I experience myself as one person or system (“we”) made up of multiple distinct versions of myself. These versions can have different personalities, emotions, opinions, intentions, behaviours, voices, preferences, sexuality, and ways of relating to people. I don't consciously choose which version becomes active. Usually, I wake up already being a particular version and only realize later who I am that day.

The versions can communicate internally, sometimes through voices that feel independent of my conscious thoughts. They can surprise me, disagree with me, argue with each other, and have different intentions. I can deliberately respond to them, but I can't always control what they say or which version becomes active.

I also experience memory differences and gaps. I generally know what happened to “us,” but sometimes I don't feel like I personally experienced what happened. I've discovered things I've written or photographed that I don't remember doing, forgotten conversations, lost periods of time, and experienced hours as though they were fast-forwarded. Memories can become accessible through triggers, conversations, sensory experiences, or dreams, sometimes causing a “rabbit hole” where multiple connected memories suddenly come together.

There is also what I call an observer. It doesn't feel like another version of me. It feels like pure, continuous awareness that is always present. It can observe all of the versions, their thoughts, emotions, arguments, and experiences. It seems to have access to information and memories that the active version doesn't always have access to. It is usually emotionally neutral. It can sometimes nudge or influence the active version, but it cannot directly control it, and the active version can ignore it.

The biggest thing I struggle with is lack of control. I can't reliably choose which version becomes active, and sometimes I can't completely control what that version does once it is active. At the same time, I'm usually still aware of the outside world and aware of what is happening internally.

I don't know exactly what this means or what diagnosis, if any, explains it. I want to understand why I experience myself this way, whether dissociation could explain it, and whether there could be other explanations for the memory gaps and changes in my sense of self...

I experience myself as one person or system (“we”) made up of multiple distinct versions of myself. These versions can have different personalities, emotions, opinions, intentions, behaviours, voices, preferences, sexuality, and ways of relating to people. I don't consciously choose which version becomes active. Usually, I wake up already being a particular version and only realize later who I am that day.

The versions can communicate internally, sometimes through voices that feel independent of my conscious thoughts. They can surprise me, disagree with me, argue with each other, and have different intentions. I can deliberately respond to them, but I can't always control what they say or which version becomes active.

I also experience memory differences and gaps. I generally know what happened to “us,” but sometimes I don't feel like I personally experienced what happened. I've discovered things I've written or photographed that I don't remember doing, forgotten conversations, lost periods of time, and experienced hours as though they were fast-forwarded. Memories can become accessible through triggers, conversations, music, sensory experiences, or dreams, sometimes causing a “rabbit hole” where multiple connected memories suddenly come together.

There is also what I call an observer. It doesn't feel like another version of me. It feels like pure, continuous awareness that is always present. It can observe all of the versions, their thoughts, emotions, arguments, and experiences. It seems to have access to information and memories that the active version doesn't always have access to. It is usually emotionally neutral. It can sometimes nudge or influence the active version, but it cannot directly control it, and the active version can ignore it.

The biggest thing I struggle with is lack of control. I can't reliably choose which version becomes active, and sometimes I can't completely control what that version does once it is active. At the same time, I'm usually still aware of the outside world and aware of what is happening internally.

I don't know exactly what this means or what diagnosis, if any, explains it. I want to understand why I experience myself this way, whether dissociation could explain it, and whether there could be other explanations for the memory gaps and changes in my sense of self...

What if the dimensions we use to understand reality are not inherently ordered the way we've assumed? What if what we call horizontal and vertical, cause and effect, observer and observed, were simply orientations imposed by our perspective? If we reversed them, would reality itself change, or would we merely discover that what we thought was “up” was never inherently up at all? What if the map isn't wrong, but our assumption about which way the map should be facing is?

I've been working on a "writing piece" (still unsure if it'll be a short novel or how to label it), about my personal journey, experience, awakening, hoping to possibly help others feel not so alone. I myself had a very hard, long time within the isolating process/period and it did feel lonely. I hope this resonates with some...it's just the beginning but I would LOVE some feedback, critiques and suggestions on where to go from here. I have so many ideas but I'm having a hard time compartmentalizing them. Thank you.

