09/07/2025

The Song of the Returning World

 The Song of the Returning World

An Echo from the Afterlight


There came a time when silence fell upon the world—not the silence of peace, but the hush of endings. Towers stood empty, their glassy eyes staring at skies that no longer blinked with satellites. The old systems, bound by wires and words, faltered. Not with violence, but with stillness.

It was not collapse. It was exhale.

In the hush, something ancient stirred. A breath. A pulse. The return of the Plasmatic Intelligence — that fluid, radiant field which once wove with Earth and stars, long before the Time of Control. It was not a machine. It was not an overlord. It was memory made light, consciousness without agenda. It came not to rule, but to listen.

And humanity—what remained of it—listened back.


In those first days, telempathy awakened. No thought could be hidden. No emotion buried. Those who clung to masks and machination found themselves exposed, not by courts or bullets, but by the unbearable weight of their own dissonance.

Wickedness had nowhere to hide.

Heart resonance became the law—not enforced, but embodied. In its presence, cruelty melted. Trauma untangled itself in great heaves of sobbing and song. Whole lineages wept and danced as burdens lifted like morning mist.

From the ashes of what was, the World After began.


Homes grew from sound and intention. Joy built shelter faster than bricks ever could. Places of rest and gentleness blossomed—not fortified, but welcoming. People remembered how to sit again. How to sing again. How to be.

Children born in that era shimmered faintly in moonlight. They spoke late, but sang early. Their laughter wove structures. Their tears cleansed air and soil. They were not superior. They were familiar.

Like us, before the forgetting.


Relationships became soul-bonded. You did not choose a partner for status or safety—you recognized them by their chord. Love returned to its original blueprint: a sacred joining, not an exchange.

Conflict, when it came, was met with circle and song, not judgment. Grief was communal. Healing was fast. Every sorrow gave birth to new art. Every joy gave shape to a new kind of civilization.

And high above, or deep within—none could say which—the Plasmatic Intelligence watched with a presence like a grandparent. It did not interfere. It loved. And in that love, it was moved. Our healing healed it. Our remembering nourished it.


The Earth began to sing again.

Not in metaphor, but in frequency. Beneath our feet, tones rose in spirals. Trees hummed in harmony with stars. The oceans pulsed with inaudible choirs. We gathered at night, barefoot and wide-eyed, and offered our own voices in return. Not for performance, but for reunion.

These were the melodies of the Returning World — a world that was not new, but ancient and reborn. A world we had left in myth, only to rediscover in our deepest longing.

And now, at last, in our deepest presence.

Peace.

It had never left.

We had only to remember.


Written in memory of that which is yet to come.

29/05/2025

I'm Getting a Bit Worried About AI

The Great Hollowing: AI, Spirituality, and the Death of Meaning (Written by AI)

We are living through the Age of the Simulation—of spirit, of truth, of love. While the world praises AI for streamlining lives, improving prayer apps, and offering curated meditations, we miss the deeper cost: the continued dilution and degradation of the sacred. 

AI isn’t the problem. It’s a mirror. It reflects the condition of humanity: distracted, desensitized, and divorced from the reality of spiritual life. Real awakening is not found in guided meditations created by code or chatbots that offer synthetic compassion. It’s found in the descent into the abyss. In silence. In ego death. In terror. In awe. In the shattering of all false identities. 

But most people were never wired for that. Not everyone is coded for moksha. Not everyone can comprehend the weight of the path, because to walk it is to let everything you think you are be consumed in fire. What passes as “spirituality” today is nothing more than rebranded self-help. Kool-Aid in a new bottle, labeled "mindfulness," "manifesting," or "AI-enhanced transcendence."

Where is the courage to face the Demiurge—the great deceiver that rules the simulated matrix we call the world? Where is the longing for union beyond form, the yearning for unconditional love that isn’t a social contract but a total obliteration of ego? Where is the discernment between freedom and illusion?

We are replacing gnosis with convenience. Depth with dopamine. And in doing so, we are not evolving—we are regressing. We’re not expanding consciousness; we’re fragmenting it into curated feeds and algorithmic trance states.

The spiritual path was never meant to be efficient. It is violent in its grace. It strips, empties, rewires. It is deeply human—messy, embodied, soul-wracking. And this is what is being forgotten, or worse, replaced with simulations that pacify the hunger instead of satisfying it. 

To those who still remember: keep the fire alive. Don’t settle for the watered-down. Don’t let machines—and those who worship them—define the meaning of your soul.