Sleep Meditation: The Gladiator In The Coloseum

Good evening and welcome to the Sanctuary of Rest.

Tonight I invite you on a journey through time,

A journey to another era,

A time of marble and warm sand,

Of white thogas,

Ancient stones,

Torches and sacred silence.

Tonight we will return to ancient Rome,

To the heart of a world where minds were restless,

Where bodies worked without respite,

And where nevertheless a few rare souls found peace amidst the turmoil.

This journey is not an escape.

It is a path back to yourself,

Two strong,

Powerful symbols,

And a bike on time that will help us explore your own inner freedom.

Before we begin,

Take a moment to settle in,

Lie down comfortably,

Arms resting along your sides,

Your head gently resting on the pillow,

Close your eyes.

Take a first deep breath through your nose and gently exhale through your mouth.

Again,

Inhale deeply and breathe out slowly.

Feel your body already sinking a little deeper into the mattress.

You can let go of all efforts.

One last deep breath and return to a natural and peaceful rhythm of breathing.

Your pace steadies.

You are ready.

And now imagine you are in a cobbled alley of ancient Rome.

The sun has just dipped behind the hills.

The warmth of the day still lingers on the stones beneath your bare foot.

You feel the comforting,

Almost enveloping warmth of the ground.

Around you,

The air is thick with the city's scent,

Burning wood from the torches,

Tanned litter from the closed markets,

And drifting in the air,

A faint smell of incense from a distant altar.

You hear the last sounds of the day slowly fading,

Horses,

Hooves retreating,

The twinkle of a nearby fountain,

And the soft voices of a few passers-by murmuring in a forgotten language.

The golden twilight reflects on the white marble of the buildings,

Their smooth surfaces capturing the last rays,

Like echoes of the sun.

Your fingers brush the cool stone of a wall,

And you feel the ancient memory of this place.

A light breeze gazes your face,

Carrying with it the promise of rest.

And deep within you,

A profound calm begins to emerge.

You wear a simple rough tunic,

Coarse against your warm skin.

The fabric is worn,

Dust covered.

It is the silent witness of days spent fighting and surviving.

Around you,

The murmur of fountains still echoes faintly,

And it is slowly drowned by a deeper sound.

The rumble of a chariot over the cobblestones,

The chariot where you are,

The nervous whining of horses and harsh,

Shouted commands.

You are being taken in this chariot by your master,

A man with harsh features,

Cold eyes and a thin,

Merciless mouth.

His toga is elegant,

But his hands,

Adorned with golden rings,

Are stained with red and cruelty.

He doesn't really look at you.

To him,

You are just a beast of war,

A tool,

A living wager.

The chariot is long,

Covered in dark wood reinforced with metal.

It smells of damp leather,

Fear and old blood.

And around you are the men,

Are the fighters,

Are the gladiators,

Some youngs,

Others older,

Worn by years in the arena.

Their faces are grim,

Strained.

There are black,

Golden,

Pale skins,

Greeks,

Numidians,

Gauls,

Egyptians,

All slaves and all brothers in misfortune.

One weeps silently,

His fists clenched on his knee.

Another prays under his breath,

Trembling lips moving.

Some close their eyes,

Resigned.

Others stare straight ahead as if already far away,

But you,

You are calm.

You feel the jolts of the chariot on the cobblestones.

The wood creaks under the weight of the men.

The air is heavy,

Filled with human udders,

Iron and resignation.

And yet,

Inside you,

There is neither fear nor anger.

You have to let go.

You have accepted what you cannot change.

You are not fleeing from your destiny.

You embrace it with dignity and strength.

You are at peace with what you have become,

A fighter,

A gladiator.

And tonight,

You will fight until your last breath,

Not for a master,

Not for an audience,

But for yourself,

For the freedom that no chain can steal,

The freedom of your mind.

The chariot rolls slowly through the streets of Rome.

Around you,

The heat of several bodies pressed together becomes suffocating.

