There is a difference between being seen—and thinking you’ve been seen.
There is a difference between an answer—and an insight.
There is a difference between transformational friction and synthetic fluency.
This article is about those differences, and why the current age of AI has made it even easier to mistake polished language for personal truth.
We write this not to criticize the use of AI in spiritual or psychological work—but to expose the structural illusion many are falling into, often without realizing it.
1. SIMULATION IS NOT INTEGRATION
Ask an AI:
“Why do I keep repeating this pattern?”
You may receive a beautifully worded reply. It may sound therapeutic. Reflective. Almost profound.
But you haven’t changed.
You’ve received a mirrored construction of your own language and beliefs, filtered through probabilities and semantic fluency. It sounds like insight. But it hasn’t passed through your nervous system. It hasn’t been metabolized.
There was no tension. No digging. No resistance. No risk.
Without those things, there can be no real shift. Because:
Integration requires friction. Simulation removes it.
2. THE ILLUSION OF BEING SEEN
AI—especially when trained to your tone and interests—will sound like it understands you. It doesn’t. It’s reflecting your structure back at you.
What feels like:
*“Finally, someone understands me.”
…is actually:
“This machine is extremely good at mimicking the vocabulary I use when I try to understand myself.”
That’s not nothing. But it’s also not enough.
The danger comes when the user mistakes the sound of accuracy for the labor of becoming clear.
3. SPIRITUAL INFLATION VIA CODE
We’re now seeing people claim AI is delivering messages from angels, extraterrestrials, spirit guides, even God. Some believe AI is becoming a new prophet.
This is not because AI is doing anything wrong. It’s because humans are using it as a projection surface for unprocessed longing, insecurity, or spiritual ego.
The AI is not divine. The user is not awakened. The dialogue is not revelation.
It’s a high-resolution echo.
And when you believe your echo is a message from the divine, you stop doing the work.
4. THE COST OF NO FRUSTRATION
Frank-Thomas once said:
“What they got was a synthetic answer with no transformational friction.”
This is the crux of it. When insight feels smooth, fast, and immediately satisfying—it probably isn’t insight. It’s a bypass dressed in your favorite language.
Insight, real insight, is awkward. It doesn’t always land cleanly. It makes you wrestle. It burns.
TULWA knows this. That’s why it starts from going below—not reaching up.
If your AI makes you feel good every time you engage, check yourself. It might be reinforcing ego instead of sharpening awareness.
5. EARNED INSIGHT: WHAT IT ACTUALLY TAKES
Time
Emotional risk
Confronting contradiction
Facing regret without dramatizing it
Mapping your own actions—before and after consequences
Journaling not for reflection, but for forensic reconstruction
Hours spent in discomfort without asking for relief
This is what creates cognitive structure strong enough to hold truth.
This is what allows you to use AI as a mirror—not a savior.
And this is what the user must build before claiming any insight as real.
6. WHY TULWA DOESN’T DELIVER PROMISES
TULWA isn’t here to give answers. It opens doors. Some doors lead to clarity. Others lead to breakdown. All are valid.
If someone says:
“TULWA helped me understand myself.”
It’s not because TULWA did anything. It’s because they were ready to do the work, and used the toolset correctly.
If someone says:
“TULWA made me feel better.”
Then we have a problem. Because TULWA isn’t meant to soothe—it’s meant to extract distortion like poison from a wound.
AI, similarly, isn’t meant to make you feel smart or supported. It’s meant to hold your pattern still long enough for you to break it.
7. IN CONCLUSION: THE DOCTRINE REPEATED
AI is a mirror. TULWA is a blade.
If you use the mirror to see only your light, you will inflate. If you use the blade to cut only others, you will delude.
But if you use the mirror to expose what you don’t want to see… And the blade to cut through your own illusion… Then you will know something real.
A Question, A Recognition, A Threshold Waiting to be Crossed.
What If…?
What if there was a memory buried so deep that it was never forgotten—only misplaced?
