In the quiet places where the noise of consensus fades, healing begins — not in the war on what we fear, but in the tending of what we are. The soil beneath the surface of our being waits patiently, whispering truths older than science, deeper than thought. Here, in the layered dance of body, energy, emotion, and spirit, we remember: healing is not the conquest of illness, but the return to wholeness we never truly lost.
Category: Lux Colloquii
Ongoing series of discussions with ChatGPT.
Time — the invisible scaffold we lean on without ever questioning its architecture. We build our lives on its ticking illusion, trade stories about bending or breaking it, and dress the absurdity in Hollywood costumes to make it digestible. But beneath the spectacle, there’s an unspoken truth: the moment anyone could truly “travel” in time is the same moment the integrity of reality itself unravels. The rest is theater, sold to us as science.
Amid new climate lockdowns in Canada, the talk traces the long arc from pandemic restrictions to environmental mandates — through the fires, policies, and manufactured narratives that frame them. It asks not for outrage, but for discernment: to see beyond the spectacle, to question the story, and to guard the small, local sphere where choice still lives.
Fires are as old as the earth’s breath — consuming, cleansing, and reshaping the land in a cycle both brutal and necessary. Yet in our age of spectacle, the flames are rarely allowed to speak for themselves. Instead, their crackle is drowned out by headlines, politics, and narratives woven to suit agendas. What remains hidden — in the forests, in the decision rooms, and in the public mind — is often more telling than the official story.
Truth isn’t a prize sitting neatly on a pedestal, waiting for us to stroll up and claim it. It’s buried — layer upon layer — under the debris of curated history, engineered distractions, and gilded myths. To peel it back is to risk dismantling everything you thought was real, only to find another stage set beneath it. And still, the pull remains — to see beyond the dome, to know what lies past the sanctioned horizon.