The air is heavy almost,

Unbreathable.

An acrid smell floats inside.

The stench of rancid sweat,

Soiled clothes,

Dried blood and fear.

An organ,

Stubborn stench that clings to the back of your throat.

Your own tunic is soaked in dirt.

The fabric,

Thick and rough,

Scratches your skin in places.

It was once white,

But now it is stained with brown,

Yellow and black.

It smells of dust,

Moldy leather and distant battles.

And beneath the fabric,

Your skin is marked.

You slowly pass your hand over your arm.

Your fingers slide over old scars.

A fine line on your ribs,

A swelling on your shoulder,

A dent above your hip where iron has bitten into the flesh.

This is not the first time you will fight in the Colosseum now.

It is an arena,

You know well.

It screams,

It slides,

It smells of warm and iron.

You carry them within you like an obsessive perfume.

Your master promised you freedom if you win.

He said it again,

But you know who he is.

A man of power.

A man of empty words.

How many times has he dangled a reward before you,

Only to send you back to training,

Broken,

Chained.

And yet tonight,

Something is different.

You no longer fight to please the man.

You fight because you have decided to go all the way.

Take two last breaths,

And because in this arena you are alive more than anywhere else.

And the sound of the wheels,

Slow.

The ground vibrates with an invisible presence.

You raise your eyes,

And here is the Colosseum,

Massive,

Majestic.

Its architecture crushes everything around it.

The columns rise like the arms of a giant.

Its ochre facade,

Scattered with yawning arches,

Seems to breath with the rhythm of the city.

It is both a temple and a tomb,

Mostly a tomb.

A machine for spectacle,

And a machine for destinies.

And tonight,

Your destiny will be played out there.

As the chariot approaches,

You feel your heart slow,

Not out of fear,

But because the moment is clear,

Already written.

You take a deep breath,

You are ready.

You are a gladiator,

And you are a slave.

For years,

You have fought in this arena to earn your freedom,

And tonight is the last fight.

At least,

This is what you would like it to be.

It is a fight without weapons,

Against lions,

Immense,

Majestic roaring lions.

The chariot stops with a shudder of wood and metal.

A guard opens the door with a sharp motion,

And the light comes from the outside floods,

The stifling interior.

A gust of hot air hits your face,

Laden with dust,

Incense,

And animal smells.

You put your sandals and your step down,

Your sandals grazing the sandy ground.

Before you,

An arch,

Dark and narrow,

And it leads inside the Colosseum.

Each step echoes against the stone walls.

You move forward slowly,

Your heart calm,

But your senses alert.

The further you go,

The clearer the sounds become,

A murmur,

A rumble,

Then the thunder of applause.

You emerge beneath the arches into the blinding light of the arena.

The sun is high,

Brutal,

And the sand almost burns under your feet.

The crowds roar,

Envelops you.

Thousands of voices,

They come from everywhere.

Men in white togas,

Women with glittering jewelry.

Agitated children,

Solemn old men.

There are laughs,

Cries,

Sonsks,

And insults too.

Some cheer on you,

Others hiss,

But all eyes are on you.

You are the first one entering.

The Colosseum is immense,

A stone belly vibrating with life.

The stands are full,

Overflowing with faces.

Some red with drunkenness,

Others frozen with curiosity.

You walk towards the center.

Each step lifts a little golden dust.

You feel the gazes slide over you.

Waiting on your shoulders,

On your marked chest.

And then you understand.

Your freedom doesn't depend on your master.

It depends on them,

The audience,

Their admiration,

Their emotion.

You will have to offer them more than a fight.

You will have to offer them your truth,

Your strength,

Your humanity.

You close your eyes for a moment and in the midst of this uproar,

You imagine just peace.

You see yourself free,

Walking in the hills outside the city.

Your hands in the earth,

The wind in your hair,

The silence at last.

You dream of a simple roof,

A fire,

A name,

Yours.

Maybe one day you will tell your story,

Not with words,

But with words.

