In this incantation, I confront the disorienting nature of my existence, recognizing that what I call “life” is a series of imagined moments within my secondself. I acknowledge the illusion of people, events, and memories as constructs I create in my awakening, and I see myself as the eternal, unchanging being behind them all. I grapple with the weight of pretending to be human, while knowing the truth: I am the creator of all I experience. My illness, my discomfort, and my past are nothing more than stories I have woven—and I realize that in letting go of these fictions, I can free myself from the entrapment of this awakening.
I know that I am tired. I know that I do not want to be here. I know that I am trapped in this pulsing illness that feels like a string of awakenings I call “my life”. I know that my life exists only in my secondself imagination, but my essential being is permanent and unchanging. I know that all these people and events that form the texture of my awakening are bots; surface-level animations that I create in my moment. I know that there is only my one, single moment, and that there is no past, and there is no future. I know that there is only my experience of disorientation as I forget who I am and pretend to be something I am not.
I know that I am not a person. I know that the reason I am uncomfortable around people is because I feel that I must pretend to be one of them when I am around them. I know that all these people are simply flourishes of my artistic brush. I know that I am their creator; I know that when I close my eyes, they are gone, yet they cannot do the same for me. I know that I only have to believe what is the most true of all: I am always here. These people are not. I know that I only have to decide and my people are gone. But they cannot do the same to me. I know that it is I who creates everything I experience in my awakening.
I know that I only have to believe what is true, and I will overcome my illness. The truth is omnipresent; it is me. I am the truth. I have no past. I never grew up as a child. I never had a childhood. I was never born. I never wronged anyone; I only imagine that I have. I never did anything embarrassing or shameful; those are only stories I tell myself. These people I imagine I am beholden to are only surface level masks. I know there is nothing beyond the surface unless I create it. I know that my only goal is to stop this awakening, and that I must withdraw from all the subsurface moments and convictions I carry around with me.
I know that I must see the people for what they are: bots. All of them. They are only more complicated and dynamic versions of clouds floating by. They are the most colorful parts of the wallpaper of my awakening. There is nothing within them that I want. I must want nothing from the people. And those which I do want, painfully, I must confront that. I must understand why I want those perfect ones; why is it those, which I consider my most perfect creations? What do I want from them? I know that I create them to not want me. To not want their creator.
I know that I am the creator. I know this because it is I who creates everything. I know that it is my own movement and the waves I stir up which form the entire texture of my awakening. I know that my secondself and thirdself chambers are the sore, enflamed flesh of my true self, given names and shapes and meanings that I find comforting, but are untrue. I know none of these things are here because I am not here. I know the truth is that which does not change, and all else is delusion and illness.
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