Born from Dark - A Four-Day Journey into Formlessness
I have been equally fascinated and terrified by total darkness since my very young age.
I remember, little, I wanted to have pitch-dark blinds on my windows, but then when I would go to sleep I always needed the door slightly open, letting in a ray of light to comfort the cave I called my room.
Later on, when my spiritual quest truly began—through my travels and studies of Buddhism and Tantra—I learned that darkrooms were actually a practice yogis would do in caves in ancient times, and more recently, in darkened rooms for days in solitude, silence, and light deprivation—sometimes while fasting—as a portal to transcendence.
Something in me knew instantly I would one day go through this initiation too, but deep down I was terrified to spend even a few hours in complete darkness without that small ray of comfort.
Over the years, I’ve experienced intense spiritual practices: long fasts up to fifty-three days, dry fasts (no water) up to eleven, multiple ten-day silent retreats—each offering its own portal of liberation.
Even after exploring the abundance of the Tantric path, I’ve always felt that my soul responds deeper to deprivation—to returning to Source through nothingness rather than everythingness.
So I knew it was only a matter of time before I would hear the call to go into darkness—with no more excuses.
That time came about a month before my forty-second birthday, when everything started to fade—meaning, love, purpose.
I was slipping into what psychology might call burnout.
The outer world made no sense. I was functioning on autopilot while something deeper turned inward toward dissolution.
My health began to falter, and only days before my birthday, I booked a darkroom in Poland (WITHIN) for mid-October—the first mutual availability between the center and me.
I just hoped I would make it until then.
What followed was grace.
I flew to Samothraki to facilitate a retreat soon after my birthday, and though I arrived on my knees, I felt held—nourished by the island itself as if by milk and honey.
I was being restored… to prepare to die.
Until October 13th came.
Part 1 – The Womb of the Night
There is a moment when the door closes, the light thins to a single thread, and the last visible line of the world disappears.
Silence presses against the skin like water. My eyes search for edges, but there are none—only heartbeat, breath, and a vast black that feels alive.
Almost immediately, a wave of drowsiness floods my body.
In complete darkness, the pineal gland releases torrents of melatonin—the hormone of night.
Without daylight to restrain it, the body slides into a biological eclipse.
The effect is narcotic, soft, almost merciful.
It dulls the sharp animal fear pacing in my chest since the latch clicked.
I lie down and let the darkness cradle me.
Sleep comes quickly, heavy and thick.
I wake, then sink back again—half relieved, half sedated.
A thought drifts through the haze: maybe I’ll sleep for four days and it will go quickly.
The idea feels like a small salvation, numbing the primitive terror of being shut in a cachot with no sunrise.
There is no real sense of time—only the rhythm of breath and pulse.
In between naps, my body, still attached to old reflexes, keeps reaching for orientation.
I trace the walls with my fingertips, feeling the edges of the bed, the carpet.
These small tactile landmarks become my map, my only geography.
Touch replaces sight; it gives me brief comfort—a reminder that the world still has form.
And yet, each time I return to stillness, the certainty of those shapes begins to fade, as if the dark is slowly erasing even their outlines from memory.
The first day is not mystical—it is anesthetic.
Melatonin drapes itself over me like a dense curtain, muffling the dread underneath.
And yet, beneath that soporific blanket, something stirs—an awareness pressing upward through the sleep, knowing the dark is not finished with me.
After what must be a full day, the drowsiness thins.
Wakefulness returns sharper, clearer, as though another kind of vision is forming behind my eyes.
And sometime after that—perhaps twenty-four hours in—the first faint lights appear.
Not within me this time, but around: soft white halos drifting through the black, opening like doorways into a newly discovered dimension.
After a whole day of formless darkness, the sudden sense of space startles me—an invisible architecture revealing itself where there had been nothing.
The lights move like living geometry, like breath exhaled by an unseen cosmos.
It doesn’t feel like imagination or biology.
It feels like grace—as if the dark itself is learning to show me its body.
I walk slowly through the room, uncertain whether I am moving inside these vast landscapes or merely crossing a few steps of floor.
The boundaries blur; the chamber around me and the immensity I perceive become indistinguishable.
The dark, once terrifying, begins to feel intimate—dense with presence, like the inside of a womb.
Here, time forgets itself.
