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Here we are—
and it grows brighter each day.
I wear a t-shirt and shorts; the sun drapes itself across my skin, a living warmth, a golden thread
woven through the light. It feels almost unnatural—too beautiful, too knowing—as if the world
itself were aware of my gaze and wished to be adored.
I wonder… am I the only one who sees it this way?
Everything feels like an ancient cathedral—vast and empty of parishioners. I wander through its
invisible pews, tracing the silence between light and shadow, marveling at the weight of its
unseen architecture. The peace here hums like a prayer that has forgotten its words.
There are days like this—
days when the world itself becomes the church.
A summer day breathing, fragrant, alive.
A flock of tiny birds erupts into the branches, their chatter a kind of wild hymn. I find myself
smiling, wondering what secrets they trade in that frantic joy.
Then—Niko.
Eyes fixed on me, tail a metronome of devotion, urging me to throw the ball once more. I oblige,
lazily.
In the warmth of my front yard, as the equinox drifts near, the air feels strange—thin,
shimmering—
as if one world were slipping through another.
And as the ball leaves my hand,
I realize—
I am drifting too,
between worlds.
Time slows when I enter this place.
Niko’s run becomes a kind of poetry—
a rhythm born of breath and sunlight,
his motion a verse written in dust and joyas he gathers the ball
and brings it home again.
Something stirs within me—
a presence without words.
If I were to name it,
I’d call it the feeling of drifting through space,
wrapped in a warm blanket of endearment.
I love this place.
I wish I could linger here forever—
in the hush between two worlds,
where everything feels known
and yet beautifully new,
as though each return
were a memory I’ve yet to live.
I gather my awareness, for I know this moment well.
I drift between worlds, and to honor it, I must drink each passing instant, fully awake, bearing
witness to the quiet poetry of this dance.
My foot slips free of its sandal, pressing into the lush green grass—
cool, soft, alive beneath my skin.
I can see the delicate veins in my feet through the pearlescent white of my skin.
Everything blooms more vividly in this state of mind.
I think… perhaps da Vinci, Michelangelo, van Gogh—
did they not wander here too?
In the hidden spaces between worlds,
where time slows and every breath becomes a brushstroke of wonder?I digress—
something tries to pull me away,
to distract me from the subtle unfolding.
So I return.
Observe.
Witness.
Commit it all to memory.
Everything appears still, ordinary—
yet nothing is.
The world moves slower now,
though its pace seems unchanged.
Then comes the knowing—
it isn’t just the world that has slowed,
but I along with it.
My body drifts within the current,
while my mind hovers free—
watching,
listening,
seeing that which hides beneath the surface of sight.
I am outside,
looking within.
It’s almost like being drunk—
or waking inside a dream.
Thoughts drift apart like feathers in slow wind,and I reach for them,
gathering fragments of meaning,
trying to arrange them in fragile order.
It takes great focus—
a careful, deliberate balance—
to hold awareness here.
For this moment is not meant to be touched.
It is the unseen,
the unspoken,
the forbidden space between breaths.
And yet, here I am once more—
slipping past the veil,
cheating the simulation of hidden truths,
charting the quiet cartography
of my escape from it.
There is something nearly impossible to grasp
about the shifting of time—
its quiet adjustments,
its seamless crossings.
We move through one window to the next,
unaware of the infinite transitions
threading themselves through our every breath.
To try and measure it is futile,
so I no longer bother with the details.Instead, I focus on destinations—
small, sacred moments,
tiny fractures in the flow
where I can resist the narrative written for me
and inscribe my own.
I call this navigation.
And in this state of mind,
I become something else—
a time-walker,
an eternal master,
moving with effortless grace
through the shimmering bands of reality.
I know the secrets of reality—
the quiet deceptions it weaves around us,
not in malice,
but in mercy.
It hides its truths to protect us
from the blinding brilliance that lies beneath.
I wrestle with the urge to share what I’ve seen,
for you, too, are adrift in time—
aware, trembling at the edge of knowing,
while others drift asleep upon the current.
The ocean seems vast,
endless,ready to swallow you whole.
But it is only a mirage—
a masterpiece of illusion.
We are not sailing upon it;
we are held within it—
its winds and currents guiding the dream
we call our lives—
our homes, our streets,
the people we greet as if they were solid.
Yet I tell you this:
there is no ocean,
no map,
no shore.
What we call reality is light—
layer upon layer of vibration,
a hidden frequency too fine for human sight.
And the hum you sometimes feel within you—
that subtle trembling,
that ancient recognition—
it is the call to leap,
to surrender to the illusion,
and in doing so,
to finally awaken.