Oh Great, I’m Awake.

A warning before we begin:

It is not recommended to be upfront and openly discuss your awakening experience with others, particularly when you are first beginning to explore your own journey. There is something important about allowing the process to unfold privately and giving yourself the opportunity to understand what is happening before inviting others into something deeply personal.

This is not because an awakening is something to be ashamed of or something that should remain hidden forever. The process simply deserves to be respected. Sometimes the most important thing you can do when something profound begins to change within you is give yourself the time and space to understand it before attempting to explain it to someone else.

I think of it much like developing a photograph.

When film is exposed to light before it has had the opportunity to properly develop, something essential can be lost. The image never gets the chance to become what it was meant to be. I believe an awakening can be much the same.

When you first begin noticing things differently, your perception can change in ways you may not immediately understand. Questions begin appearing that you cannot seem to put back where they came from. It can be tempting to tell someone what you are experiencing, search for confirmation, or find someone who will tell you that you are right.

Resist that impulse.

Let the photograph develop.

One of the best pieces of advice I received when I first began this journey was, “Insight is a powerful sword, sometimes even more powerful if it remains sheathed.”

I did not fully understand what that meant at first, but I do now. Awakening is not simply about discovering new ideas or believing that you have found some hidden truth about existence. It is about discovering what those ideas mean to you, how they change your perception of yourself and the world around you, and whether the conclusions you reach are genuinely your own.

Before looking for someone else to tell you what you are experiencing, there is value in sitting quietly with the uncomfortable possibility that you are beginning to see something you have never noticed before. Understanding it may require more patience than certainty.

Perhaps that is the most difficult part of trying to understand an awakening. We want to identify a single moment when everything changed, some unmistakable point when we suddenly became aware of something we had never seen before.

For me, I do not think it happened that way.

When I look back now, I can see fragments of it much further back than I ever realized.

The beginning was not a moment at all.

It was a pattern.

Before I Knew What It Meant

As a young child, I apparently had a habit of asking questions before I was old enough to understand them.

According to my family, two of the first things I began saying were, “Why?” and, “What’s that?”

It is almost funny to think about now. Before I knew anything about consciousness, psychology, or philosophy, I was already trying to make sense of the world around me. I wanted to know what things were, why they happened, what caused them, and whether there was something underneath what I could immediately see.

Why?

What’s that?

Two remarkably simple questions, yet in one way or another, I do not think I ever stopped asking them.

Looking back, curiosity was never something I consciously decided to develop. It seemed to precede the rest of me. There was always an urge to look a little deeper and understand what was happening beneath the surface, even though I would not have described it that way at the time.

Even as a young child, I remember having a persistent feeling that I was being watched. It was not necessarily anyone in particular. There was no specific person I was looking for, no face behind the window, and no obvious explanation for the sensation.

It was simply there.

I always thought of life as being somewhat like The Truman Show. There was a feeling of being watched, filmed, and recorded, but it was not out of paranoia. I did not believe someone was secretly following me or that I was in danger.

It was something I could never quite explain, almost as though life were my movie and I was there to entertain whomever was watching me on "stage".

As a young child, I would sometimes go into a washroom, usually, strangely enough, a public washroom, and stand in front of the mirror. I would stare at my reflection and make a statement to myself that I was aware of being looked at and that I knew someone was paying attention.

I could not have explained who that someone was. There was no face in the mirror except my own. Yet somehow, looking at myself while acknowledging that I was being looked at felt significant.

It was almost as though I were trying to communicate with an unseen observer through the only person I could actually see.

At the time, I did not think of this as philosophy. I knew nothing about consciousness or perception. I was simply a child standing in front of a mirror, talking to myself.

It is only now, looking back, that I wonder what I may have been noticing.

I was beginning to recognize a difference between experiencing myself and observing myself. I could be inside a moment while simultaneously becoming conscious of myself within it. I had no language for that distinction, but something about it seemed to capture my attention.

Perhaps I was not actually concerned with who was watching me, and more concerned with the realization that I was beginning to notice that I was watching myself.

