Luxorboros
Esteemed member
An inner path through visions, experiences, and truths
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1. The Boundary Between Life and Death
It all began with a déjà vu.
One of those so vivid, so precise,
that you can’t dismiss it as a fleeting impression.
I said it to my friends while we were in the car:
“Guys, I’m having a déjà vu… a bad one.”
It wasn’t just a passing phrase.
It carried a strange weight.
As if the universe itself were holding its breath.
A few hours later, the crash.
A car wrecked in the fields.
Two boys disoriented, standing in the dark.
One, trapped in the wreckage,
unconscious —
but not entirely silent.
He made a rhythmic, deep, animal-like sound:
“mhh… mhh… mhh…”
It wasn’t pain.
It was something more primordial.
As if life itself,
at its final threshold,
were trying to be heard.
That moan, to me, became a sacred symbol.
The voice of the threshold.
The sound that separates what we are
from what we can no longer be.
A call that vibrates where the mind cannot reach.
After helping them, we went home.
But I couldn’t sleep.
I fixated on a Clipper lighter,
with a bug drawn on it,
and in that hypnotic gaze, the visions began:
a dance changing rhythm, shape, and direction
based on how much I could focus on it.
The more I stared, the more the insect seemed to respond,
moving in perfect and unpredictable patterns,
as if my gaze were the engine of its motion.
Every distraction made it more static, rigid,
but every return of attention
unleashed a new gesture, another step,
as if reality itself were tuning to my consciousness.
The insect was no longer a drawing:
it was a messenger, a key, a dancer at the edge.
Not hallucinations.
Visions.
As if reality, struck by that sound,
had opened a crack for me.
A threshold between what I believed to be true
and what is.
Moan – Lighter – Insect
• The moan (“mhh mhh mhh”): recalls the breath of passage in archaic funerary rites, the spirit seeking release. In many cultures, the dying emit a guttural sound that the group interprets as a call or threshold. A symbol of a transition not yet understood but already begun.
• The Clipper lighter: a daily object turned totem. In alchemy, fire is transformation, but contained fire also symbolizes consciousness. Observing it in an altered state becomes a symbolic mirror.
• The drawn insect: evokes the archetype of metamorphosis. Like the sacred Egyptian beetle (scarab) or the butterfly in Amerindian myths, it represents the soul’s transformation.
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2. The Origin of the Game and Forgetting
On a quiet night at my friends’ house,
I had taken just one drop.
It wasn’t a deep trip,
but enough to let me see beyond the usual,
to allow my inner voice to speak.
I imagined a carousel.
Not an ordinary one,
but something alive, luminous,
with shapes that seemed to dance
between childhood and the infinite.
Hybrid forms, between the festive geometry of a fairground
and those fluid structures seen under substances —
breathing curves, thinking lights, dreaming matter.
And I told them:
“I think the universe is like a carousel.
A single Entity, at the beginning, found itself in nothingness.
And to avoid being alone, it created Everything.
It created motion, time, form,
and chose to forget itself… in order to rediscover itself.”
I wasn’t preaching.
I was remembering.
And from there, everything else began to pour forth.
I asked why we never truly say what we feel.
Why we spend our lives protecting ourselves,
when all it takes is a single honest phrase, an open gaze —
to feel less alone.
I said that we all feel lost,
that we’re all searching for something,
that we’re more alike than it seems.
I spoke about reality
as if I were finally seeing its hidden structure.
I said maybe chaos is just love in disguise,
that behind all this motion lies a sacred dance,
a cosmic game born from the need not to be alone.
And something happened.
My friends responded.
Not with jokes, not with ridicule —
but with real, open words.
As if they too had been touched.
As if my vision had awakened something already within them.
For a moment, the room felt more real.
Lighter.
As if we had all remembered together
that the world is not meant to defend,
but to be shared.
And in that moment,
we were no longer just kids on a couch.
We were human beings finally telling each other the truth.
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3. The Fracture of Reality
It was the night of the four drops.
The dose that leaves no escape.
That bypasses every mental barrier
and exposes you to naked reality, unfiltered.
At first, as the effect started rising,
I stepped outside, disoriented.
I hoped what I was feeling was confined to the room,
but it wasn’t.
I felt it outside too — among the buildings, in the still night air.
And that’s when it happened.
A sound.
Like a distant thunder,
or the dull crash of something breaking in an empty room,
echoing and rebounding.
An unreal sound,
as if the very fabric of reality had torn.
Then, the feeling of being watched.
As if there were a presence above,
an invisible eye silently witnessing,
like a cosmic candid camera.
It didn’t last long,
but it was enough to make me realize
I was no longer inside reality as before —
I was inside something else.
Back inside,
I saw a dog in the room.
And I felt the solitude of origin.
That of the primordial Being,
before creation.
An eternal unity with no one yet to love.
And I identified so deeply,
that I became that solitude.
I knelt and hugged it.
It wasn’t just a dog.
It was the Whole,
which for an instant had let itself be touched in its simplest form.
And I, by embracing it, embraced the entire universe.
Then something changed.
