I Am You

I had just met Kimberly in a Baltimore nightclub—a spirit wrapped in skin, calm but electric. We ended up in her car until sunrise, talking about the strange and supernatural. She told me she had out-of-body experiences—real ones. Hovering over herself at night. Floating. Astral projection. She gave me books. I couldn’t sleep after that. I spent the next two days reading Out-of-Body Experience Techniques cover to cover like it held the blueprints to the invisible.

When I was finally alone, I decided to try.

I waited until my folks left the house. My son was downstairs, locked in on cartoons. I went up to the old bedroom, left the lights off, laid down flat, arms at my sides, eyes closed. I knew the steps: relax your body, silence your thoughts, let your mind drift but stay awake as your body falls asleep. It was strange—this dance between sleep and wakefulness. But I could feel it. A tingle across my limbs. Then waves—like soft light pulsing through me, forward, out. My body started vibrating. Not shaking, but humming. Alive.

Then fear.

My heart started pounding out of nowhere—like drums going off in a panic. I thought, What if I die right here? What if this is a one-way trip? I was about to pull myself out when I remembered something from the book: Your mind is more powerful than your fear. So I whispered in my head, “Marc... calm down.”

Instantly, my heart slowed.

The room got quiet—otherworldly quiet. A peace I’ve never known in waking life. And then something started forming in my vision. A white dot. Then a line. Then a shape. Slowly, a figure began rising out of the dark. Eyes. Nose. Lips. Shoulders. A light version of myself—clearer than a mirror, dressed just like me, wearing my chain, even the same tattoos.

“Who are you?” I asked, though my lips never moved.

“I am you,” he said without speaking. “Your soul.”

He told me he was here to help me get out of my body. I tried. The waves returned. The vibrations. But I kept getting stuck, yanked back. He kept saying, “Let go.” But I couldn’t. Or maybe I wouldn’t. I didn’t know how. The more he pushed, the more I resisted. Until finally, he stopped trying and just said, “Let’s talk.”

And that’s when I saw him not as a force—but as the most brilliant version of me. The me I barely touch in my best moments. Smooth. Wise. Gentle. Powerful. My warrior. My sensitive side. My soul. He said things I’ll never forget. About fear. About flight. About how the mind listens best when you're in that space. Then I asked him something wild: “Is smoking weed bad for you?”

He smiled. “It is what you make it.”

That’s when I knew this was real. That answer was too divine in its simplicity. Too true to be made up. I was ready to keep going, but I remembered—my son was downstairs. I had to check on him. My soul understood. “I’m always with you,” he said. Then he faded back into the dark.

I shot up from that bed, breath heavy, heart full. I ran to the basement and hugged my son like I had just returned from another world. Because I had. I held him and whispered, “There’s more than this. One day, I’ll tell you everything.”

And I will.