I used to have innumerable people-questions. I needed to understand the realm, decode the mechanics, find a way to navigate it. Now all questions have subsided—except momentarily, circumstantially.
Through this entire moving-ordeal, I sent countless emails. Out of them all, I found one, maybe two human beings. And ironically, one of them was a lawyer. A lawyer! But yes—there are humans, ensouled beings, everywhere.
People can’t help who they are or what they do. We don’t really “choose” that. But neither is anything “done to us.”
We’re speaking across dimensions. Our senses con us about what’s actually there. We hear and see mostly echoes of our own signals returning.
We hear messages delayed by the wind.
We see stars that already died, people who have already left.
Up close, most rush through their days as if being chased — chasing time. Most fear being alone without knowing it, until old age finds them and bitterness knocks on their door. Their life behind them, their gaze becomes abstract.
Old acquaintances meet, pretending they’re standing on the same ground, trying to keep a long-ended relationship alive to avoid acknowledging its ending.
In truth, each new day begins with its moments still unknown. If you can live there — in that infinite, unmanifested potential, with a desireless, willing heart — you begin noticing the nanoparticles of stardust. You start hearing the music of the spheres. Faintly at first. Softly. Indescribably.
When we reverse the inversion, we intuit what’s coming before it arrives. We hear what hasn’t yet been spoken. Agony, worry, stress, fear — they fall away. And a different world emerges. A completely different reality.
We don’t “choose” our path. The path chooses us. The inversion of truth creates victims and villains, false gods to worship and imagined hells to suffer in — all living in our minds and manifested as “life.”
A lifetime of self-inquiry, only to discover we were never holding the reins, never steering this ship called life. And when the realization hits, laughter rises from the deepest fibers of being. Hilarious. And worth every step — every inquiry, every sidetrack we once thought was pointless or wrong.
That one, fundamental, soul-felt laughter echoes through dimensions and dreamtimes. There was never a throne for the little me to sit on.
Religious morality? Faith as a spiritual crutch? Mantras and supplications summoning our own creations? They kept us functional in oblivion for as long as needed — nothing more.
Time.
A flicker of a dream.
A prolonged agony or a flood of joy.
The heart creates the cycles,
not the clocks.
This isn’t philosophy. It isn’t poetry.
It’s the shape my inner field takes when experience condenses into language.
I’m an artist, and life is art lived.
We meet each other in the in-between —
in the place where perception turns inside-out
and the process becomes the destination.