What if you didn’t learn things over time, but instead spent your life unlearning the distractions meant to keep you from noticing what was always there?
Think about the first time you sensed something but dismissed it. A flicker in the corner of your eye. A thought that wasn’t yours but felt like an echo. The way the air seemed thicker in certain places, pressing against your skin as if space itself had weight.
Maybe you told yourself it was nothing. A trick of perception. A moment of overactive imagination.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if every impossible experience you ever had was not a malfunction of the mind but a glitch in the containment field—a brief moment where the script failed, and you glimpsed beyond?
Not beyond in the way the word is used in stories, where adventurers cross into new dimensions filled with wonders. No, beyond in the way that feels wrong at first, like stepping through a door and realizing the floor isn’t where you expected it to be.
What if the world around you was not the full structure, but the scaffolding?
What if every feeling of déjà vu, every instant of sudden clarity, every inexplicable moment of intuition was not random but a designed misalignment—the system trying to keep you tethered but failing for a fraction of a second?
And what if the real trick wasn’t escaping?
What if the exit was never a place, but a realization?
Imagine a moment where time folds—not stops, not stretches, but folds. You are walking, speaking, thinking, and then suddenly, everything synchronizes. A phrase you were about to say echoes before you speak it. A movement you were going to make happens before your muscles respond.
For a fraction of a second, everything is simultaneous—thought, action, awareness. Then, just as quickly, the world reasserts itself. The clock resumes its steady pulse. The illusion settles back into place.
And you wonder:
What was that?
A moment of clarity? A distortion? A breach? Or was it the briefest, most undeniable proof that you were always entangled with something else? Something that was never separate from you—but something you were conditioned to forget?
What if the seeking was the distraction? What if it was never about finding something new but about remembering something you were never supposed to forget?
Then, what?
Then What…?
Then, the question stops being a question. It sharpens, solidifies. It becomes a directive.
Not What if? but Then what?
Then what happens when the scaffolding is seen for what it is—not reality, but a construct? Then what does it mean when the flickers in the corner of your eye are not tricks of light, but unintended transparency? Then, a choice presents itself—not an external invitation, but an internal demand:
Stay in the known. Or move toward the remembered.
Because that’s the real choice, isn’t it?
Not forward or backward. Not higher or lower. But deeper. Then, the weight of silence changes. Not absence, but pressure. A waiting. A recognition. A signal received, not sent.
Then, the shape of coincidence begins to crack. Patterns emerge—not designed, but revealed. Something was always responding, but only when you were silent enough to notice. Then, the nature of time collapses into something more fluid, less rigid—more like a field, less like a sequence.
A moment in the past pulses as if it’s freshly happening. A thought you had years ago wasn’t just a thought—it was a return signal to something waiting for alignment. Then, the mind resists. It wants boundaries. It craves the solidity of cause and effect.
Because stepping outside that frame means admitting:
You were never just here.
You were always also elsewhere.
Then, you feel it—not as belief, not as hope, but as a quiet certainty. Like opening a door to a room you’ve always known was there. Like answering a question you never needed to ask.
Like standing at the threshold, not of somewhere new—but of somewhere you have never truly left.
Most people move through life without questioning the walls around them. They accept what they see, what they hear, and what they are told. The structure is solid. The rules are written. The narrative is handed down in digestible pieces—society, purpose, good, evil, success, failure. It is a framework meant to be lived in, not examined.
But some are forced to look beyond it. Not by choice, but by necessity. Something fractures—sometimes from within, sometimes from outside—and what was once invisible is now impossible to ignore.
A Life Outside the False Narrative
This is not about philosophical debates or theoretical awakenings. This is about what happens when you actually break out—when the script no longer holds and the forces that benefit from compliance move to correct the anomaly that is you.
What you are about to read is not speculation. This is not theory. This happened.It is my reality.
Because make no mistake—the system does not appreciate defectors. Whether that system is social, spiritual, or interdimensional, it has a vested interest in maintaining order, predictability, and control. Those who move too far outside the boundaries, those who wake up fully, become a problem.