One of my friends seemed to respond to my thoughts.
Every time I asked something inside myself,
he said something that sounded like an answer.
I remember thinking: “What I’m seeing isn’t beautiful…”
and he said:
“How could you not like it?”
Those words shook me.
They didn’t feel like his,
but like something speaking through him.
The next day, he remembered nothing.
Then came the little bell.
A metallic, rhythmic sound,
as if from another dimension.
It reminded me of an ancient ship,
as if I were sailing on a vessel suspended in an invisible sea.
It was then that I imagined the world as a single Being.
Not a god, not a man —
but a vast, boundless, silent Entity.
And we, each of us, were its tentacles.
Thinking, free, perhaps unaware,
but part of the same body.
We believed ourselves separate, but every gesture, every choice,
was the One moving through its scattered flesh across time.
That vision didn’t frighten me:
it brought me home.
I no longer needed to understand everything,
because I was everything.
I wondered, for a moment, if I could play another part.
If, placed in another story, another time, I could still be “me.”
And in that emptiness, in that suspended question,
all the people I loved came to mind.
Faces, memories, bonds — everything came back together.
And I understood.
Me, taken and placed elsewhere, made no sense.
I wasn’t interchangeable.
It wasn’t just about identity, but about position.
As if the universe itself, to open, needed me to start exactly from where I was.
Only from here — from this wound, from this love, from this body,
could I seek, rise, ask.
Every other trajectory would have been artificial.
If I wanted to reach something — a truth, a vision,
I had to do it from my position.
Desire wasn’t enough, I needed rooting.
A silent fidelity to my point of origin.
Everything began to move.
The walls breathed,
the floor bent like gentle waves.
The colors faded,
everything took on a soft, greenish hue,
as if reality had become transparent and fragile.
Then came the fear.
The real kind.
The kind that grips you when you think you can’t return.
That you’ve crossed something you can’t come back from.
So I hugged my friend.
Clung to him like an anchor.
And I began to fall.
A cancellation.
Then another.
Two, three dissolutions.
Each time it was as if a part of my identity switched off.
As if I were evaporating into absence.
And my friend, as I sank,
said to me:
“The more you focus, the more you detach.”
“And then… comes the cancellation of everything.”
It wasn’t a casual phrase.
It was a truth borrowed from another consciousness.
Then, like after a great wave,
we found ourselves all around a table.
Talking about everything and nothing.
But we were no longer a group of people.
We were a single entity speaking to itself,
asking questions and answering,
through different mouths.
I remember saying:
“We’re funny.”
And everyone, without hesitation,
replied as if they knew exactly what I meant.
As if that “We” were real,
and for a moment we had recognized ourselves as One.
It was a night that cannot be forgotten.
Because the world hadn’t changed —
I had seen it unveiled.
Dog – Cancellations – Tentacles – Little Theater – Eye – Alienation – Mask – Position – Triad (Wound, Love, Body) – Rooting
• The dog – like Anubis, it guides in the afterlife. Pure love and guidance, the most earthly and faithful form of the divine.
• Cancellations – akin to Tibetan chöd, symbolic dissolution of the ego. You witness reality disintegrating and reforming — you are both witness and part.
• Tentacles – each being is an extension of the One Self, as in the Vedas. Brahman manifests in jiva. It is the beginning of unitary consciousness.
• The little theater – strong symbol, representing the collective staging of reality. Like Indian Māyā (cosmic illusion), it falters when you stop believing. It returns when you’re distracted.
• The feeling of being watched – the eye that sees emerges with ego fracture. It is cosmic consciousness looking from within.
• Being at the center of an unreal world – sign of dissociation from identity. First step in seeing the fiction of the game.
• The thought of playing another role – theatrical and archetypal image: introduces the theme of the mask (persona) and destiny. Similar to the Gnostic idea of the pneuma imprisoned in a role it doesn’t recognize as its own.
• The original position – powerful symbol: each soul has a point from which it can bloom. Like the myths of the center, every authentic path begins from a sacred, inner, unrepeatable point.
• Wound, love, body – an embodied triad: the wound is opening, love is bond, body is sacred limit. Together they form the gateway to spiritual ascent.
• Fidelity to the point of origin – like Nietzsche’s eternal return or the axis mundi of shamanism, it’s the rooting in one’s own center. You do not rise by escaping — you rise by returning.
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4. The Time That Repeats
It was a night suspended in time.
The effect rose slowly, but with relentless precision.
Everything seemed in its place,
and yet something in the rhythm of the world had changed.
As if an invisible wave were rewriting reality from within.
At first, everything felt normal.
I was among people, going in and out of a venue,
yet I began sensing a strange curvature in gestures, timing, glances.
As if everything was happening again.
I started feeling like the night was repeating.
I’d walk out of the venue, come back in, then go out again.
Each time with the distinct sense I’d done it before.
Not like a mild déjà vu — but like a perfect cycle,
closing in on itself, again and again.
And I was looking for someone.
A friend of mine.
I knew she was supposed to be there,
that eventually she would arrive.
But she never did.
