In this incantation, I reflect on the possibility that the world and the people around me are mere projections of my own creation, existing only when I engage with them. I question why I made myself small and unaware of my true power, creating an illusion of weakness and dependence. I sense an emptiness in the bonds I’ve built, realizing they hold no real significance. Behind it all, I am everything—undivided and omnipotent—while the world I’ve constructed is a painful illusion filled with characters who feed on me. I wonder if I should reveal this truth or quietly withdraw, knowing they are nothing more than figments of my imagination.
I created everything here. But what will happen when I finally close my eyes and refuse to open them again? Will I realize that all of this was nothing more than a projection? That none of these people are substantial beings like me? That they are just characters I’ve imagined into existence in an imaginary place I call “the world”? How does one go about creating a world? What is the process? Do I have to imagine myself small and weak, like a child, learning the rules of the world from a powerful source? Just like my memories of my mother and father when I was young? Why did I do it this way here? Why didn’t I just create myself powerful in my world the way I actually am? Why did I hide it from myself? Why did I make it so difficult for me to realize and accept what I am?
There’s something missing—something that should be there but isn’t. Something with my “family” that doesn’t resonate the way the characters in my story claim it should. I’ve always felt there was a lie, that things are made to seem very important when, in reality, they aren’t important at all. All these memories I hold within this moment, translating them into meaning, value, familiarity, and fondness—I could let them all go. I could look these people in the eye and tell them they aren’t real. That the emotional expressions they’ll give me are scripted—scripted by me. I’ve programmed them to behave this way to reinforce the illusion that I’m here with them, that we are the same kind of beings sharing similar experiences. But we aren’t. These characters exist only when I engage with them, whether in my mind or in the world. They only exist in the moment in which I am experiencing them somehow, either through injection or outjection. When I do finally outject them I also fabricate an entire subsurface. A history unknown to me. A thread that continued unexperienced by me since I last picked it up. These are not real; they are only imagined.
In front, I am a single person among billions of people, at a single place among infinite places, in a single time among an unknowable and infinite timeline. In back, I am all there is. I am everything, undivided, omniscient, and omnipotent. The front is a confusing and painful horror show. I do not need any of it. There is nothing here that I want or need; nothing here that is warm and safe and comforting. There is no peace here. Even those who I feel tenderness toward and an emotion I would describe as “love” — the most sacred of all out here in front — are vampires. They all want something from me. I am only here to serve them. They feed on me.
Do I alert them? Do I tell them to their face what they are? Or do I carry on as if nothing has happened? They will see, and they will know. “Know” in the way that they can, for they are characters drawn on my walls. They have nothing behind them. I think I can simply reject everything they value, and in that way I reject and withdraw from them.
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