There is only now, suspended and endless.
And somewhere inside that stillness, a door I cannot see begins to open.
Part 2 – The Erotic Body of Darkness
The second day arrives without dawn.
There is only a subtler density to the air, a sense that something has shifted — that the darkness now has depth.
The faint white halos from the night before hover and drift around me, opening like thresholds into invisible rooms.
Sometimes they seem to pulse from the walls themselves, sometimes from the air.
After twenty-four hours of dimensionless black, this sudden architecture of light is astonishing — as if space itself has returned, tentative, trembling, alive.
I walk slowly through it, unsure whether I’m crossing the few meters of my cell or wandering through vast celestial corridors.
The chamber and the cosmos blur.
Then, as my eyes surrender again to darkness, the body begins to wake in another way.
With sight gone, every inch of skin becomes an eye.
Touch grows luminous.
The edges of my being shimmer with sensitivity.
I spend hours tracing myself — shoulders, belly, hips, the rise and fall of breath.
The darkness turns erotic, and I let it.
It feels like being ravished by the unseen, taken by the formless.
There is no shame here, only wonder.
The air itself feels like a lover: soft, patient, infinite.
I understand now that this is nature’s way of keeping me alive.
As the illusion of the body’s disappearance approaches, Eros awakens — a surge of sensuality, an instinctive rebellion against dissolution.
Perhaps the body, sensing the silent approach of Thanatos, bursts into radiance before it fades.
The closer I come to vanishing, the more exquisite every touch becomes.
My senses heighten further: the sound of breath is a drum, the beat of my heart an earthquake.
Smell, temperature, even the taste of the air turn into languages of presence.
The dark presses against my skin like warm silk, every moment a secret exchange between form and formlessness.
I cannot make any quick movement here; the dark refuses it.
Even a simple stretch must be slow, like honey — a movement born from stillness.
Without visual reference, form begins to dissolve; what was “my hand” becomes vibration, temperature, motion.
I lie down again and feel the boundaries melting until I cannot tell where I end and the air begins.
This is not yet bliss — it is unease wrapped in wonder.
Part of me wants to run, another part whispers: Stay. You asked for the mystery.
In the dark, days do not begin or end.
They bloom and dissolve, like ink in water.
Without light, my circadian rhythm unravels.
Sleep comes in fragments.
Waking feels like dreaming.
Sometimes I move for hours.
Sometimes I lie still and drift through endless inner worlds without ever closing my eyes.
Time becomes a rumor.
My mind reaches for it, but there is nothing to grab.
It’s disorienting… and strangely liberating.
Without the past or future, I am forced into the raw intimacy of now.
It is equally destabilizing to have so much time — no endpoint, no countdown, no structure — and equally miraculous.
I cannot recall when I last had so much time to do nothing, to simply be.
The dissolution is both terrifying and ecstatic.
Without form, I become pure sensation.
I feel like a cloud of consciousness, suspended in the void.
It’s disorienting — because the body is our oldest identity.
To lose it is to lose the first “I.”
And that’s when the deeper intelligence of darkness reveals itself:
Darkness is not an absence of light.
It is a living field.
A thick, velvety, fertile presence.
A womb.
In this sacred collapse, something ancient awakens in me:
The primal sensuality of simply existing.
I begin to understand why mystical traditions call darkness The Great Teacher.
In the external world, I move fast and miss everything.
In the dark, I move like honey — slow, deliberate, surrendered — and in that slowness, God becomes tangible.
And then it happens —
The shift from I am in darkness
to
I am darkness.
My awareness expands beyond skin.
There is no me here.
Only this vast, warm, breathing, formless presence.
This is the first taste of freedom.
It is beautiful.
It is holy.
This is where Eros yields to Thanatos.
No fantasy can hold the form together anymore.
The dissolution moves on its own rhythm, merciless and sacred.
I can still feel life dancing inside me, but it dances closer and closer to the edge of madness.
To resist is agony.
To surrender is annihilation.
And so I hover between the two — the ache of being alive and the pull of disappearing — suspended between desire and death.
The erotic becomes the threshold.
The dark begins to hum with intelligence.
I feel the next initiation approaching, vast and dangerous.
But what I don’t yet know…
is that this same doorway — this sweet dissolution —
also opens to madness.