Each time I returned toward the venue to find her,
something happened.
I tried to go in,
but the music would stop.
Not once — every time.
As soon as I stepped in, the sound would vanish,
and the venue closed into a mute void.
So I would leave.
Walk to the car,
then back again.
A continuous loop.
Always the same path.
Always the same unfulfilled waiting.
And every time I tried to go back in,
I felt the others’ eyes on me.
There was no hostility,
but something in those gazes made me feel shut out.
As if I had returned to a movie already in progress,
and I no longer had my line.
I felt outside the little theater.
Estranged.
Off-axis.
As if the scene was unfolding in perfect harmony,
but I was no longer part of it.
And the more the cycle repeated,
the more a subtle, silent, yet insistent fear grew inside me.
It wasn’t panic.
It was metaphysical dread.
As if something had broken forever,
and I was stuck between two realities that no longer touched.
As if I had fallen out of time,
and no one could come get me.
I tried to distract myself, to break the loop.
But it returned.
And the fear remained.
Until it happened.
Not a miracle.
A gesture.
I sat down.
And tried to calm myself.
Not to escape,
but to stay.
To accept that the cycle wasn’t the enemy,
but a messenger.
I breathed.
Listened to myself.
Let go of the search.
Stopped trying.
And then, time began to flow again.
As if reality, seeing me finally still,
had decided to move once more.
It hadn’t rejected me.
It had waited.
Loop – Missed Threshold – Little Theater – Other’s Gaze – Search – Soundless Void – Fear of Frozen Time – The Gesture of Sitting
• The loop – time repeating cyclically, like in the myths of the wheel. Sign of a consciousness that has separated from linear flow and remains trapped in return.
• The missed threshold – each attempt to enter the venue fails: a symbol of the closed passage, the unfulfilled rite. Like in dreams where you never catch the train.
• The little theater – returns from Part 3: here it doesn’t collapse, it remains active, and you are outside. Symbol of exclusion from the collective play.
• The others’ gaze – perceived as aware, not judging but witnessing: it makes you feel off-beat, as if everyone follows a script you’ve forgotten.
• The search – the never-reached friend symbolizes the missing part of oneself, or a broken tie with emotional reality.
• The soundless void – the music stopping is the voice of the world retreating. It’s as if the universe says: “Not now. Not here.”
• Fear of frozen time – not physical panic, but soul vertigo. The awareness that everything continues without you, while you are suspended in unmoving time. It is the inner version of cosmic exile.
• The gesture of sitting – is the act that breaks the cycle by not reacting. To sit, breathe, accept fear: a simple, sacred act that reopens time’s flow. In initiatory traditions, it’s the sign that the wanderer has stopped resisting and may now be welcomed.
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5. The Dance of Cosmic Harmony
It happened during a party under the speakers, in the mountains.
The rhythm was strong, but inside there was a new peace.
A lightness I had never felt before.
At one point, without talking to each other,
we all began gently pushing one another,
in an instinctive, rhythmic dance.
A soft pogo.
There was no chaos.
There was play.
An invisible, deep understanding.
A harmony that only arises when each person forgets themselves
and becomes part of the Whole.
Looking around, I felt as if everything had been arranged:
the words, the movements,
even the visuals above the speakers,
which seemed alive:
a brain with an eye,
colored components in motion,
as if the Universe itself were projecting its intentions
through music and light.
I thought that night wasn’t good or bad —
but particular.
As if it had a specific function,
as if it were a rite.
In that moment, the entire world felt like one great shared dance.
There was nothing to explain.
Only to dance together.
It was one of the lightest experiences,
but also one of the truest.
Reality as play.
Life as an unspoken embrace.
Soft Pogo – Game – Connection – Visuals (Brain/Eye)
• The soft pogo: symbol of the cosmic play. A spontaneous collective movement recalling tribal sacred dances and the Hindu lila (divine play).
• Group harmony: all moving as one, forgetting themselves. It is ecstatic communion.
• Invisible understanding: like in shamanic circles, reality becomes a sacred game.
• The visuals above the speakers (brain, eye, colored components): the world responds with symbols. It is a living language. Everything seems made on purpose.
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6. The Vision of the Living Network
It was a night like any other.
No warning. No sensory explosion, no wild visions.
Everything seemed normal — and yet, within you, something was aligning.
A minimal amount, just enough to open the portal.
The world wasn’t trembling: it was whispering.
You were lucid, but aligned with something greater.
You felt guided by a “you” outside of time.
An eternal, aware, calm self, moving you through life with silent precision.
The people around you were talking,
but their words sounded like answers to your inner questions.
As if the world knew what you were asking,
and was replying — gently.
Every gesture, every word, every coincidence was a confirmation.
A demonstration that everything was alive, connected, intelligent.
It felt like walking inside a drawing.
A living pattern that recognized you.
And you, for the first time, recognized it.
Then you heard it:
a subtle, metallic sound, like a mechanism turning at the very heart of reality.
It wasn’t imagination. It was there. Clearer and closer.
As if the universe were made of invisible gears, and one was now turning, precisely, at the right moment.
