My Dreamstate: Tashi's Passed-On Soul-Screen (Master’s Level-1 Instructions) – Pt. 2 Ch.1.2

I knew I was floating in the air, and any transference felt just like an MP4 screen shutting down in a flash—lights out, the screen darkened—only to turn back on from the other side, as if someone had switched it on again.

A sense of comfort washed over me—weightless, serene—like watching a documentary unfold on the vast screen of my dreamlike state. And Drakos… had somehow become my cushion.

My back rested against Drakos’ belly, soft as cloud feathers, cradling me in warmth. So yes, I was truly watching a documentary, but from inside it.

2025.1.1

Then I saw this—knowing I wasn’t anywhere near Tashi’s stone house, nor the stairs or the winding walkpath to the next home. Probably a large city like New York… or the New New-York.

A well-dressed gentleman stepped into view, his three-piece suit tailored to sharp perfection. The deep charcoal fabric contrasted elegantly with his silvery-blond hair, the ensemble punctuated by a dark crimson tie—subtle yet deliberate. His modern reading glasses gleamed under the overhead lights.

"Prof. Ron Gawke."

Some passersby greeted him with familiarity as he walked forward, his polished leather shoes making a soft cadence against the marble floor. He approached and stood at the edge of the vast reading room.

The flopping Windows icons marked the time, a quiet pulse in the hush that had settled—like the deepening dusk outside Tashi’s stone house, where wind carried the scent of cooling earth and distant prayer flags trembled against the mountain’s breath.

Here, in the library, the air held a different kind of weight—the scent of aged parchment tinged with something crisper, like high-altitude wind slipping through unseen corridors, as if bridging two worlds.

Before him, the Galactic National Public Library stretched in solemn grandeur—mahogany columns rising into vaulted ceilings, their deep tones drinking in the dim lantern glow. The flickering light turned the endless shelves into silent ridges of knowledge, a landscape carved by time itself.

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The murmurs of distant scholars faded into nothing. He stood at a threshold between worlds, the Grimoire a weight in his hands—not merely a book, but a passage, a guide for the just-passed.

Beside him, his colleague leaned in closer. I recognized the name from the adjacent books— Professor Sid-Krats Chakran Wentz, PhD (Archaeology & Esoteric Studies). His name was inscribed in golden dust-embossed letters on the cover of a Western antique tome. From the surrounding texts, I understood—he was a Far-East Taoist Scripture scholar, an archaeologist, and a scientist involved in the Dreaming-Chakra and Meditation State Project of the Dalaï Lama.

Dr. Sid-Krats whispered, eyes glinting with intrigue.

"I can’t wait to show you what I’ve discovered, Ron!"

The flickering of the YouTube MP4 screen, 43 inches, now displaying the documentary on the Grimoire (akin to the one that Śri had dropped during the avalanche when the Jade Chakra Dragon and Drakos transformed), answered in its own way.

The room grew still as the video flickered to life, its screen bathed in a soft yellow glow.

Ancient symbols began to unfurl, floating across the screen like those etched into the Grimoire’s manuscript blocks, their characters shimmering with an ethereal light.

These glyphs, intricate and unknowable, danced in the air, their curves and edges bending as if alive, pulsing with colors that shifted—whispers of gold, blue, and crimson bleeding into each other. The celestial drawings, luminous and fluid, moved like a living tapestry, carrying an energy both hypnotic and incomprehensible.

Prof. Ron’s eyes narrowed, a mix of awe and wariness in his gaze.

“This… This is not merely an ancient record. It’s an instruction,” Dr. Sid-Krats murmured, tilting his head as if straining to hear something beyond the screen. “Not just a book of the past—it’s alive.”

Ron’s fingers traced the edges of the Grimoire, feeling the slight tremor beneath the leather binding, as though the pages themselves were breathing. “It is,” he admitted. “And it’s speaking.”

The lantern-shaped lights floating above flickered, casting restless shadows across the towering bookshelves. The symbols on the MP4 screen seemed to pulse, responding.

“An instruction for the dying.”

Ron turned sharply at Dr. Sid-Krats’s words. “For the dying?”

“For those who have just passed.” Dr. Sid-Krats’s voice dropped to a whisper, reverent. “The Grimoire is not simply documenting knowledge. It is transferring it. It’s a bridge.”

Something stirred in the air. A hush—deeper than silence—settled over the reading room, the weight of something unseen pressing against them.

Ron’s grip on the book tightened. “So this isn’t just research. We’re looking at an active transmission.”

Dr. Sid-Krats nodded, eyes dark with understanding. “Tashi Dalāi has passed.”

Ron exhaled sharply, as if the realization had hit him physically. The Grimoire in his hands pulsed once more, as if in response.

And somewhere, in a space beyond space, Śri’-verā floated, weightless, watching the unfolding of knowledge, the passage of a soul through the dreamstate’s screen.