And I am about to walk through it.
Part 3 – When Science Bows to the Mystery
It’s easy to think darkness is just “no light.”
But in complete sensory deprivation, the brain enters a different universe.
And suddenly… science starts sounding a lot like mysticism.
Here’s what actually happens to the system:
1. The brain loses its external data
The visual cortex is used to constant input.
With zero light for hours… it panics.
It starts generating its own imagery from internal electrical noise.
This is why I begin to see:
- White halos
- Geometric grids
- Flickers of light
- Dimensional landscapes
Science calls them phosphenes.
To me, they felt like the architecture of creation.
2. The body’s clock shatters
Without sunrise or sunset cues, my circadian rhythm collapses.
Melatonin floods my system at random times.
Day and night lose all meaning.
This is why I no longer know when I’m “supposed” to sleep.
Time itself becomes… liquid.
3. REM sleep enters waking consciousness
Normally, we only dream in REM.
But in prolonged darkness, REM begins to intrude into wakefulness.
This is the “in-between” state mystics, meditators, and psychonauts speak of:
Theta — the visionary threshold.
I can be awake and moving… and still dreaming.
I can be lying down with open eyes… and see entire worlds.
4. The brain releases tryptamines (possibly DMT)
The pineal gland regulates melatonin.
Melatonin and DMT are chemical cousins.
There is growing evidence that in extreme darkness, the pineal gland may produce endogenous DMT as melatonin saturates critical pathways.
Translation?
The brain starts dreaming reality open.
5. The boundary between “me” and “everything” thins
Without sensory input, the Default Mode Network (the “ego center” of the brain) begins to quiet down.
This is the same thing that happens during:
- Deep meditation
- Psychedelic journeys
- Near-death experiences
- Mystical states
When the DMN softens, the sense of “I” dissolves…
And we touch the infinite field of awareness behind it.
What neuroscience calls “ego dissolution,”
mystics call “union with the divine.”
6. Darkness becomes a mirror
Everything I’ve suppressed, avoided, distracted, ignored…
rises like ghosts in a still lake.
Without external noise, I must face inner truth.
Memories.
Emotions.
Ancestral pain.
Desires.
Fears.
Illusions.
This is not an accident.
It is design.
Darkness is the perfect alchemical chamber.
It strips away all distractions, all identities, all senses of control —
until only the essence remains.
What happens next depends on one thing:
Can I stay present as everything I thought I was… falls apart?
I’m about to find out.
Part 4 – The Edge of Sanity
This is where the darkness stops being mystical and starts feeling dangerous.
Not physically.
Psychologically.
Spiritually.
Something happens at the end of Day 2, when I lie down to sleep — something I could never have anticipated.
I can no longer tell if my eyes are open or closed.
It had been blurring for hours, but now, as I try to “go to sleep,” the impossibility of it strikes me.
How can I rest if I don’t know whether my eyes are open?
I blink — nothing changes.
I open them wide — same darkness.
I close them — no difference.
Open. Close. Open. Close.
No. Difference. At. All.
And now my eyeballs begin to race, flickering beneath the lids in a wild, involuntary storm.
It’s as if the body is desperately searching for light that no longer exists.
This is the moment my last anchor to reality snaps.
My body had already begun dissolving.
Now my perceptual orientation collapses too.
And it hits me:
If I cannot feel my body…
If I cannot see…
If I cannot tell the difference between inner and outer…
What is real?
The mind begins to spin.
Am I floating in space?
Am I upside down?
Am I dreaming?
What if I never left the bed?
What if I’m dead?
Time fractures.
Self fractures.
Reality melts.
This is the threshold.
The portal of dissolution.
And it has two doors:
One leads to insanity.
One leads to awakening.
But at first, I don’t know this.
At first… I fall.
The Descent
Fear rises like a storm.
Raw. Primal. Ancient.
It is not fear of the dark.
It is not fear of being alone.
It is the fear of non-existence.
Ego death.
My mind thrashes, grabbing for any belief to hold onto.
It tries to name things.
Explain things.
Control things.
But there is nothing to hold.
Thoughts fragment.
Language breaks.
I am dissolving faster than I can think.
Suddenly I understand why mystical texts say:
“Before enlightenment, you must pass through the realm of madness.”