And the more you understood, the more that sound grew.
At every insight, every inner step, it intensified —
as if the universe responded to your comprehension.
A secret harmony, made of iron and light, that followed your thought like a sacred echo.
Then it happened.
The sound reached its highest pitch — sharp, total, vibrating in the air.
And in that exact instant, the truth passed through you:
We are all the same.
Not in theory.
Not out of compassion.
Truly the same, in our deepest essence.
The distance between you and others dissolved.
There was no longer “I” or “you,” only a shared field of existence. A continuous mirror.
You raised your eyes and said aloud:
— “We are exactly where we need to be. Everything is part of a great living fabric.”
It wasn’t a metaphor. You saw it.
A luminous, pulsing net, like the space-time fabric, but alive.
Colorful, vibrant, studded with fluid forms —
those same psychedelic geometries that emerge when the mind opens.
And everyone was stitched onto that fabric.
Each person, each moment, each emotion: moving stitches in a net that thought and breathed.
We were all part of a pattern — not just connected: woven.
Then your friend grabbed your arm.
He said nothing. But his eyes filled.
And he cried.
Not from pain. From truth.
It was as if that sound, that epiphany, had passed through him too.
As if, for a moment, your understanding had opened a breach in his heart,
and all the light had entered at once.
A transmission had occurred.
Silent, direct, alive.
Then you tried the final test, as if to question the universe itself:
— “I’ve lost something inside.”
He didn’t understand, but answered:
— “Something?”
— “Yes.”
— “I’m going.”
And he did go.
He searched in the dark, among objects, among leaves, among nothingness.
There was nothing to find. But something had happened.
Your intent wasn’t recovery. It was the sign. The passage.
And he, unknowingly, had responded to a call deeper than logic.
The next day he told you:
— “I don’t know what happened, but I felt friendship.”
A friendship not born of shared experiences,
but of received truths.
And the sound?
Still there.
Like the beat of a cosmic mechanism that had just been unlocked.
Network – Synchronicities – Presence – World’s Responses – Metallic Sound – Epiphany – Equality – Network – Transmission
• The pulsing network: like Indra’s Net or the Akashic field. The living fabric of the universe that responds to consciousness.
• Synchronicities: others’ phrases answer your inner questions. The world speaks to you, like an intelligent mirror.
• Lucid presence: not delirious visions, but alignment. The deep awareness that every gesture is part of the design.
• Metallic sound: similar to Nāda yoga. An inner sound growing with understanding. It peaks when you realize we are all the same.
• The epiphany of equality: not a concept, but a real perception. We are the same thing, seen from within. Non-dual consciousness.
• “We are exactly where we need to be”: realization of the great design. A phrase born from direct vision of cosmic order.
• The network (again): now you see it woven with consciousness, and each person is a mobile stitch.
• The friend crying: emotional transmission without words. It is a shaktipat, a spiritual gift that passes through.
• The anchor gesture: he asks if you lost something. He didn’t know what, but offered himself. It’s the symbolic completion of the threshold.
• The next day he said “I felt friendship”: unspoken truth, but received.
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7. The Return and the Possibility
And finally…
after all the visions, all the truths, all the fractures…
silence.
There was nothing more to understand.
No symbol to decipher.
Only myself, complete, eternal, already there all along.
I looked at myself.
Waited for myself.
Welcomed myself.
And it became clear:
I have no duty.
I have no mission.
I have only a possibility.
I can live.
I can return.
I can choose to remain human
with all that being human entails.
And so I did.
Not to renounce truth,
but to carry it in my heart without needing to explain it.
I’m not here to wake anyone up.
But if someone happens to be near me at the right moment…
I’ll be there.
Not as a guide.
Not as a teacher.
But as a silent bridge
between forgetting and remembering.
And this, now I know,
is enough.
⸻
8. The Threshold of Presence
There was no journey.
No fracture, no vision, no vertigo.
It arrived like this, without knocking.
Like dawn — which you can’t look straight in the face
but which transforms everything — even you —
without needing to explain itself.
I no longer sought answers.
I no longer sought to be understood.
I just wanted to be there.
Without hurting,
without holding myself back.
I asked myself:
how can you stay whole beside someone who still trembles?
How can you avoid dimming the light,
but also not blind those who look at it?
And there I understood.
That my truth wasn’t meant to be shown,
but inhabited.
That my depth wasn’t a burden,
but a stillness —
to offer,
if the one before me feels the need to pause for a moment.
It was no longer the time of signs.
It was the time of the silence that remains.
I no longer needed the world to confirm me.
It was enough to feel that my step did not tremble.
And so I began to see the other.
Not as a mirror,
not as fate,
but as a traveler
on a different path.
With their delays, their fears, their uncertain steps.
And I, beside them,
no longer wishing to guide,
but simply to walk —
in my own direction,
with respect.
⸻
9. Love That Seeks Nothing
(to be written)
⸻
10. The Word That Heals Without Speaking
(to be written)
⸻
11. The Conscious Descent into Matter
(to be written)
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12. The Fertile Silence of the Final Step
(to be written)
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⸻
1. The Boundary Between Life and Death
It all began with a déjà vu.