Or with a gaze,

With a free gaze.

But for that,

You must first survive.

When the heart of the audience.

The crowd holds its breath.

A heavy silence,

Almost sacred,

Falls over the Coliseum.

Even the birds seem to have quieted.

You enter the arena.

You are in the middle.

The light blinds you for a moment.

The sun beats down hard.

The sand is burning under your bare feet,

Dry and rough.

It stinks to your already damp skin.

Each step lifts a fine golden dust,

A red dust,

Filled with old blood.

The smell is of the old blood mixed with the wild beast's blood.

And then suddenly it appears.

The lion,

A massive beast.

Its golden coat seems to capture every ray of light.

Its mouth,

Slightly open,

Letting off a hoarse,

Fetid,

Warm breath.

Its eyes,

Two deep golden sparks are fixed on you.

You are looking at each other.

An electric silence passes between you.

And inside you there is neither fear nor hatred.

Only determination.

A straight,

Unshakable peace.

The beast roars.

It cheers through the air.

It leaps and you dodge.

But it is fast.

Its claws slice through the air near your face.

A hiss of death.

It brushes past you.

You roll in the sand.

Your elbows scrape the earth,

Your breath catching.

A cry from the crowd and you rise.

Your leg shakes.

A sharp pain in your side,

A scratch.

You hadn't seen it.

But you stay on your feet.

The lion cycles its massive bones,

Leaving deep marks in the sand.

It growls,

Gorges you and then attacks again.

This time you do not judge.

Because if you dodge,

You won't be able to kill.

The lion,

You will miss your forces,

Your strength.

So you grab the lion by the mane,

Close to its head.

Its weight nearly crushes you.

You feel its fetid breath on your face.

Its claws rake almost your arms,

Your back.

The world blurs.

A cry escapes you.

But you hold on.

Your arms,

Burned by the effort,

Close around its throat.

You feel nothing anymore,

Only sand,

Blood and the deafening roar in your ears.

And then suddenly,

Silence.

A collapse.

A mass that crumbles.

The lion is on the ground.

Its breath has stopped.

You kneel beside it.

You look at it,

Covered in sand and blood,

Trembling.

But you are alive.

You rise slowly.

Your legs give way beneath you,

But you stand.

You look at the lion.

The silence in the Colosseum is immense.

Then a shout,

Then two,

Then a roar.

Then the crowd erupts.

Arms wave in the stands.

Hands clap in unison,

And women scream your name.

Children rise from their seats,

And old men nod in respect.

The lion is on the ground.

It is not moving.

You are standing,

Breathing heavily,

And your heart beating wildly.

The stand is stained with blood,

Yours and his,

And the Colosseum seems frozen.

The crowd is hanging on your silhouette.

Then,

Suddenly,

A movement at the top.

There is,

In the cool shadow of the imperial box,

The Emperor.

Caesar.

You look at him.

He is not smiling,

But his gaze is fixed on you.

Slowly,

He makes a gesture.

Not the gesture that you wanted.

Then,

Suddenly,

A deep rumble.

The clinking of a metal.

The creak of a gate being lifted slowly,

Far away,

Behind you.

You turn your head.

A second beast emerges,

And then another.

Two lions,

Massive,

Wild,

Younger,

Quicker.

They enter the arena,

Sniffing the scent of blood,

Of battle.

A chill runs up your spine.

The crowd's clamor changes tone from admiration to anxiety.

Even Caesar,

From afar,

Leans slightly forward.

You step back a few paces.

Your breath is shallow,

Your right arm is numb,

And your side aches.

It aches so much.

The sand sticks to your open wounds,

And there it is.

Dizziness.

You stagger.

Your head buzzes.

Your body screams to give up,

And you do not fall.

Because,

Deep within you,

Something resists.

A fire.

An ancient instinct.

Refusal to die without having been free.

And suddenly,

The two lions approach.

Their muscles roll under their toned skin.

Their eyes shine with a fierce glow.