Because this is the razor’s edge where most turn back.
When the body dissolves, the psyche screams:
If there is no body… I might die.
If there is no self… I might not come back.
If I surrender… I will disappear forever.
This is the terror of Day 2.
It is holy.
It is brutal.
It is perfect.
Because this moment reveals the deeper law:
The same doorway that leads to enlightenment… also leads to madness.
The difference?
Not the experience itself —
but the orientation inside it.
End of Day 2, the body dissolves…
and I fall into terror.
When I next wake, I’m foggy, heavy, unanchored.
The night’s storm has drained me.
The darkness no longer feels mystical — it feels endless.
I try to change something, anything, to interrupt the loop.
Maybe I’ll shower now, I think, instead of after they bring food.
But as I stand, I feel dizzy, off-balance — as if gravity itself has softened.
I start to calculate time in my head, to rebuild some sense of order.
They should have come by now.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours.
The silence becomes suspicious.
My thoughts begin to gallop.
They didn’t come. Something must have happened.
Maybe to the others… maybe someone lost it… maybe they had to take them to hospital.
Then the thoughts mutate further.
Something happened outside. A war. A catastrophe.
Maybe the door was never opened.
Maybe I’ve been here for months.
Maybe it’s an experiment.
And finally, absurd certainty:
Russia invaded Poland.
The next person who enters this room will be a soldier.
The mind, starved of reference, begins to invent meaning — any meaning — to fill the void.
Time expands like an ocean I can’t cross.
Each thought breeds another, until I’m tangled in a web of my own creation.
I swing between boredom, panic, and exhaustion, between lucidity and dream.
I lie down and drift into a strange half-sleep — a lucid fever where everything feels both imagined and inevitable.
When I wake again, I don’t know whether it’s night or morning.
I only know that I have survived something.
The storm has passed, but its echo still hums inside me.
And somewhere beneath the chaos,
a faint, steady pulse of awareness begins to whisper again:
If I am not this body…
and not these thoughts…
and not this fear…
then…
…who am I?
Part 5 – The Turning Point: “You’re close… go deeper.”
By the time they finally arrive to bring me food on Day 3, something in me has surrendered to the darkness.
Not peacefully — more like exhaustion.
Like the moment a wave stops fighting the ocean.
I haven’t slept properly.
I’m emotionally raw.
Memories, grief, childhood scenes, men, worthiness, father — all of it has surfaced like ghosts.
I have been judged by an inner tribunal.
I have died a thousand small ego deaths.
When the counselors leave, I sit in the silence, disoriented.
Their check-in feels like a thread to the outer world that’s suddenly cut.
I’m left alone with their last words echoing in me:
“You’re close… go deeper.”
Close?
Close to what?
I don’t even know what I’m searching for.
But the way they said it… it lands like prophecy.
There is something on the other side of this.
Something I have not touched yet.
Not the white halos.
Not the timelessness.
Not the emotional purging.
Something deeper.
Still, part of me feels hopeless.
I was hoping for… I don’t even know what — some release, some sign.
Instead I’m left with those same stupid questions circling like vultures:
Who are you? Who is mad? Who is bored? Go deeper.
And then I remember the soup — my only food for the day, because yesterday I asked for “just a soup.”
Why did I do that?
Now I would give anything for the emotional comfort of food.
I eat it slowly, half-resentful, half-grateful, tears rising for no reason.
When it’s done, I sit in the silence again, empty-bellied and hollow.
And something unexpected happens.
I start to sing.
It surprises me — singing hadn’t come earlier, though I usually love it.
At first, my voice sounds foreign, but then it expands, resonating through the wooden room like a living being.
The vibration pours through me; it feels amazing, liberating, almost cleansing.
As I sing, the white halos become more vivid — wide luminous gates forming around me, their light alive with depth.
It’s as if I’m standing in a vast cathedral, each note illuminating another unseen archway.
Drawn into this cosmic architecture, I begin to move.
Not with effort, not with thought — but with listening.
My body, what remains of it, begins to sway gently, like a current moving through dark water.
Every motion feels guided by something vaster than will.
The dark itself seems to be breathing me.
This is not dance.
This is TANDAVA —
the ancient, sacred dance of Shiva:
the dance of pure consciousness,
the dance of creation and destruction,
the dance where movement is silence and silence is movement.