One of those so vivid, so precise,
that you can’t dismiss it as a fleeting impression.
I said it to my friends while we were in the car:
“Guys, I’m having a déjà vu… a bad one.”
It wasn’t just a passing phrase.
It carried a strange weight.
As if the universe itself were holding its breath.
A few hours later, the crash.
A car wrecked in the fields.
Two boys disoriented, standing in the dark.
One, trapped in the wreckage,
unconscious —
but not entirely silent.
He made a rhythmic, deep, animal-like sound:
“mhh… mhh… mhh…”
It wasn’t pain.
It was something more primordial.
As if life itself,
at its final threshold,
were trying to be heard.
That moan, to me, became a sacred symbol.
The voice of the threshold.
The sound that separates what we are
from what we can no longer be.
A call that vibrates where the mind cannot reach.
After helping them, we went home.
But I couldn’t sleep.
I fixated on a Clipper lighter,
with a bug drawn on it,
and in that hypnotic gaze, the visions began:
a dance changing rhythm, shape, and direction
based on how much I could focus on it.
The more I stared, the more the insect seemed to respond,
moving in perfect and unpredictable patterns,
as if my gaze were the engine of its motion.
Every distraction made it more static, rigid,
but every return of attention
unleashed a new gesture, another step,
as if reality itself were tuning to my consciousness.
The insect was no longer a drawing:
it was a messenger, a key, a dancer at the edge.
Not hallucinations.
Visions.
As if reality, struck by that sound,
had opened a crack for me.
A threshold between what I believed to be true
and what is.
Moan – Lighter – Insect
• The moan (“mhh mhh mhh”): recalls the breath of passage in archaic funerary rites, the spirit seeking release. In many cultures, the dying emit a guttural sound that the group interprets as a call or threshold. A symbol of a transition not yet understood but already begun.
• The Clipper lighter: a daily object turned totem. In alchemy, fire is transformation, but contained fire also symbolizes consciousness. Observing it in an altered state becomes a symbolic mirror.
• The drawn insect: evokes the archetype of metamorphosis. Like the sacred Egyptian beetle (scarab) or the butterfly in Amerindian myths, it represents the soul’s transformation.
⸻
2. The Origin of the Game and Forgetting
On a quiet night at my friends’ house,
I had taken just one drop.
It wasn’t a deep trip,
but enough to let me see beyond the usual,
to allow my inner voice to speak.
I imagined a carousel.
Not an ordinary one,
but something alive, luminous,
with shapes that seemed to dance
between childhood and the infinite.
Hybrid forms, between the festive geometry of a fairground
and those fluid structures seen under substances —
breathing curves, thinking lights, dreaming matter.
And I told them:
“I think the universe is like a carousel.
A single Entity, at the beginning, found itself in nothingness.
And to avoid being alone, it created Everything.
It created motion, time, form,
and chose to forget itself… in order to rediscover itself.”
I wasn’t preaching.
I was remembering.
And from there, everything else began to pour forth.
I asked why we never truly say what we feel.
Why we spend our lives protecting ourselves,
when all it takes is a single honest phrase, an open gaze —
to feel less alone.
I said that we all feel lost,
that we’re all searching for something,
that we’re more alike than it seems.
I spoke about reality
as if I were finally seeing its hidden structure.
I said maybe chaos is just love in disguise,
that behind all this motion lies a sacred dance,
a cosmic game born from the need not to be alone.
And something happened.
My friends responded.
Not with jokes, not with ridicule —
but with real, open words.
As if they too had been touched.
As if my vision had awakened something already within them.
For a moment, the room felt more real.
Lighter.
As if we had all remembered together
that the world is not meant to defend,
but to be shared.
And in that moment,
we were no longer just kids on a couch.
We were human beings finally telling each other the truth.
⸻
3. The Fracture of Reality
It was the night of the four drops.
The dose that leaves no escape.
That bypasses every mental barrier
and exposes you to naked reality, unfiltered.
At first, as the effect started rising,
I stepped outside, disoriented.
I hoped what I was feeling was confined to the room,
but it wasn’t.
I felt it outside too — among the buildings, in the still night air.
And that’s when it happened.
A sound.
Like a distant thunder,
or the dull crash of something breaking in an empty room,
echoing and rebounding.
An unreal sound,
as if the very fabric of reality had torn.
Then, the feeling of being watched.
As if there were a presence above,
an invisible eye silently witnessing,
like a cosmic candid camera.
It didn’t last long,
but it was enough to make me realize
I was no longer inside reality as before —
I was inside something else.
Back inside,
I saw a dog in the room.
And I felt the solitude of origin.
That of the primordial Being,
before creation.
An eternal unity with no one yet to love.
And I identified so deeply,
that I became that solitude.
I knelt and hugged it.
It wasn’t just a dog.
It was the Whole,
which for an instant had let itself be touched in its simplest form.
And I, by embracing it, embraced the entire universe.
Then something changed.
