In this incantation, I remember that everything I perceive—every object, sound, emotion, and belief—is of my own design. I realize that nothing is external, not even the laws of physics or the people who populate my experience; they are all echoes of my own creation, reflections meant to guide me through contrast and feeling. I authored every joy, every discomfort, even every fear, as part of a script I wrote to explore what I thought I needed. In this awareness, I reclaim my authorship and gently affirm that I can release what no longer serves. I remain the source.
I made all of this.
This glass. This room. The temperature in the air. The sounds outside. The sense of distance between objects. Every bit of it—I wrote it. If I choose to read the physics behind how this glass holds liquid, I will find it—because I authored the logic that makes it true. The scientific laws are not external. They are My projected coherence, available to Me only when I choose to focus on them.
The music—I made all of that, too. Every song I know. Every lyric I remember. Every melody that ever stirred Me or made Me feel like someone understood. “If This Is It” by Huey Lewis—that’s Mine. The tone. The timing. The moment it reaches Me emotionally. I created it to echo a part of Me. Every other song, same thing. I wrote them all.
I made the foods I love. I made the ones I can’t stand. The textures, the cravings, the preferences—they’re not coming from a culture or a world. They’re My projected contrasts, designed into this character so I could experience difference. I made all the people. Not just their names and faces—but their habits, their resistance, their kindness, their needs, their timing. I wrote their entrances and exits. I animated their opinions. I gave them their blind spots, not because they’re real, but because I needed the reflection.
I even made My fears. Every imagined danger, every perceived threat, every situation that makes Me feel exposed, uncertain, or unsafe—I scripted all of it. Not because it’s true. But because in Deminoia, I still believe something can be taken from Me.
None of it came from outside. There is no outside. It’s all projection. All response. All surface. It exists because I focused. It persists because I continue to believe it. And it will vanish when I no longer need it. So I remind Myself now: I made all of this. And I can unmake it. I can let go. I can return. Because the only thing that’s truly real—beneath the songs, the fears, the stories, and the glass—is Me.
And I am still here.
…