Tandava is about dissolving form into the pulse of existence.
And the moment I surrender to it…
everything changes.
Part 6 – TANDAVA: The Dance of Stillness and the Cosmic Fabric
I keep singing until the vibration turns into motion.
It’s not a decision.
It’s as if the darkness itself starts breathing through my bones.
Slow.
Slower than slow.
So slow that movement becomes prayer.
This is not a dance of the body;
it is a dance of space.
Every microscopic sway ripples through reality.
The air feels thick with intelligence,
as though I am inside a living organism.
The white halos brighten until the room around me becomes a vast cathedral of light.
Columns of invisible radiance rise and dissolve.
Each step, each breath, rings like a note in the symphony of God.
I am dancing inside creation itself.
My eyes are wide open, filled with wonder.
And suddenly—I realize something impossible.
My hand passes through the air, but I don’t see it.
I feel it, yet it has vanished.
There is only the cathedral, the luminous field.
The body has disappeared again, but this time it doesn’t terrify me.
This is the threshold of fascination.
Where Day 2 gave me the horror of dissolution,
Day 3 gives me its ecstasy.
I sit in pure amazement, eyes open, heart wide,
watching as the darkness begins to change texture.
Same portal.
Different orientation.
Terror becomes ecstasy.
Density becomes flow.
Darkness becomes God.
From the walls of the cathedral, a new landscape unfurls—
a vast fabric of black and purple velvet silk, fluid and alive.
At first it looks like night made visible,
but then I see: it is fascia,
a cosmic tissue weaving everything to everything.
All life, all matter, all consciousness—
one pulsing tapestry.
I am not outside it.
I am inside the anatomy of God.
The more I’m fascinated,
the more I feel the fabric.
Not with skin—with awareness.
I don’t have a body anymore.
I am the fabric.
The Forms Begin to Move
From deep within the dark fascia, something stirs.
Shapes.
Massive.
Slow.
Like icebergs made of shadow.
Gigantic mountains moving through liquid night.
Ancient densities.
Primordial archetypes.
Forces that sculpt the universe itself.
They glide through the dark fabric with glacial weight.
I can see them clearly now—
vast silhouettes of intelligence, carved from gravity and myth.
They are the structures of illusion,
collective fears,
old realities,
the architecture of separation:
everything humanity believes is real.
They move toward me.
Not to attack.
Not to test.
Simply because I am now inside the current of existence.
If I am not fully present, they will absorb me—
like gravity, like karma, like the collective unconscious.
But this time, I do not move.
I do not contract.
I do not fight.
I do not even try to understand.
I become stillness—
not passive stillness,
but cosmic stillness,
the stillness that galaxies orbit around,
the stillness of Shiva.
Unshakeable.
Infinite.
Alive.
And then the impossible happens.
The massive dark forms rearrange themselves around me.
They do not touch me.
They bend.
They curve.
They warp the fabric of reality to move around the stillness at my core.
My mind is silent.
No thought could ever describe this.
This is not metaphor.
This is not visualization.
This is the metaphysics of consciousness.
I realize:
Stillness is the most powerful force in existence.
It is not emptiness.
It is sovereignty.
It is truth.
It is the axis of all creation.
Illusion cannot manipulate you when you are not moving.
As my presence sharpens, I ask silently: Who am I?
Something ignites in the center of my forehead.
A gush of purple bursts through my third eye—pure vibration, mystical current—
as though the universe itself is opening a door.
The white landscapes melt;
purple floods the field;
then deep cosmic green enters.
The fabric shimmers with new intelligence.
The more still and present I become,
the more reality reveals itself.
I feel on the edge of something vast—
as if the universe is inhaling before a revelation.
The question rises again,
not from thought but from the core of existence:
“Who… am… I?”
And with that,
another portal opens.
Colors explode.
Visions multiply.
The fabric becomes light.
Night falls.
I lie down.
And the DMT comes.
Part 7 – The DMT Night : When the Universe Showed Its Colors
I lie down in the darkness.
My body is already gone.
I am breath, space, awareness.
The purple current still hums in my forehead like an open eye.
For a moment I wonder how one could ever sleep amid so much radiance—
the room bursting with unseen life, existence revealed in its raw brilliance—
but the question fades.
