream like world. Now that I think of it, I was in shock—kind of shock, after the in-between took on pure death, then she woke up, and as I was saying I was hovering over her, looking down, I didn’t feel the grief as she was feeling, but a separation from my body, in the sense of emptiness from a shell: So many experiences at once.
That little Inca wife of mine just cried and cried, and hugged me, I wanted to comfort her, but she’ll have to go through it like me someday, if the Lord willing I’ll be there to comfort her.
Anyways I am now in my old house, hovering about. She’s got my urn next to my mother’s, she had me cremated today. I missed the funeral; I guess they had a small one at the cremation area. No one showed up from my side of the family, as expected, no problem; it was all grieved out long ago, and better for it, I prefer quite times. I think Rosa is going to take my urn, and my mother’s and put it into the Huancayo, Peru, and Cemetery, in one of those vaults, she was a good wife.
She’s crying again. I wonder if I can somehow let her know I’m here, and all right. I should pray, matter of fact, I thought I would get to see the Lord by know, Jesus Christ, but first things first, I heard a voice say that, It think it was Serr’el, my guardian angel, he had a hell of a job with taking care of me, guarding me while on earth, I hope I don’t get a job like his, too much grief and wondering. I get the chills just thinking of his name. I also get the feeling I have to polish myself up to meet the Lord, you know, kind of take care of business, Elvis used to say that. I know he is not far away, —and I thank Him for his patience.
Now back to my little Rosa, she is sitting in my big sofa chair in the living room, tears are still coming down. Let’s see if I can do something to let her know I’m present (I told her once, we cry—during our grieving period, or time, for the great times we had, that is called sadness, not depression, sadness says, those times were all worth while, I hope she remembers that).
As I said, and I shall repeat, there she is, sitting in the sofa chair, I know what I’ll do, I’ll make noise like walking on the floor, footsteps, not too creepy, just light enough for her to know I am with her. But how do I do that, I don’t weigh anything? Too many questions for simple things; but you know I felt the thrust of the comet; yaw, yaw, that’s it, creates energy from energy. As I step one foot in front of the other, you can hear my footsteps, and see the rug impressions of my feet, it is taking all my energy to produce these footsteps, she’s looking up, now she looking around: look down, down little wife, look down. She doesn’t look down. She’s getting a little scared, I better stop. Now she rests back into the chair, she’s thinking though.
She got up to check the hallway, now the window. I can’t do that again, I got to practice; I guess a spirit can even loose energy. She went back to the chair; it’s dark outside, the TV is on, it is drowning out my footsteps. For her the day is young, for me, now sure, I guess down here it’s as it would be, forever long, just a day but with light and darkness, I don’t feel the heat or cold. I’m going to try something else. I’m going to stand in the archway to the living room and try to make my configuration, my spirit form light up, just a bit, just a slight emotion, if I darken it, it might scare her. I noticed I had one in outer-space.

[A long pause]

It’s morning now, dark morning, so it must be pretty early, she is cleaning the house, getting ready to face the day, she notices my chair, the dinning room light is off so is the kitchen light, she turns it on and a little electric heater emitting heat she turns off in the bedroom, she is facing the mirror in the bathroom. This will be my best try think, if only she focuses hard on the mirror; I’ll try to reflect my shape.
Here I go, MMMMMMMM-Materializing [light starts to fill the mirror a faded light, dull but pronounced nonetheless in a spiritual form. She’s looking at me, rubbing her eyes, I’m loosing my energy source, and it is like holding your breath trying to get this light out. She’s leaning forward, squinting her eyes.

[Middle of the Night]


Got a new idea, I’ll enter her dreams, slowly, if this is possible, and I heard the nightmare demon can do it all the time, unless you pray for them not to. Therefore, why cannot a good spirit like me do it? That of course a question for me, one I’ll answer by trying to do, what I’m not sure I can do.
I’m not sure how you do it, but I got a sense of how will come—I’ll sit by her and just whisper in her ears, and try to create a sense of me, and she will picture me, and I will let her know all is well: “Rosa, Rosa, Rosa, Rosa, Rosa…, all is well, I love you, always have, it is me, I’m all dressed in fogy white, I’ll be waiting for you and we’ll travel around the world, no, better yet, around the worlds, and into new galaxies.”
She sees me, visualizing me says, in her dream world (I hope she remembers and writes it down): “…yes, yes, I DO see you,” she says.
“I’m fine Rosa, I’m doing ok, I miss you and I’ll be around should you need me, just call on me. Like my mother used to do, remember how she kept us from the fire?”
She’s crying in her sleep, says: “…no, no don’t go.’”
“But I can’t stay too long; it takes too much whatever it is, energy and like the bee, remember the bee in the bottle, he lost his energy to fly, then he could hardly walk trying to climb that glass bottle, then I set him free and he nourished himself in the grass, and he regained his power, and flight, and few away; perhaps for another day.”

She went back to sleep, she’s stop crying. She’s breathing better now. I think she’ll remember this dream as more realistic than non-fiction, or symbolic, I hope.



7-3-2006 (1246)
10-22-2008 (Revised and Reedited)