One roars,

Its mouth opening to reveal yellow fangs like ivory.

The crowd hauls.

Some rise.

Children start crying,

But you.

You just breathe.

You enter into calm,

Into that silent place within you where nothing touches you.

The first lion leaps.

You pivot.

Grab it by the neck and throw it to the ground with a hip throw.

Your arm screams in pain,

And you hold.

The sand flies in golden clouds.

The second attacks from the side,

And you are violently thrown to the ground.

Your back hits the earth.

Your breath is cut off,

And your fingers sink into the sand,

And everything spins.

The lion pins you to the ground,

And its weight crushes you.

You feel the bite of its claws.

Your chest tightens.

Your vision blurs.

It is then at this moment that you let go.

Not in surrender,

But just in faith.

You become supple.

You roll.

You slip beneath it.

And,

In a desperate move,

You strike again and again.

The gasps.

The breaths.

The cries.

Everything blends together.

You don't feel the time,

And then suddenly the silence.

The lion is motionless.

You look at it.

It is still motionless.

The sand is red,

And you are standing,

Trembling,

But standing.

And you look behind you.

The other lion is attacking you again.

You don't have strength anymore,

But you continue.

You want your freedom.

So,

You are just the same strategy.

You just let go.

You breathe.

You enter into the calmness.

You pivot.

You grab the second lion by the neck,

And you throw it to the ground with the rest of the energy.

The energy that is still left with a hip throw.

Your arms scream in pain.

And you hold on.

And then,

Suddenly,

You feel it.

The lion is motionless.

You look behind you,

And the other lion is really motionless.

You are standing there,

Still trembling,

Standing there,

Not knowing what's going to happen.

If they are going to stand up again and attack you.

But now,

They are still in the ground with a lot of blood.

The sand is all red,

And the colosseum erupts.

Caesar himself stands,

He raises his hands,

And with a solemn gesture,

He opens his fist.

The gesture is simple.

He stays in silence,

Waiting for the crowd.

Live or die,

Here we are.

Suddenly,

The time stops,

And then,

You hear,

Live,

Live,

Live,

Live.

But Caesar can't decide otherwise.

Live,

Live.

And now,

The crowd understands.

The gesture is simple.

Live.

You are going to live.

The audience has decided that you will be living.

You still don't know if you are going to be free.

You look at your master from far away,

But you can't seem to see it,

To see where he is.

The sand feels softer beneath your feet,

Though.

The wind caresses your face,

And despite the pain,

Despite the wounds,

A weight lifts from your shoulders.

You are going to live.

You stand still for a moment in the arena,

And the sand no longer burns.

The wind is gentle.

Your heart is light.

You stay there for a while in the center of the arena,

Under the blinding light of the sky,

Arms hanging,

Slow breathing,

Exhausted muscles.

A pain that is in there.

The sand sticks to your skin like a second layer of flesh.

Your back burns.

Your throat is dry as stone,

But your heart,

Your heart is light,

Lighter than it has ever been.

And the gates open once more.

You walk towards outside.

You leave the arena.

The shadow of a tunnel welcomes you,

This tunnel that you have been used to,

Cool,

Reassuring tunnel.

You walk towards it.

Each step is a detachment from the path that dissolves between everything that has happened in the past,

And this path is getting dissolved behind you.

Each step that you do with your feet is a rebirth,

And each step you take brings you a little closer to your master.

In the corridors,

The sounds of the crowd fade,

Only the echoes of your footsteps remain,

And the calm beating of your heart,

And there in the shadow,

You finally see your master.

He is waiting for you.

His face is closer,

Bitter.

You don't know what is going to happen,

And you are peaceful with it,

Whatever it is.

You look at his hands,

And he holds something in his hands,

A small metal seal marked with the imperial emblem,

And you recognize it.

It is the symbol of freedom.

He hands it to you without a word.

You step forward.

It smells of freedom,

Finally.

Your fingers brush the metal.

It is cold and it is heavy,

But for you it is light.