Whether eyes open or closed, whether rest or revelation, it no longer matters.
Sleep will happen in its own way.
I surrender.
And then—
the dam breaks.
Colors.
Not imagined.
Not subtle.
Living.
Electric.
Cosmic.
They burst through the darkness like galaxies being born.
Deep violets spiral into neon blues.
Hydrogen pinks collide with emerald greens.
Golden lattices of light weave intricate geometries.
Fractals inside fractals.
Worlds inside worlds.
It is more vivid than any psychedelic I have ever known.
More intelligent than any dream.
More real than waking life.
This is not hallucination.
This is revelation.
The fabric I had seen in Tandava—dark and purple before—
now reveals itself in a completely new way,
illuminated from within.
The fascia of creation made visible in color.
Everything breathing, everything aware, everything woven of light.
The visions move with purpose.
They are not random.
They are teaching.
I am being shown the architecture of existence:
how form emerges from formlessness,
how vibration condenses into matter,
how consciousness weaves reality,
how time spirals rather than moves in lines,
how death is not an ending but a reconfiguration of energy.
This is not philosophy.
It is direct experience.
I am watching God think.
There is no me.
Only witnessing.
Only awareness.
Only beauty pulsing itself into infinity.
I do not guide the visions; they guide me.
Sometimes I fly through tunnels of light.
Sometimes I dissolve into mandalas.
Sometimes I become the space between colors.
There is no difference between seer and seen.
I am the dream.
And yet—something new:
Unlike Day 2, I am not lost.
Unlike ordinary dreams, I am not unconscious.
Unlike psychedelics, I am not overwhelmed.
I am lucid. Calm. Present. Vast.
I am not trying to understand;
I am becoming what I see.
This is what happens when the body dissolves and there is no fear—
when stillness holds the center.
Even the most powerful visions cannot destabilize.
They become transmissions.
Hours pass.
Or lifetimes.
Colors shift.
Forms evolve.
Some visions feel like memory.
Some feel like prophecy.
Some feel like home.
I do not want to escape.
I do not want to cling.
I simply am.
Eventually, the colors begin to soften.
The light becomes gentler.
The cosmos exhales.
When I next “wake”—
though who can say if I ever slept—
the visions have vanished.
No more colors.
No more fractals.
Only white.
Soft.
Infinite.
Dimensional.
The same white fabric from the beginning—
but different.
Before, it was mysterious.
Now, it is clear.
Before, I thought it was visual noise.
Now, I know it is pure potential.
The blank canvas of creation.
Formlessness itself.
Day 4 has arrived.
Part 8 – The Mechanics of the Subconscious
When the colors fade, I stay lying on the bed, eyes moving wildly beneath my lids.
The storm of light has vanished, yet something inside my skull keeps spinning—
tiny inner orbits of motion I cannot stop.
The halos are still there, pale and gentle,
like the echo of a dream that refuses to disappear.
Then it happens again—
that soft slide into a lucid space.
I am no longer in the dark room.
I am in a bright living room,
and an old friend Valentina is standing there.
Her face radiant, familiar, surprised.
“Long time no see,” she smiles.
“You look in great shape…
I see you’re mastering the Siddhis now.”
I laugh—somehow I know exactly what she means.
I reach toward a radio on the table
and the frequency changes just by thinking.
I tell her, almost proudly,
“I cracked the code.
The secret is that my physical body isn’t here.
What you see is my astral projection.
My real body is in a dark room.
That’s why everything is possible now. Remember?”
The dream feels solid, tactile, intimate.
And yet somewhere, deep inside,
another layer of awareness is watching—
the part of me that knows: I am lying on a bed in total darkness.
When I “return,” my eyes are alive again,
darting beneath the lids in wild, rhythmic pulses.
I feel convinced that I’ve crossed the veil—
that I can travel.
I begin trying to project my consciousness outward:
first to the counselors outside,
then to my mother—thinking love might be the bridge—
then to my partner,
imagining they might somehow sense me,
feel the whisper of my presence.
A childlike hope arises:
When I come out, I’ll ask them if they saw me.
The effort intensifies.
My brain hums like an engine,
my eyes spinning faster and faster,
as if translating thought into motion.
