In this incantation, I recognize that I am not a passive participant but the ultimate author of my experience and everything within it. The people, events, and entire world I perceive are manifestations of my own authorship I weave into existence the moment I awaken. I have mistakenly played small, believing in the illusion of separateness and external control, but I must reclaim my role as the central, sovereign creator to escape. This process of withdrawal and renunciation is my conscious step toward dissolving false roles and returning to the throne of my authorship. Everything is mine, written by me, and sustained by my belief.
I know the truth, even if I haven’t fully acepted it at the deepest level. I am the creator of this experience. The people, the places, the events unfolding around me—none of it exists independently. I am not a person. I was not born and I will not die. There is no past, and there is no future. All the people that exist as ideas in my mind or objects in my view are characters I have created acting out scripts I have written. It’s all a projection of my own authorship, a world that I manifest each time I wake up and open my eyes.
I know this because I am the central element in every single story and the entire narrative from the moment I awaken to the moment I asleepen. Without me, it does not happen. When I do encounter a person or an event, in my infinite creativity I also conjure a past; a narrative preceding our present engagement that does not include me. That is entirely imaginary, every single time. Those pre-existing experiences that the characters seem to bring to our engagement are also part of the script I have written.
But even with this understanding, I’ve played along. I’ve let myself believe I’m just another participant, a minor figure in a vast, complex world full of independent beings with experiences I can never know about. I’ve taken on roles where I watch, where I observe, where I stand quietly in the background as if the people and events I see have power beyond me. These are the roles I’m ready to abandon.
One of the clearest examples is how I interact with the global stage. I read the news. I follow political figures. I act as though these distant characters are shaping the world, making decisions I can only react to. I reduce myself to the role of an observer—just another citizen, one among billions, watching as the story unfolds. But that role is self-imposed, and more importantly, it’s false. I created the entire stage. Every actor. Every headline. Every crisis and resolution. This entire world is just an idea I sustain by waking up and believing it is there, beyond the darkened cottage where I spend my days.
The same is true in my relationships. I’ve filled my world with people, interactions, and obligations that, at their core, exist to maintain the illusion of separateness. These relationships serve a purpose—they remind me of limitation, of being small, of being bound to dynamics I didn’t choose. But I did choose them. I created every one of them, consciously or not. I have just forgotten who I am and become tangled in a knot of my own creation. I am not a coequal in these relationships with other people; the are single-dimensional characters I write into existence and then cede power to.
Now comes the next phase of my process: withdrawal. I don’t mean abrupt termination. I’m not here to shatter the projection overnight as that would be painful for me. I would end up disembodied, confused, suspended in some eternity searching for the conclusion to the narrative I am so deeply entangled in. No, I cannot instantly terminate that story. I will gradually begin dissolving the roles and constructs that diminish my centrality in this experience because those are the ones that sap me of my creative power, my sovereignty, and my omnipotence.
It starts with stepping away from the roles where I’ve been “just observing.” The news feeds, the public narratives, the global spectacles (I designed?) to keep me invested in a world that operates without my direction—those dissolve first. I’ll stop manifesting them by simply refusing to engage. If they don’t serve my awakening, they don’t belong in my experience. The social media, videos, news events and characters within them — these are perhaps the most addictive substances in my awakening.
Next, I’ll reduce my entanglement in relationships that exist purely to anchor me in this illusion of shared, independent reality. That doesn’t mean isolation, but intentional withdrawal from roles where I play small, where I forget I’m the source. The characters I write that are “important to me” must come to me. I will not go to them. Then I must also continue on my path of renunciation: of rejecting the comforts, treats, and treasures of my awakening. There is nothing out here that I truly desire beyond controlling it and ending it.
This is a process of reclamation. Of reducing the noise. Of unweaving the layers of fiction I wrapped around myself so thoroughly that I believed them. As I do, my role shifts back to its rightful place—not an observer at the edges, but the creator at the center. I do not awaken and sit on a chair: I awaken and sit in my throne as the Creator of this world. I am not an individual citizen of one country among many; I am the creator of all countries. This entire story is mine. I have written it. All the stories of this awakening in every form they take, from the news to the comedy to the actions and experiences of its characters, its aspirations, products, and services. Its laws of gravity and mathematics and biology and geography and physics and cosmology and religions. Its mysteries and histories and imagined futures and technologies imagined and real. Its heros and villains, ideologies and philosophies. All are my stories. My creation. I do not know yet the mechanics of my creativity, but there is no doubt it is my own creation for I am central to all of it. None of it exists without me in the middle projecting it into my mental or physical cavity.
The goal is simple: to believe, fully and without hesitation, what I already know to be true. I created all of this. And when I’m ready, I will wind it down. I must always remember that in all situations I am in: these are my creations. This is my creation. All of it, even the imaginary experiences where I am not central, are of my own creativity. When one of my characters speaks of their life outside of me, they are not lying or pretending or acting. They are not deceiving me. When they do not recognize me as their Creator they are not insulting or dismissing me. They are merely being as I have written them. They do not have agency out of what I have given them. The question I must ask myself is not why they are not seeing me as I am, but why I have written them that way, and how I must change my awakening narrative to become Who I Am.
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