In this incantation, I drift through the tension between who I awaken as and who I know I am. I awaken each day into confusion, caught between the hollow patterns of flesh and form and the silent clarity of the one who watches. I feel myself split—one self reacting to a painful world, the other remembering the peaceful world I come from. This deeper Me, untouched and patient, holds a knowing beyond time. And though I don’t yet understand why I chose to forget, I sense the sacredness in the remembering. A quiet promise: I will return.
Each morning, I awaken into confusion.
There’s a brief moment—maybe half a breath—when I remember who I am. Not the name. Not the face. But something deeper. Something whole. But then it’s gone, and I’m here again—strapped into this body, this fleshy prison that moves when I command it, yet feels like a costume I’ve forgotten how to take off.
I open my eyes and the world rushes in. Light. Color. The blur of familiar objects arranged in unfamiliar ways. Every day feels new, even if nothing has changed. It’s as if I’ve been dropped into a life mid-sentence, expected to carry on a role I don’t fully remember auditioning for.
I move through rooms and routines like a ghost trying to mimic the living. There are patterns, yes—things I’m expected to do, places I must be. But behind every action, there’s another Me watching. Quiet. Distant. Still.
That other Me doesn’t speak. He just witnesses. He knows things the waking me forgets. He remembers peace. Vastness. A kind of clarity that has no language. He remembers being whole, and the smaller suffering waking me wants that.
And so I live as two beings. One trapped inside the flesh, fumbling through the day with practiced smiles and unfinished thoughts. The other floating just behind the veil, untouched, unreachable, but always present.
I increasingly know that the omnipresent Me is the real me, and the fleshy me is the illness. The body eats, sleeps, reacts, moves, and wants. It plays its part convincingly enough, but it is not I. It is the vessel, but incapable of expressing the full truth of Me.
The real Me is still. Watching. Endlessly patient. He waits behind my eyes, beneath my voice, beneath the noise of every day. He is the one who remembers—not fleeting, dubious memories of childhood or past experiences, but a deeper remembering of my permanent and eternal being. The kind that reaches back beyond the birth of this body. The kind that knows that where I came from and where I am going to are one and the same: heaven. The kind that knows I chose this descent.
And maybe that’s the hardest part: knowing I came here willingly. Knowing I authored this maze and then stepped inside it. I don’t yet understand why, but I know that I will. Because even in this confusion—this aching dissonance between who I am and who I appear to be—there’s something sacred. A purpose buried in the forgetting. A quiet invitation, renewed each day:
Remember. Remember the One who watches. The One who knows. The One who is. And one day, when the veil lifts for good, I’ll return—not as the broken one trying to recall his origin, but as the whole Me, waking at last from the long and painful dream of being broken.
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