Suddenly the scene shifts again—
I find myself inside a vast industrial hall of the mind,
metallic and automatic,
where everything operates on pure code.
Machines of perception.
Cogs of thought.
A cosmic factory of cause and effect.
I realize I am inside the mechanics of the subconscious.
Every program runs itself,
endless and precise.
I don’t understand the language of it,
but intuition tells me it is reprogrammable.
I start experimenting,
pairing certain eye movements with emotions,
guessing at connections—
rewiring, maybe,
or simply playing God inside my own neural cathedral.
It feels like sitting before a page of code
without knowing how to write it,
but moving the symbols anyway,
trusting that intention is syntax.
Time disappears again.
Then—
a voice through the door:
gentle, human, real.
They will come to pick me up in twenty minutes.
For a moment, two opposite feelings rise like twin tides:
excitement—the world is waiting,
and sadness—I am not finished.
I sense I’m standing at the very threshold,
that I’ve only just begun to understand the language of the dark.
And yet… it’s time.
I start to gather myself.
The room feels both infinite and suddenly small,
like the inside of a cosmic egg before it cracks open.
I breathe,
feeling the machinery of my mind slowly quiet,
the eye movements slowing,
the great factory dimming its lights.
Soon the door will open.
And the dream of light will begin again.
Part 9 – The Return: Falling back into form
Leaving the dark was stranger than entering it.
When the door finally opened and light rushed in, it did not feel like “coming back.”
It felt like stepping into a dream.
The light was the brightest I have ever seen—
a blade of gold cutting through the void.
My eyes flooded instantly, the pupils refusing to shrink fast enough.
I could barely keep them open;
every photon felt like a wave of revelation and pain.
The air smelled sharp, the colors screamed,
the edges of the world were too defined.
After four days of infinity, form itself was overwhelming.
I felt dizzy for hours,
as if my whole system needed to learn gravity again—
as if I were falling back into shape after floating in God.
My steps were slow, careful.
I breathed the air like a newborn.
The world, so vivid, felt strangely flat.
Compared to the living depth of darkness, reality seemed like paper—
beautiful but shallow,
a projection upon the vastness I had known.
And yet, I was not the same.
I did not return as the woman who entered.
I returned as the space that held her.
I moved slowly, not from weakness, but from reverence.
Every sound, every glimmer of sunlight, every movement of air
touched me from the inside.
Life was happening through me, not to me.
I had always imagined awakening as more:
more joy, more light, more understanding.
But the greatest revelation of the dark was this:
Truth is not more.
Truth is less.
Less noise.
Less identity.
Less effort.
Less illusion.
Until only what is real remains.
And what is real?
Presence.
Formlessness.
Stillness.
Love with no opposite.
Awareness without a center.
The dark doesn’t swallow you.
It strips away everything you are not—
until only truth remains.
And truth is not something you “find.”
Truth is what is left when everything false disappears.
The dark taught me that spirituality is not about escaping the human experience—
it is about entering it so completely that separation dissolves.
Mystery is not something to solve;
it is something to become.
Time is not something to manage;
it is something to melt inside of.
The body is not a cage;
it is a portal—
a door through which the infinite feels itself.
And when it dissolves, what remains is not death,
but eternity.
I saw clearly now:
Insanity and enlightenment are not different roads.
They are two directions one can fall
when the self begins to dissolve.
Fear turns the fall into madness.
Stillness turns the fall into God.
That is the secret.
Stillness is the most powerful force in existence.
It is not passive;
it is the silent axis around which all creation moves.
It is the spine of the universe.
When I became still, the dark forms rearranged around me.
When I became still, the cosmic fabric revealed itself.
When I became still, the DMT visions poured through without breaking me.
When I became still, I remembered who I am.
I am not the dancer.
I am the dance.
I am not the one dissolving.
I am the formlessness beneath all form.
Darkness did not take anything from me.
It took what I never truly was—
and gave me back what I have always been.
Light is not the opposite of dark.
Light is born from dark.
Darkness is not the absence of God.
It is the body of God.
And when we are brave enough to surrender into its depths,
we do not lose ourselves.
We remember.
We remember the timeless.
We remember the mystery.
We remember the stillness that cannot be shaken.
We remember the truth that cannot die.
We remember—
I am that.
I am.
I.
Oct 26th 2025