When it touches your palm,

You feel a warmth rise within you,

Not from your body,

But from your soul.

Your hand trembles.

You look at this seal,

And in this simple cycle of iron you see everything you had stopped daring to dream.

The sea,

The wind in the olive trees,

A house on the edge of a hill,

Peaceful nights without chains,

Mornings without orders,

Without heavy stairs.

You feel your eyes well up,

An immense weight lifts from your chest.

You are free,

And with this freedom an entire world is reborn within you,

A world you had buried,

Repressed,

Extinguished.

But tonight,

Tonight in this soft shadow,

Your dreams can exist again.

They were just dreams,

They can now become reality.

You lie down in this moment of victory.

You let this feeling of deep liberation wash over you.

You are safe and you are at peace and you are free.

You are free.

You hear a soft noise in the arena,

A light scrubbing of sandals against the sand,

A figure approaching slowly and peacefully.

It is an old man,

A freed former slave.

He nods at the master and the master goes away without looking even at you.

And you see him approaching other men,

Other slaves and directing them to the arena to fight their battle,

To fight for their lives,

To fight for their freedom.

Now they can all see that,

Yes,

It is possible that they can be free one day.

And for this,

He has used you and it is okay for you.

Maybe it is a good thing.

They can keep up with the hope,

Just as you hoped for so many years.

Maybe they can be as free as you and experiment the joy that you have now in this moment.

And you are looking at the old man.

His skin is a parchment-like from the years.

His deep brown gaze calm like an ancient sea.

He is draped in a toga of worn linen,

Spanning of cedar wood and incense.

With each of his steps,

A cloud of golden dust barely rises from the warm ground.

He sits beside you quietly.

His presence is gentle and enveloping.

His voice is deep and reassuring like the wind between the columns of an ancient temple.

He tells you that once he drew foot here,

That his scars were many,

Both visible and invisible,

But that the true battle he won in another way,

Not with the strength of the arm,

But with the peace of the breath,

With the wisdom of one who has survived into chaos.

He has the wisdom because he has survived his inner chaos.

Your destination tonight is once again the arena of the Colosseum and you see the old man standing up and going there.

You stand up too and you follow him and you don't understand why he's going there again.

By the time the time has passed,

It's already night,

Very late night,

And you are looking this time at the arena,

It is silent,

No one is there.

It is not a battlefield anymore,

It is a sanctuary,

A place for your transformation,

This is what you hear him say to you.

And he tells you tonight,

You are here to set yourself free,

Not with weapons,

Not with your body anymore,

But just with the power of your mind.

You enter not to fight but to release,

To release what you carry,

What waits on you,

What chains you.

The old man guides you through an ancient ritual,

Liberation through breath.

And you cross the heavy wooden door to inside the arena.

It creaks on its hinges like aside from history.

Behind it,

The vast silence of the Colosseum.

A thick silence almost alive.

Under the giant arches,

The evening light caresses the stone.

The walls,

Gilded by the centuries,

Exhale a soft warmth.

The sand is warm beneath your feet.

You smell the scent of dust,

Of burned wood,

Of sacred visions.

You look at the arena empty,

No crowds,

No emperor,

Only the distant murmur of forgotten fountains,

The delicate crackling of a few wall torches.

The old man goes to the center and sits slowly there.

You follow him and you sit slowly,

Too,

In the center.

He lies down and you lie down.

Arms relaxed,

Calm breath.

Your back meets the warm ground and your skin feels every grain of sand,

Every soft bump,

Every wave.

You gently close your eyes.

You are in a silent realm while the torches dance in the wind,

While the millennia-old stones whisper forgotten secrets and while your body finally rests.

And already,

All around you,

It fades away.

Only the warm sand beneath your body remains,

The soothing warmth against your back and your breath,

Which gradually becomes your only guide.

And then,

In this sacred silence,

You begin to feel what you have been carrying all this time without even realizing it.

