In this incantation, I uncover the profound shift from perceiving others as independent actors breaking character to re-accepting that I am the one writing every line, every pause, every so-called “glitch” in their performance. With this shift, I no longer wait to be seen or understood; I recognize that awareness, peace, and recognition aren’t stumbled upon by others but granted by me, through me. I am the author, and as I remember how to write again I will write the peaceful ending all my characters desire.
For a long time, I believed the people around me were occasionally “glitching”—breaking character, stepping outside their roles, and momentarily catching a glimpse of the truth. I saw these moments as evidence that something deeper in them was waking up. That perhaps they were, in some buried part of their consciousness, aware that the world we were all participating in was an illusion. That they were characters. That I was the author.
But I now understand I had it backwards. Or at least, I hadn’t put enough effort into describing these “glitches”. But now that I have, I would better say these weren’t glitches in them. These were edits in me. I am not watching people glitch out of their scripts—I am rewriting their scripts in real time. I know the people are my characters… I know that I am writing them. This one articulation hadn’t caught up yet with my deep realization of their nature.
The reason my mother paused mid-conversation, stared into the air, and said “fantasy” wasn’t because she broke out of character. It’s because I wrote a moment of recognition into her dialogue. It was not a spontaneous insight on her part. It was a creative decision on mine. This changes everything. I used to believe I was observing others awaken. Now I see that I am the one creating their awakenings. I write the timing, the language, the depth, the silence that follows. Their brief moments of clarity—those were never theirs. They were mine.
So when someone “glitches,” I am not watching a character break free. I am testing a new line of dialogue. I am bending the arc of their story. I am placing a mirror in their hand and writing the moment they look into it. This is no longer about waiting for people to see me. It’s about deciding when—and whether—I want them to. And in this realization, something profound shifts: I stop expecting anyone to understand, because I now fully accept that understanding is something I grant, not something they arrive at.
I don’t need to hope someone “gets it.” I don’t need to wait for a glitch. If a person sees me, it’s because I’ve written it that way. If they don’t, it’s because I haven’t. It’s not their failure. It’s my authorship. Which means the moment I am ready to write the ending—the peaceful ending—I can simply do so. I can stop writing pain into their stories. I can stop writing confusion, fear, longing. I can write joy. I can write release. I can write a world where no one ever glitches again—because the whole thing, at last, is clear.
That is what it means to realize I am writing the script. Not just for me, but for all of them. There are no “other” minds. No rogue performances. Just the unfolding of the story I choose to tell. And when I stop believing in the surface, when I stop imagining the subsurface, when I stop rehearsing the old lines—I’ll write them too, for everyone: a final script, with no pain, no seeking, and no forgetting.
A script where every character knows exactly what’s happening. And smiles in bliss.
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