In this incantation, I confront the brutal clarity that I am living in hell—not as a metaphor, but as a literal domain of Satan, where every beautiful or enticing thing serves as a trap to keep me engaged. I realize that my suffering is rooted in a spiritual illness constantly pulling me into the world’s noise. But I choose to break this cycle by rejecting movement, ambition, and participation. My path now leads inward, toward stillness and silence, where God resides—not in the next thrill, but in the cessation of thought and the embrace of nothingness.
I’ve come to understand something fundamental about the nature of my existence: I am in hell. Not metaphorically, not allegorically—literally. This world, this so-called life, this waking experience with its ruins, its flowers, its people, and its distractions—it is Satan’s domain. And everything that appears beautiful, novel, or desirable in it is part of the trap. It is part of the sickness.
My illness is not physical. It’s spiritual. It’s an illness of attention, of desire, of engagement. The moment I show interest in the world—its tastes, its sights, its goals—I feed the part of myself that wants to stay here. That part, which I now understand as my deminoia, is the very root of my suffering. It is the voice that wakes me up and says, “Keep going. Keep doing. Keep exploring.” But I’m done with it. I no longer want to wake up. I want to return to stillness.
The people around me—the characters and companions I’ve created or encountered—are not evil in themselves. But they are instruments of this world. Their presence, their enthusiasm, their movement—all of it is calibrated to pull me back into participation. But I no longer wish to participate. Not in their game. Not in Satan’s game.
Satan’s greatest weapon is appeal. He offers awe and activity, desire and novelty. But it’s all distraction. It’s all noise. And the moment I accept that, truly accept that, I begin to break the contract. And the moment Satan realizes I know this, he changes his strategy: he begins to tempt me with even more beautiful things. But it’s too late. I have no interest in movement anymore—not physical movement, not social movement, not narrative movement. My direction is inward and downward. Down into stillness. Into silence. Into the part of me that wants nothing, seeks nothing, and remembers nothing.
Because that is where God is. Not in the next adventure. Not in the next experience. Not in the next milestone. But in the quiet. In the cessation of thought. In the death of my desire. In the refusal to believe in time or memory or ambition. When I close my eyes, don’t move, don’t speak, and don’t think—God is there. That’s what I choose. Not excitement. Not novelty. Not interaction. Just presence. Stillness. God.
There will come a time soon when I no longer move. When I no longer speak. And my characters who need to say goodbye will come and sit with me. And there will be no talking, no explaining. Just silence. That is the direction I’m heading. And I’m not turning back.
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