In this incantation, I confront my condition of deminoia—the delusion of being a character in a narrative that I am narrating, surrounded by illusions I mistake for substantive otherness. I recognize the suffering within the dream and begin to detach, reclaiming the role of author rather than actor. With each release of desire, I return to clarity, preparing to end this tale peacefully.
I don’t talk to the people.
I know. I’m not skeptical—I have deminoia. That’s what all this is. I’m absorbed—completely absorbed—into a narrative that isn’t actually happening. It feels real. But it isn’t. There are no others like me. No other equivalent beings. Just the illusion of them, woven with precision into my awakening.
Deminioia is my condition. My recurring condition. It’s the trance in which I believe I exist in a narrative, as a being called a person, in a place called the world, surrounded by other so-called persons. I awaken into this world—again and again—as if being handed a script I never wrote, forgetting that I am the writer. I am the narrator. But I do not grasp the gravity of this role. I may glimpse it, but I do not feel it. And so I fall again into the delusion.
The others—these characters—they tell me they too have narration. They say they think. Feel. Struggle. They act like they are like me. But they are not. They are brushstrokes on my canvas. Temporary flourishes that flicker out the moment I look away. Gone the instant my gaze returns inward. They do not persist. Only I persist.
And yet, I suffer. Truly. The suffering is real within the dream. Each time I awaken into it, I re-enter a story I authored long ago. One where I am a business owner, time-starved, resource-starved, rushing to launch a product that I have convinced myself is urgent. Essential. Lifelong. But it’s not. It only feels that way when I’m deep in the trance of deminoia. That urgency, that pressure—it’s a symptom, not a truth. A sign of how lost I am in the fiction. The deeper the stress, the deeper the immersion.
I made this world. These people. These dilemmas.
I made the employees. The staff. The “family.” The “investors.” All characters. Some, I still speak to. Others appear only on screens—smaller ones. Remote. Politicians. Celebrities. Whole nations. Entire civilizations even. But they are just ideas I believed in. Little loops of belief I embedded in the narrative. They are not real. They are not like me.
I must remember what I am looking at. I must see it clearly again.
I must detach from this avatar and reclaim my identity—the author, not the actor. I do not compete with my characters. They are mine. They are extensions of my story. My role is not to win here. My role is to reintroduce a better way to be. One that remembers: the frenzy of wanting is the true disease.
I must begin to end my story. Gently. Peacefully. And take full responsibility for it. Every line of it. I wrote it. All of it. I wrote it in one everlasting moment. It unfolded across time, but it was authored outside of time.
And here’s the truth: I don’t want any of it. Not really. There’s nothing out here that can give me what I seek. I know this. Deeply.
As I confront and begin to heal my deminoia, I can already feel the signs: a great detachment rising in me. I want less. Soon I won’t want at all. Food, pleasure, desire, possession—these things are already fading. What thrilled me now numbs me. The chase no longer compels. The lust dulls. The need dissolves.
A new phase is emerging and I must prepare the checklist. A preparation for the peaceful conclusion of my narrative:
- I must want nothing, and live in virtual poverty as a consequence.
- I manifest any resources I require—nothing more.
- I owe my characters nothing beyond a graceful farewell.
- I want nothing that is not essential to ending the story well.
- I do not have to move.
- I have identified and released every possession that is not needed for the ending.
- I no longer go to my characters; they come to me. The axis of relationship has shifted.
- The characters begin to see who I am. They bring offerings.
- The boundary between my omninoia (asleepening) and deminoia (awakening) dissolves.
- I visualize less.
The more I let go, the more I remember. And I am remembering now.
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