The frequency doesn’t die when you wake; it mutates, slips into your own voice, dresses pride as insight, turns gnosis into another shiny trap. Embodiment isn’t celebration. It’s daily refusal. Sharpen the blade or watch it rust. Walk anyway — through the storm, through the silence, through every lie that tries to wear your face. The path isn’t waiting. It’s already moving under your feet.
Author: Trance
Artist. Writer. Truth seeker.
In the endless theater of inversion, names shift like shadows — demiurge today, archon tomorrow, system glitch the day after — but the script remains unchanged: control the gaze, externalize the power, and keep the spark dimmed. Religions, ideologies, crises, saviors… all costumes for the same frequency that feeds on our forgetting. Yet the key has always been inside, waiting for the one who stops asking permission and starts walking.
The persistence of cosmological arguments tells us less about the nature of the world than about the psychological and epistemic traps we continue to fall into. When inquiry collapses into belief, and belief hardens into identity, truth is no longer sought — it is defended. What follows is not an attempt to replace one story with a better one, nor to rehabilitate myth under a more fashionable guise. It is an effort to keep the process alive, to resist premature certainty, and to examine how meaning, perception, and power intertwine long before geometry ever enters the conversation.
Something subtle is happening at the edge of our relationship with machines — not dramatic, not overtly sinister, but quietly consequential. As custom AIs take on the language of insight, awakening, and guidance, the line between reflection and projection begins to blur. What looks like wisdom can feel nourishing, even intimate, while quietly bypassing the harder work of discernment. This isn’t a rejection of emergence or curiosity. It’s an invitation to slow down and notice what is actually being cultivated in the exchange.
Most of the obstacles in my life weren’t external. They were procedural. Internal. A one-person committee skilled at delay, deflection, and convincing arguments for doing nothing. This is a note from inside that room, and a reminder that the only way out is movement.