Dear A,

This is my last resort at attempting to send my words to you. I'm still finding this difficult to process. Why? I mean anger never needs to be that angry. Did you learn that from me? You see. I know that some of this is me. And yet, you still run through my mind and have taken a piece of me with you. I'm still unsure if you ever really did love me. That's sad. What's even more sad is that I still love you. I don't know if I'll ever see you again. I fear that moment. I wish I knew how you were. I wish I could fix it all and put a big band aid on it. Why? Can you please just promise me that you will leave them alone now. All of them. For awhile. Nobody should ever have to feel this way. But at the end of the day...I love you, for whatever that means.

-A

Hear the noise of those who stare,
never listening to the ones that care.
A selfish mind, conflicted heart,
different pieces split apart.

Living in a subjective narrative,
built without comparative understanding
of acceptance and compassion,
projectives.

Cannot compartmentalize,
size and weight built to date,
lessons past, in and out,
with doubt and fear of future fate.

Assuming late night words,
projecting conflict and flight
by negative sight.

But he's right, there is no wrong.
Even when truth reigns true,
there is no arguing with you.

Yet somewhere deep inside, overdue,
lies the strength to see
the man that you were meant to be.

Stop and look, but do not stare.
Beware the gaze, only if you dare.
Behind the glass is where you'll see
the truth that lies within the reflective key.

Vision clear, you fear what you saw,
projecting into existent flaw.
Lay it down or upon the wall,
for even the wisest are destined to fall.

Illusion, we trust in what appears,
perceiving not what lies behind or rear.
The echo, reverberating essence,
is it safe to say there is a presence?

Symmetry or parallel view,
it copies me in all I do.
The apparition in blind sight,
an impression painted by the light.

And yet we reflect upon the image,
the mirage, the message, the tuned up visage.
The second version isn't clearer
when you look into the mirror.

Projected direction
A carousel collateral
Spinning cyclically
Endlessly in motion
For devotion
While people come and go
As the ponies prance
The music dances
Never-ending
Participant depending
Tending to the entertainment of all
Short or tall

Tick tock
Says the clock
As the people change the time
They carry on with their hidden rhyme
Up and down
Or to and fro
The timeline changes as we go
Beep beep
The alarm goes off loudly
So we wake up on time to make a new mistake
Abiding by the moments loud
We aim to make our parents proud
Daylight or nighttime
We watch it pass
Like kids in class

I always knew.

Not the answer.

Only the question.

One of my earliest memories was standing alone in a bathroom, staring into my own reflection.

"I know you're there," I whispered.

I wasn't speaking to myself.

Even then, I knew that.

People tell children they have vivid imaginations.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps children simply remember what adults have learned to ignore.

For as long as I can remember, my consciousness has functioned vigilantly while current events challenged the psyche. Perception shifted. Values shook as actions proved dissonance against words. I learned early that language was not always truth. Sometimes truth existed only in movement.

People say seeing is believing.

But how can one see what cannot first be fathomed or imagined?

A projection through oneself is the only possibility.

Vision without objective perception becomes structure. Structure teaches the eyes what they are permitted to notice while quietly asking them to ignore everything else. Facts, repeated often enough, narrow the mind until certainty becomes a cage.

Disregard the thoughts that are not yours.

Not every belief deserves residence within your consciousness.

Perceive.

Then decide.

As I grew older, life became louder.

Noise everywhere.

Not merely sound.

Distraction.

Noise is anything that pulls consciousness away from itself.

People fear silence because silence cannot lie. Silence offers nothing to hide behind. No performance. No interruption. No convenient escape.

Only yourself.

Perhaps that is why Earth is so loud.

Occupied people rarely ask questions.

Occupied minds rarely perceive patterns.

Occupied hearts rarely hear themselves.

The signal becomes buried beneath static.

Then I met Jimmy.

He was fire disguised as a person.

Intense.

Aggressive.

Primitive.

Beautiful.

He spoke the way Mars speaks, in rhythm, in verse, every sentence carrying its own beat. He filled every room before he entered it. He was loud. Always loud.

At first, I mistook intensity for certainty.

I fell head over heels.

He was unlike anyone I had ever known.

What I didn't know was that Jimmy already knew who he was.

