He appeared as both a mother and father figure. He towered over me.
He exuded self-confidence.
I grimaced. Over the past few years, I had occassionally
questioned Chinmoy's authenticity in the back of my mind.
Over the past few months, I had occasionally questioned Atmananda's
authenticity in the back of my sleepy mind. Over the past few days,
I had continuously questioned Atmananda's authenticity in the forefront
of my rested mind. But now, the conflict, which pitted my rational
nature against my mystical nature, became too much to endure.
He opened his fist and demanded, "What do you see?"
I saw memories of him telling me to act like a warrior before
the Forces destroyed what we had worked so hard to achieve.
I saw him telling me with a concerned look on his face that he had
spent more time with me than with any other student.
"I..."
I had developed over the years a deep trust in him, as if he were family.
I had allowed him to access and to control an important part of me,
my imagination, and now I feared that without him, the window
to worlds of dreams and fantasy would never open up again.
There were other fears: of death, of God, of the absence of God,
of being lost without a world, without a friend.
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