Curtis Balsinger
There’s a saying; “Life imitates art.” I believe that to be true, yet, somewhere beyond conscious reality lies a certain special place where the supernatural invades this vale of tears known to many as mundane. “Reality” as we know it, consists of filling up one’s life with things. Racing about like rats in a maze after the illusive cheese block of pension-filled dreams of the merely superficial. That’s life. Things cherished, desperately sought for until—death. Even if you drive a Mercedes Benz full of your multi-millions—you die and....only to find out that this veil is little more than a training field of one’s true purpose on this mortal coil. Imagine, living your life, day to day, then—suddenly, like a mist reaching down, moving about, the finger of the other world is icy upon you. Your pulse, quickened, the touch of the unknown leaves you alert of eyes unseen upon you. Ever felt eyes upon you? I have and I took a picture of “it” in my mirror. Though unable to be believed, EVERY SINGLE WORD THAT FILLS THESE PAGES IS ABSOLUTELY THE TRUTH. These incredible stories are one hundred percent fact. If I were writing mere fiction as truth in order to dupe the world for filthy lucre’s sake, would I, on purpose, use such an exhilarating name full of spine-tingling excitement as, Curtis Balsinger? Balsinger? Pronounce it as is; ball-singer, and restrain yourself, if you’re able, the instantaneous grins of disbelief. Try and not laugh at the one hundred and one images of the obviously ridiculous, easily conjured of the human imagination: Montlebond, James Bond, The Rock, Thor...Balsinger? Can’t you just feel the tingled ring of excitement up and down your spinal column? Oooo, try not to fall in love. That’s my real name and that’s no lie for, who in the whole wide world of sports would lie about a thing such as that? No, Balsinger’s not very flashy but it is, like the stories filling these pages, the truth. Things of a supernaturally unexplainable element have filled up my life and certainly, everyone else’s. Most aren’t aware of it. In the pages of this book are the words of ordinary people who have seen books appear out of thin air. A mother who talked to her son who was somewhere else at that very time. A glass rack floating in thin air. Time witnessed “running backward” then, at an exact numbers of days later, once again, moved forward. There’s a story of a distressed girl being called by a name that no one but that girl herself knew. A name her grandfather used to call her. Her name is Lauren. And her grandfather is deceased. In these pages, familiar faces appear in a suede chair. Images so exactingly real that four ordinary people watched for over two hours and had photographs of the people in the chair to prove who it was. Encouraged by others to write them, here are a few stories of thirty-five years of my extraordinary life. Sold out, I seek out something more than present reality. A limitless life. In search of a living Creator.