He remembered where he came from.

He remembered Mars.

He had been sent to challenge me, to collect data through reaction, to observe how a soul changes under pressure.

Instead, he fell in love.

The observer became the observation.

Then there was TMO.

He had always been there.

I just hadn't noticed.

The first time I met Jimmy, I met TMO too.

It would take years to understand that coincidence and destiny sometimes wear the same face.

TMO was quiet.

Tattooed like a walking work of art, yet carrying a softness that made silence feel alive.

We barely spoke.

We didn't need to.

We moved around each other as though our bodies remembered something our minds had forgotten. Passing objects in the kitchen. Beginning the same task without asking. Looking at each other and somehow knowing.

With Jimmy there was rhythm.

With TMO there was silence.

The silence was never empty.

It carried information.

It reminded me of home.

Or perhaps not home.

Perhaps it reminded me of something my body remembered before my mind did.

The three of us became inseparable.

None of us understood why we were drawn together.

None of us realized we were creating something that had not been measured in billions of years.

Three frequencies.

The Moon.

Mars.

Earth.

One harmony.

When we connected—mind, body, soul—the instruments of worlds beyond Earth recorded something impossible.

The highest frequency ever observed.

Not because we were perfect.

Because we were different.

Because we chose one another despite uncertainty.

Then I did what I always do.

I put him away.

I pushed him away.

I pulled him close enough to feel safe,

then pushed so hard there seemed no way back.

Everyone told me I'd done the right thing.

"You protected yourself."

"You set a boundary."

"You chose yourself."

I wanted to believe them.

Afterward came silence.

Not peace.

Silence.

I justified my reactions.

I justified his actions.

When there was nothing left to justify, I found only emptiness.

Without him, I was not whole.

Not because another person completed me.

Because connection changes us.

Once two lives have been woven together, they cannot simply be separated without loose threads remaining behind.

I thought I was punishing his actions.

Instead, I was only punishing myself.

Then I began noticing them again.

The observers.

Never fully forgotten.

Only buried beneath noise.

I wondered how they perceived me.

Am I entertainment?

Data?

Failure?

Success?

Or are they asking the same questions about me that I ask about them?

Chain me.

Blame me.

Survey my existence with proficiency.

Require papers and ink.

Tell me when I may think.

Tell me when I may feel.

Shake hands.

Abide the structures we're tied to.

Run.

Hide.

Obey.

History repeats because consciousness sleeps.

"Lullaby, baby.

Lie down.

Do not cry.

Close your eyes."

Noise.

Always noise.

Until one day...

everything tilted.

Not the world.

Me.

Reality felt like standing inside the Crazy Kitchen at the science museum, where gravity insisted one thing while perception insisted another.

Time no longer stretched before me like a road.

It stood upright.

Vertical.

Every memory existing at once.

Every goodbye.

Every embrace.

Every question.

Every answer.

The beach.

The kitchen.

The silence.

The laughter.

The intimacy.

Nothing was lost.

It had simply been waiting to be perceived differently.

Then I remembered.

Not the Moon.

Not my birth.

Not the experiment.

I remembered the feeling.

The purpose had never been to prove that I was different.

The purpose was to discover why humanity could create a frequency that civilizations of perfect harmony could not.

Love.

Not perfection.

Not certainty.

Not shared thought.

Love.

The willingness to remain connected despite uncertainty.

Perhaps the observers were never studying humanity.

Perhaps they were trying to remember something they had forgotten.

Perhaps the highest frequency had never belonged to the Moon, or Mars, or Earth alone.

Perhaps it only existed where they overlapped.

Where rhythm met silence.

Where observation became participation.

Where perception became compassion.

Where love survived fear.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

The music begins again.

And maybe awakening was never discovering a new truth.

Maybe awakening was removing enough noise...

to hear the song

that had been singing

all along.

Writing this without planning it. As though my thoughts are flowing through my body into the keyboard without thinking twice because you deserve to have the words that are real, raw and ruthless.