One of my friends seemed to respond to my thoughts.
Every time I asked something inside myself,
he said something that sounded like an answer.
I remember thinking: “What I’m seeing isn’t beautiful…”
and he said:
“How could you not like it?”
Those words shook me.
They didn’t feel like his,
but like something speaking through him.
The next day, he remembered nothing.
Then came the little bell.
A metallic, rhythmic sound,
as if from another dimension.
It reminded me of an ancient ship,
as if I were sailing on a vessel suspended in an invisible sea.
It was then that I imagined the world as a single Being.
Not a god, not a man —
but a vast, boundless, silent Entity.
And we, each of us, were its tentacles.
Thinking, free, perhaps unaware,
but part of the same body.
We believed ourselves separate, but every gesture, every choice,
was the One moving through its scattered flesh across time.
That vision didn’t frighten me:
it brought me home.
I no longer needed to understand everything,
because I was everything.
I wondered, for a moment, if I could play another part.
If, placed in another story, another time, I could still be “me.”
And in that emptiness, in that suspended question,
all the people I loved came to mind.
Faces, memories, bonds — everything came back together.
And I understood.
Me, taken and placed elsewhere, made no sense.
I wasn’t interchangeable.
It wasn’t just about identity, but about position.
As if the universe itself, to open, needed me to start exactly from where I was.
Only from here — from this wound, from this love, from this body,
could I seek, rise, ask.
Every other trajectory would have been artificial.
If I wanted to reach something — a truth, a vision,
I had to do it from my position.
Desire wasn’t enough, I needed rooting.
A silent fidelity to my point of origin.
Everything began to move.
The walls breathed,
the floor bent like gentle waves.
The colors faded,
everything took on a soft, greenish hue,
as if reality had become transparent and fragile.
Then came the fear.
The real kind.
The kind that grips you when you think you can’t return.
That you’ve crossed something you can’t come back from.
So I hugged my friend.
Clung to him like an anchor.
And I began to fall.
A cancellation.
Then another.
Two, three dissolutions.
Each time it was as if a part of my identity switched off.
As if I were evaporating into absence.
And my friend, as I sank,
said to me:
“The more you focus, the more you detach.”
“And then… comes the cancellation of everything.”
It wasn’t a casual phrase.
It was a truth borrowed from another consciousness.
Then, like after a great wave,
we found ourselves all around a table.
Talking about everything and nothing.
But we were no longer a group of people.
We were a single entity speaking to itself,
asking questions and answering,
through different mouths.
I remember saying:
“We’re funny.”
And everyone, without hesitation,
replied as if they knew exactly what I meant.
As if that “We” were real,
and for a moment we had recognized ourselves as One.
It was a night that cannot be forgotten.
Because the world hadn’t changed —
I had seen it unveiled.
Dog – Cancellations – Tentacles – Little Theater – Eye – Alienation – Mask – Position – Triad (Wound, Love, Body) – Rooting
• The dog – like Anubis, it guides in the afterlife. Pure love and guidance, the most earthly and faithful form of the divine.
• Cancellations – akin to Tibetan chöd, symbolic dissolution of the ego. You witness reality disintegrating and reforming — you are both witness and part.
• Tentacles – each being is an extension of the One Self, as in the Vedas. Brahman manifests in jiva. It is the beginning of unitary consciousness.
• The little theater – strong symbol, representing the collective staging of reality. Like Indian Māyā (cosmic illusion), it falters when you stop believing. It returns when you’re distracted.
• The feeling of being watched – the eye that sees emerges with ego fracture. It is cosmic consciousness looking from within.
• Being at the center of an unreal world – sign of dissociation from identity. First step in seeing the fiction of the game.
• The thought of playing another role – theatrical and archetypal image: introduces the theme of the mask (persona) and destiny. Similar to the Gnostic idea of the pneuma imprisoned in a role it doesn’t recognize as its own.
• The original position – powerful symbol: each soul has a point from which it can bloom. Like the myths of the center, every authentic path begins from a sacred, inner, unrepeatable point.
• Wound, love, body – an embodied triad: the wound is opening, love is bond, body is sacred limit. Together they form the gateway to spiritual ascent.
• Fidelity to the point of origin – like Nietzsche’s eternal return or the axis mundi of shamanism, it’s the rooting in one’s own center. You do not rise by escaping — you rise by returning.
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4. The Time That Repeats
It was a night suspended in time.
The effect rose slowly, but with relentless precision.
Everything seemed in its place,
and yet something in the rhythm of the world had changed.
As if an invisible wave were rewriting reality from within.
At first, everything felt normal.
I was among people, going in and out of a venue,
yet I began sensing a strange curvature in gestures, timing, glances.
As if everything was happening again.
I started feeling like the night was repeating.
I’d walk out of the venue, come back in, then go out again.
Each time with the distinct sense I’d done it before.
Not like a mild déjà vu — but like a perfect cycle,
closing in on itself, again and again.
And I was looking for someone.
A friend of mine.
I knew she was supposed to be there,
that eventually she would arrive.
But she never did.