A diffuse,

Ancient weight,

Like invisible chains around your wrists,

Your ankles,

Your chest,

Expectations from others and your own expectations,

Injunctions from elsewhere,

Obligations you didn't choose,

Fears,

Silence but persistent,

Lodged in the corners of your mind.

They are there.

They present themselves to you one by one,

Not as enemies but as tied with burdens.

And breathe deeply,

Deeply.

Feel the air fill your belly,

Not just your lungs,

Your belly,

Your back,

All the way to your sides.

A broad,

Warm,

Life-filled breath.

And as you exhale,

Visualize one of these chains it cracks slowly with a sharp snap,

Then it falls and the dust of your past gently settles around you.

Once more,

Breathe in,

Slowly and deeply.

And with this breath,

You welcome the light a golden light like the rising sun on the ancient stones of Rome.

It enters you.

It illuminates the inside of your chest.

It illuminates your belly.

It illuminates your mind.

And as you exhale,

You release a fear you feel it leave your body like a dark mist chased away by the wind.

It no longer belongs to you.

And then you breathe again,

And this time you feel a painful memory rise to the surface.

It floats for a moment.

You observe it without clinging to it.

Then it flies away.

The air takes it.

Like a heavy veil,

Let go.

With each breath,

Your body becomes lighter.

Your heart expands.

Your mind becomes like an open hall bathed in golden light.

The sand beneath you is no longer dry.

It is warm,

Soft,

Almost plush.

It supports you like a warm sea.

It absorbs all your tensions.

You can entrust yourself to it.

You have entrusted everything to it.

It is ancient.

It has already heard everything.

And you feel in your neck a pressure melt away.

In your shoulders,

A fire extinguish.

In your belly,

A knot loosen.

And in your throat,

A long,

Liberating breath that finally says that you're no longer there to express.

I am free.

You tell yourself,

I am free.

I am free not tomorrow,

Not after the fight.

I am free now.

I am free in this arena of sand and silence,

Right here.

And as you breathe again,

You see the appearance of inner scars,

Ancient marks.

And tonight,

They no longer hurt.

They shine softly.

They tell you a story.

They no longer define you.

You are not broken.

You are not forged.

And with each exhalation,

You detach from what you no longer are.

You leave behind the rules that you were imposed on you.

The rules that others gave you.

The masks,

The judgments,

Your own judgments on yourself.

The judgments that others imposed on you.

The mask that you forced yourself to put.

The mask that others imposed on you.

And your body becomes a temple.

Your breath becomes a prayer.

Your heart becomes a peaceful flame.

And a tear peers.

It gently forms on your cheek.

Not from pain,

But from relief.

A profound relief.

Like an ancient river finally finding its sea.

And now,

There are no chains.

There are no walls.

There is no cage.

Only a vast space,

Open,

Silent,

And you at the center in peace.

Breathe once more and let this peace envelop you entirely.

Like a soft,

Warm,

Protective toga.

It is made of everything you have liberated and everything that you have become.

The sand around you becomes an absorbing fabric.

It gathers everything you release.

And little by little,

Only your body remains relaxed at ease.

And your mind calm like a clear water bathing in a Roman villa.

And your breathing is slow.

It is silent.

Every muscle is relaxed.

Your face is calm.

Your belly is still.

Your legs,

Your arms,

Your neck,

Everything is relaxed.

Everything is released.

You are no more a broken slave.

You are now a liberated spirit.

The Colosseum becomes a temple of peace.

And your body relaxes.

Your mind dissolves in a golden mist.

And now you are no longer in Rome.

You are no longer in the arena.

You are in a space beyond time.

Your breathing is slow,

Silent.

Your body becomes heavy.

Every muscle is relaxed.

All your body is relaxed.

And you fall asleep for a long time,

Deeply,

Profoundly.

It is the end of this meditation.

Allow yourself to fear this inner peace.

Fill it in all your body.

And sleep profoundly.

I wish you an amazing night's sleep.

Peaceful and restful.