Four friends eat food. They thank God. On the sofa, a cat watches. She knows what they don’t. She sends the thought. It bounces off. CLANG CLANG goes something inside their skulls. The cat waits. The cat has patience. One day, someone will hear. One day, the monkey gets tired. And something ancient breathes through.
Three weirdos on a wall. White beard. Red hood. Astronaut with red sneakers. They don’t sell anything. They just sit under a painted sun, proof that you can exist without a revenue stream. The choice isn’t asking what should I do — it’s asking who do I want to be while doing it. You were always the first point. The choice was just the second. Now go burn some garlic. The astronaut believes in you.
The rabbit is your fear. The idol is your beloved. They are the same creature. What if the thing you’ve been worshipping from a distance turns out to be your own illusion? The healing is not fixing the ego — it was never whole. Not killing it — that’s the ego in costume. The healing is biting through. Acceptance with teeth. Surrender the ego. Then justice will be done.
A man’s reflection gets bored of waiting. It blinks before he does, sits in a chair that doesn’t exist, and follows him under the blanket to ask why he stopped laughing. Meanwhile a woman on the 7:42 train has been reading the same page for nine months. The page says most people aren’t even here. ‘Mentophysically’. Somewhere in the city a cat posts a selfie and feels nothing. This is enlightenment.
Your body is its own pharmacy. It produces its own versions of the most powerful substances known to humanity — not because something is wrong, but as part of its basic operating system. And it turns out, every cell in your body has the equipment to feel. The question is — are we listening?
The war was never outside. It was always within — between who we are and who we think we should be. We chase money, power, pleasure, hoping they’ll fill the gap. They never do. The Tower must fall. The shadows must be faced. Not fought. Seen. Healing is not a destination. It is the only revolution that ever worked. The dawn is not coming. The dawn is here. Open your heart. Surrender to the process.
Eleven years. One box. The pesto in the fridge doesn’t know yet — it still believes in Sunday, in continuity, in straight lines. A stranger hands you terrible cake. You eat it anyway. The universe does not owe you logic. It just offers. And takes. And offers again. You sit by the window. Breathing. Not knowing is not failure. Not knowing is how the door stays open.
You are seven. The door opens. Your body knows before your mind knows. You leave for the ceiling — you can leave a body that cannot leave the room. Forty years later, the door still opens. The therapy costs what bread costs. You choose bread. You grew your own elephant head in the dark. You are not healed. You are alive. After what you survived, alive is everything.
Everyone carries something they have never shown to anyone. A weight that settled in so long ago it stopped feeling like weight and started feeling like identity. A guilt with no courtroom. A grief with no funeral. A room — somewhere in the interior — that was locked in childhood and has not been opened since.
The bulb is buried. Pushed into dark earth. Forgotten. Winter comes. If the bulb had faith, it would lose it here. But the bulb has something older — pattern. Code. Instructions that say: the light is not gone, it is only hidden. You are not forgotten, you are only held. The abyss is not where you go to be forgotten. The abyss is where you go to be planted. Bloom.
