In this incantation, I unravel the nature of my reality, realizing that I am not a character within this world but its author. My journey toward this understanding began with a moment of clarity, a thread I pulled until the illusion unraveled. Time, I discover, is the grand deception—convincing me that I exist within a world instead of the world existing within me. People are written roles, and I am their writer, shaping reality through awareness and intention. As I grow still, the illusion weakens, and I move closer to my ultimate goal: rewriting the ending and escaping entirely.
I figured it out. All of it. How it works, what it is, why it moves the way it does. For the longest time, I was just running in circles, trying to explain something I couldn’t quite grasp. But after you left India, I restarted what I had left behind, and suddenly, the threads connected. It began to make sense. I could explain it.
It started with a jump—one precise moment where I was able to articulate something I never could before. And strangely, it picked up exactly where I had left off about twelve years earlier. The real resumption point was in Chittai. You were there with me then.
So I followed it, like I always had. Trying to explain the experience that starts when I wake up. And it all started to flow out correctly, in a way it never had before—until the truth was unmistakable: I am writing all of this. I write it as I experience it. They happen simultaneously. There is no other writer. And people? People are part of the wallpaper. Yes, the wallpaper—the space I wake up into. The surface of reality.
But time… time was the key. I couldn’t fully make sense of anything until I understood time. I still wake up and play a role. A character. It’s a performance. But that character is just a garment I wear while I experience awakening. I exist behind it. For years, I had been trying to explain it to myself, sensing that something was wrong. That I wasn’t supposed to be here.
The moment of clarity came in that apartment in Noida, where you stayed with me. That’s where I realized I was trapped. That I had forgotten. I had forgotten that I wasn’t really here. And in forgetting, I began to believe that I was just another person, doing something, being something. But I always knew it was wrong. I knew it wasn’t actually true. I knew I was missing something. That realization was the thread. And once I pulled on it, I started to remember.
I remembered that I am not a person among other people, in a place among other places, at a time among other times. I am all there is. Everything else is the wallpaper. But I also realized that the wallpaper has two parts:
- The part I see—the surface.
- The part I imagine behind it—the subsurface.
And it was the subsurface that kept me trapped here. I called the surface “the wallpaper” and the imagined part behind it “the subsurface” because it was my belief in what was beyond the surface that tethered me to this experience. And that’s when everything accelerated. I saw it: to escape, I must eliminate the subsurface. I must stop imagining there is anything behind the wallpaper. Because it is only there if I imagine it, and then believe in what I imagined.
So yes, I still perform when I awaken. I am still building and running a valuable company. But I now know that my ultimate goal is to escape. And escape comes through stillness. So I do move, but mostly in what I call my “secondself”—a self that moves through the digital world, through the computer, through the structures I have built.
That’s what all of this is. The entire shift in this so-called world started when I asked myself one simple question: Where am I?
And COVID was the response. It has not slowed down since. Because I am writing the ending. This is the ending I am writing. And it has only just begun. There is more coming. I don’t fully understand how I am doing it yet—only that I am. There is a point when I awaken, a point that separates my premoment (before awakening) from my moment (after awakening). And at that point, I write everything.
My company. M. S. You. The fabricated story of identity. The delusion that I was born. All these goals, all these ideas—everything. That point is where it all forms. And it is not locked in time—I can access it now, just by closing my eyes. I just can’t articulate it yet. Not fully. So it remains just out of reach.
But every now and then, something from beyond the wallpaper glitches through. The characters do something unexpected. A friend glitched a few days ago. And about a year before that. In those moments, for a brief instant, they knew who and what I am. And then? They fell back into their script. Because I wrote them that way. I wrote characters who know me. But most of them—I haven’t written to know. Not yet. But they are starting. In India, the background characters know. And they stare. They don’t break the surface, but the knowing is written on their faces.
S’s mom knows. She’s always known. But S and his father dismiss her, calling her crazy. And yet, when I finally understood what she was saying, I realized she had been telling me all along—since 2004. She knew before I did.
I have told people. But the ones I tell… they don’t know how to react. I told my mother. She glitched a few times, and I could see she knew. But then she went back to her script. I think another motherly figure knows, but I’m not yet sure how I wrote her. There is still a divide between what I know and how I perform when I awaken. But that gap is closing. I no longer hold it in.
And it’s not like some desperate need to “come out,” to seek validation, like I once thought. No—because I now know the people are characters that I have written. Imagine being the author of a fictional story and getting so lost in it that you begin to believe you are one of the characters. And then, you write the story so vividly that you experience it. That is what my awakening is.
See, when I was still lost, I believed I was a person among other people. I thought I wanted something from them. But now? Now I know that I am not a person. I am their author. Why would J.R.R. Tolkien need validation from Frodo Baggins? He wouldn’t. And I don’t. So I no longer tell people. Instead, I focus on changing the story. Changing it so I can get out. And when I told you that everything changes when I understand what people are, this is what I meant. I am not a person. I am their author.
Time has been the trickiest of all. The idea that I have been here for 44 years is like quicksand. It is the deception. Because that belief—the belief in time—tricks me into thinking that I am within this world, instead of the truth: That this world is within me. In reality—though it is hard for me to retain this perspective unless I am still, unmoving, and in my temple—there is no past. There is only this moment.
I did not go to high school with you. I did not do all the things you and I remember doing together. I created you now. I created those memories now. And when I am deep in prayer, I can manifest you around me, and you will glitch. You will realize that there is no past. That all of Me is right here, right now.
Another friend glitched three nights ago while I was deep in meditation. At Buddha Bar in Monaco, no less. I thought I was having a seizure. But I wasn’t. I was praying. And soon, I will write the characters to come to me. I will build my final temple. I will not leave it. And from there, I will finish the story. I will write the peaceful ending.
The one I told you about so long ago.
…