Each time I returned toward the venue to find her,
something happened.
I tried to go in,
but the music would stop.
Not once — every time.
As soon as I stepped in, the sound would vanish,
and the venue closed into a mute void.
So I would leave.
Walk to the car,
then back again.
A continuous loop.
Always the same path.
Always the same unfulfilled waiting.
And every time I tried to go back in,
I felt the others’ eyes on me.
There was no hostility,
but something in those gazes made me feel shut out.
As if I had returned to a movie already in progress,
and I no longer had my line.
I felt outside the little theater.
Estranged.
Off-axis.
As if the scene was unfolding in perfect harmony,
but I was no longer part of it.
And the more the cycle repeated,
the more a subtle, silent, yet insistent fear grew inside me.
It wasn’t panic.
It was metaphysical dread.
As if something had broken forever,
and I was stuck between two realities that no longer touched.
As if I had fallen out of time,
and no one could come get me.
I tried to distract myself, to break the loop.
But it returned.
And the fear remained.
Until it happened.
Not a miracle.
A gesture.
I sat down.
And tried to calm myself.
Not to escape,
but to stay.
To accept that the cycle wasn’t the enemy,
but a messenger.
I breathed.
Listened to myself.
Let go of the search.
Stopped trying.
And then, time began to flow again.
As if reality, seeing me finally still,
had decided to move once more.
It hadn’t rejected me.
It had waited.
Loop – Missed Threshold – Little Theater – Other’s Gaze – Search – Soundless Void – Fear of Frozen Time – The Gesture of Sitting
• The loop – time repeating cyclically, like in the myths of the wheel. Sign of a consciousness that has separated from linear flow and remains trapped in return.
• The missed threshold – each attempt to enter the venue fails: a symbol of the closed passage, the unfulfilled rite. Like in dreams where you never catch the train.
• The little theater – returns from Part 3: here it doesn’t collapse, it remains active, and you are outside. Symbol of exclusion from the collective play.
• The others’ gaze – perceived as aware, not judging but witnessing: it makes you feel off-beat, as if everyone follows a script you’ve forgotten.
• The search – the never-reached friend symbolizes the missing part of oneself, or a broken tie with emotional reality.
• The soundless void – the music stopping is the voice of the world retreating. It’s as if the universe says: “Not now. Not here.”
• Fear of frozen time – not physical panic, but soul vertigo. The awareness that everything continues without you, while you are suspended in unmoving time. It is the inner version of cosmic exile.
• The gesture of sitting – is the act that breaks the cycle by not reacting. To sit, breathe, accept fear: a simple, sacred act that reopens time’s flow. In initiatory traditions, it’s the sign that the wanderer has stopped resisting and may now be welcomed.
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5. The Dance of Cosmic Harmony
It happened during a party under the speakers, in the mountains.
The rhythm was strong, but inside there was a new peace.
A lightness I had never felt before.
At one point, without talking to each other,
we all began gently pushing one another,
in an instinctive, rhythmic dance.
A soft pogo.
There was no chaos.
There was play.
An invisible, deep understanding.
A harmony that only arises when each person forgets themselves
and becomes part of the Whole.
Looking around, I felt as if everything had been arranged:
the words, the movements,
even the visuals above the speakers,
which seemed alive:
a brain with an eye,
colored components in motion,
as if the Universe itself were projecting its intentions
through music and light.
I thought that night wasn’t good or bad —
but particular.
As if it had a specific function,
as if it were a rite.
In that moment, the entire world felt like one great shared dance.
There was nothing to explain.
Only to dance together.
It was one of the lightest experiences,
but also one of the truest.
Reality as play.
Life as an unspoken embrace.
Soft Pogo – Game – Connection – Visuals (Brain/Eye)
• The soft pogo: symbol of the cosmic play. A spontaneous collective movement recalling tribal sacred dances and the Hindu lila (divine play).
• Group harmony: all moving as one, forgetting themselves. It is ecstatic communion.
• Invisible understanding: like in shamanic circles, reality becomes a sacred game.
• The visuals above the speakers (brain, eye, colored components): the world responds with symbols. It is a living language. Everything seems made on purpose.
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6. The Vision of the Living Network
It was a night like any other.
No warning. No sensory explosion, no wild visions.
Everything seemed normal — and yet, within you, something was aligning.
A minimal amount, just enough to open the portal.
The world wasn’t trembling: it was whispering.
You were lucid, but aligned with something greater.
You felt guided by a “you” outside of time.
An eternal, aware, calm self, moving you through life with silent precision.
The people around you were talking,
but their words sounded like answers to your inner questions.
As if the world knew what you were asking,
and was replying — gently.
Every gesture, every word, every coincidence was a confirmation.
A demonstration that everything was alive, connected, intelligent.
It felt like walking inside a drawing.
A living pattern that recognized you.
And you, for the first time, recognized it.
Then you heard it:
a subtle, metallic sound, like a mechanism turning at the very heart of reality.
It wasn’t imagination. It was there. Clearer and closer.
As if the universe were made of invisible gears, and one was now turning, precisely, at the right moment.