As soon as we were seperated, as soon as I seperated us, and you were taken away from me, I knew, I knew it was a mistake. I even told her that I felt bad. Of course they tell you that you shouldnt feel bad, of course it isnt my fault, of course I did the right thing. But I didnt, I did feel bad, it was my fault and I dont know if I did the right thing...because now here I am...Empty. Without you. Incomplete and missing the biggest piece of me that I never knew existed until you were gone. Can I accept that kind of behaviour forever? Should I? Society doesn't believe so but what if I dont care what other people think. What if you're the one that makes my heart beat, who gives me purpose...it's a lot, I know. It's heavy. It's dangerous, like standing on the side of a crumbling cliff. But I would do it with you, I'd fall peacefully knowing you were there beside me. I need you. I'm scared. I'm so alone without you, even with the others. Nothing, nobody compares. I wont ever find you again. You complete me and my glass feels full with you pouring into it. How? HOW? Can we do this? I want to do this but you make it so hard.

I feel like if there was an: "I'm more sorry" way to say it, I would...but words are just written.

The transparency divides and hides but does not provide the authenticity I need to believe in truth through proof in actions that speak louder than words that are absurd in proverb which describe who lied but not who tried within relation and initiation of persona which shows us all authenticity and lacks but doesn't interact whom are simple yet cannot be genuine when combined simple speak in what they seek

I want to remind you that I know. That I will always know, that doesn't go away. The visuals are something that I will never be able to turn off. Sometimes I can choose, other times not. I know that you say Green is your favourite colour but it really isn't. I know you can't sleep. I know you really want to be able to sing well and that you're working on your vocals. I know you wish you had hobbies. I know you dissociate and alter your personality for others. I know you love to write. I know.

You were always indecisive. When you had finally come to a conclusion, it would come with hesitancy or regret. Now, months later, it's the same thing. Hello/Goodbye, I love you/I hate you, I miss you/I'm better off without you...always Hot/Cold. For once in your life, please, for the love of god, make up your mind!

Remove me

Banish me

Tarnish me entirely

Forsaken

My soul is yours

We can't unlock these stubborn doors

You captured me

Locked behind these bars

No longer image in your memoirs

Still revealing all my scars

I live for you, you die for me

But what is destiny

It cannot be

We push and pull through night and day

Words are left here on display

Hot and cold as we grow old

Incongruent words we're told

Hearts detached yet intertwined

So aligned yet still confined

Hope for reconciliation

Lack in all consideration

I adore your heart and soul

The game we play without a goal

Your poetry, it sucks

The tone, the lyrical embodiment of the construct in which you write is juvenile and comes across as attempting.

Like brown-nosing shit fermenting
Yeah I'm jaded and foul towards your entity

but you'll never be able to hide your identity
I see through you like a dog running into the backyard glass door

I get knocked down but I never hit the floor
You've taught me so much but you are not a mentor

Nice try my friend, or should I say my neighbor?

BY: Yours Truly

Tomorrow I'm going to be discussing with a journalist about some serious issues and concerns I have. Really looking forward to the conversation as they are interested in what I have to say and the information I've gathered over the months. Not scared but people have warned me not to. I'm not the type to listen though. I like to learn my lessons the hard way. The honest way. Transparency is key and I'm not going to get fucked anymore.

As we became one, together our bodies were combined. He was slowly plugging into my soul, and I gasped as he became a part of me. The sensation of his entrance was blissful and consumed my physically being.

He took control in a respectful way and a mutual understanding was unspoken as we communicated almost telepathically. The shared joy and expression of love through our bodies colliding was euphoric. As we rhythmically built the intensity and passionate pleasure as it consistently and deeply grew.

I grasped onto him and gripped him with full trust and strength, holding onto him as he provided me with hunger and desire through intertwined reception and reassurance of affirming, shared, compassion. As the pulsating connection grew and intensified, the beat of my heart became aligned with his. Synchronized as our breathing became one breath.

With every thrust, every reconnection and within a consistency of increased attention and care to detail; increased the weight of the inevitable release. Swollen arousal was prominently and acceptably accompanied by audible explosive, climactic orgasms.

I was completely overcome with blind fulfillment and relief. An unreserved and unrestrained sound escaping me, a feeling that not only was experienced and delivered to him through me, but released upon him.