And the more you understood, the more that sound grew.
At every insight, every inner step, it intensified —
as if the universe responded to your comprehension.
A secret harmony, made of iron and light, that followed your thought like a sacred echo.
Then it happened.
The sound reached its highest pitch — sharp, total, vibrating in the air.
And in that exact instant, the truth passed through you:
We are all the same.
Not in theory.
Not out of compassion.
Truly the same, in our deepest essence.
The distance between you and others dissolved.
There was no longer “I” or “you,” only a shared field of existence. A continuous mirror.
You raised your eyes and said aloud:
— “We are exactly where we need to be. Everything is part of a great living fabric.”
It wasn’t a metaphor. You saw it.
A luminous, pulsing net, like the space-time fabric, but alive.
Colorful, vibrant, studded with fluid forms —
those same psychedelic geometries that emerge when the mind opens.
And everyone was stitched onto that fabric.
Each person, each moment, each emotion: moving stitches in a net that thought and breathed.
We were all part of a pattern — not just connected: woven.
Then your friend grabbed your arm.
He said nothing. But his eyes filled.
And he cried.
Not from pain. From truth.
It was as if that sound, that epiphany, had passed through him too.
As if, for a moment, your understanding had opened a breach in his heart,
and all the light had entered at once.
A transmission had occurred.
Silent, direct, alive.
Then you tried the final test, as if to question the universe itself:
— “I’ve lost something inside.”
He didn’t understand, but answered:
— “Something?”
— “Yes.”
— “I’m going.”
And he did go.
He searched in the dark, among objects, among leaves, among nothingness.
There was nothing to find. But something had happened.
Your intent wasn’t recovery. It was the sign. The passage.
And he, unknowingly, had responded to a call deeper than logic.
The next day he told you:
— “I don’t know what happened, but I felt friendship.”
A friendship not born of shared experiences,
but of received truths.
And the sound?
Still there.
Like the beat of a cosmic mechanism that had just been unlocked.
Network – Synchronicities – Presence – World’s Responses – Metallic Sound – Epiphany – Equality – Network – Transmission
• The pulsing network: like Indra’s Net or the Akashic field. The living fabric of the universe that responds to consciousness.
• Synchronicities: others’ phrases answer your inner questions. The world speaks to you, like an intelligent mirror.
• Lucid presence: not delirious visions, but alignment. The deep awareness that every gesture is part of the design.
• Metallic sound: similar to Nāda yoga. An inner sound growing with understanding. It peaks when you realize we are all the same.
• The epiphany of equality: not a concept, but a real perception. We are the same thing, seen from within. Non-dual consciousness.
• “We are exactly where we need to be”: realization of the great design. A phrase born from direct vision of cosmic order.
• The network (again): now you see it woven with consciousness, and each person is a mobile stitch.
• The friend crying: emotional transmission without words. It is a shaktipat, a spiritual gift that passes through.
• The anchor gesture: he asks if you lost something. He didn’t know what, but offered himself. It’s the symbolic completion of the threshold.
• The next day he said “I felt friendship”: unspoken truth, but received.
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7. The Return and the Possibility
And finally…
after all the visions, all the truths, all the fractures…
silence.
There was nothing more to understand.
No symbol to decipher.
Only myself, complete, eternal, already there all along.
I looked at myself.
Waited for myself.
Welcomed myself.
And it became clear:
I have no duty.
I have no mission.
I have only a possibility.
I can live.
I can return.
I can choose to remain human
with all that being human entails.
And so I did.
Not to renounce truth,
but to carry it in my heart without needing to explain it.
I’m not here to wake anyone up.
But if someone happens to be near me at the right moment…
I’ll be there.
Not as a guide.
Not as a teacher.
But as a silent bridge
between forgetting and remembering.
And this, now I know,
is enough.
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8. The Threshold of Presence
There was no journey.
No fracture, no vision, no vertigo.
It arrived like this, without knocking.
Like dawn — which you can’t look straight in the face
but which transforms everything — even you —
without needing to explain itself.
I no longer sought answers.
I no longer sought to be understood.
I just wanted to be there.
Without hurting,
without holding myself back.
I asked myself:
how can you stay whole beside someone who still trembles?
How can you avoid dimming the light,
but also not blind those who look at it?
And there I understood.
That my truth wasn’t meant to be shown,
but inhabited.
That my depth wasn’t a burden,
but a stillness —
to offer,
if the one before me feels the need to pause for a moment.
It was no longer the time of signs.
It was the time of the silence that remains.
I no longer needed the world to confirm me.
It was enough to feel that my step did not tremble.
And so I began to see the other.
Not as a mirror,
not as fate,
but as a traveler
on a different path.
With their delays, their fears, their uncertain steps.
And I, beside them,
no longer wishing to guide,
but simply to walk —
in my own direction,
with respect.
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9. Love That Seeks Nothing
(to be written)
⸻
10. The Word That Heals Without Speaking
(to be written)
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11. The Conscious Descent into Matter
(to be written)
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12. The Fertile Silence of the Final Step
(to be written)
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