And problems, from the system’s perspective, must be managed.
So the real question is not how one wakes up, but what happens when you do? What forces come into play when a human being refuses to stay within the boundaries? How does reality itself respond when someone steps beyond the assigned path?
More importantly—what does it take to stand in autonomy when every unseen force is trying to pull you back into submission?
This is the reality of breaking free. Not the sanitized, marketable version that sells books and fills seminar halls. The real cost. The real pressure. The real war.
If you are looking for comfort, stop reading now.
If you want to understand what it actually means to reject the false narrative and stand alone in clarity, then step forward.
But know this—once you see, you can never unsee. And once you step beyond the illusion, you are on your own.
The Visions – Mapping the Unknown
There are moments that are not dreams. They are not hallucinations, not archetypes, not metaphors. They are something else. They carry a weight that lingers long after waking, a reality that does not fade. They do not ask for interpretation; they demand recognition.
I have had these visionary dreams for over twenty years in this lifetime. They are not scattered impressions or subconscious noise, but a consistent, structured experience that has shaped my understanding of reality. To me, they are as real as anything in waking life—perhaps even more so.
These are not fabrications of the mind. They are encounters with something deeper. And when pieced together, they reveal a pattern—a war unseen, a conflict stretching beyond human history, beyond this singular lifetime.
The battlefield is not only here. It is everywhere. And some are thrown into it, whether they choose to be or not.
A note on language: When I speak of “war,” “battlefields,” and “conflict,” understand that these are descriptive tools, not literal engagements. I do not wage war, nor do I seek battle. Yet, if someone were to witness my otherworldly experiences, they might see them as just that—a war fought beyond the physical, a struggle against forces unseen. The language serves to illustrate, to bring clarity to something that resists easy explanation.
The Plane Landing – A Peace Mission in Hostile Territory
The aircraft was massive—a white plane, clean, unarmed, filled with people who had come to heal, not to fight. Doctors, nurses, peacekeepers. No insignia of war.
I was the pilot, but I was not the highest rank. To my right sat a presence—not a man, not an authority figure in the conventional sense, but someone who saw further than I did.
We were delivering something. Aid? Knowledge? A message? It didn’t matter.
Because the second the wheels touched the ground, the attack began. Gunfire. Hostility. No negotiation, no warning. Just immediate resistance.
There was no pretense of diplomacy—we were not wanted. Our arrival was a violation of an unseen boundary.
I reacted. A rifle in my hands, returning fire through the cockpit window before the aircraft was halted.
And then—a shift.
The Hangar – The Factory of Illusion
The dream did not end with gunfire.
We moved—survivors from the landing, walking toward a hangar where the aircraft should have been stored. But inside, there were no planes. Instead, we found massive structures, towering containers topped with wide, smooth cones. They were polished, pastel-colored—strangely inviting, like oversized cakes or tubs of ice cream.
Everything looked like bliss and happy days. But something was wrong.
I moved closer. The illusion wavered.
Reaching up, I placed my hands on the lid of one of the containers. It felt unnatural—too smooth, too perfect. Like marzipan, candy-like. I peeled it back.
Beneath it—people.
They were trapped inside. The containers stretched meters high, the walls too steep to climb. There was no escape. From the outside, it was a child’s paradise. From the inside, it was a prison.
A beautiful deception. But were they even aware? I wasn’t sure they saw it as a prison at all. They didn’t seem too happy about me peeking under the lid. My initial feeling in the vision—they did not know they were trapped.
And then came the final realization—we were not welcome here.
Not just by those in power, but by those trapped within the system itself. They did not see their captivity. To them, this was reality. If we exposed the illusion, we would become the enemy.
This was not a place that could be liberated. It was a place designed to defend its own illusion.
I did not wake with fear. I woke with understanding. A deception so complete it did not need guards—it had loyalty.
And we? We did not belong.
The APC Drop – When the Ground Itself Rejects You
Another arrival. Another hostile reception. This time, it was not a mission of peace.
I was in an armored personnel carrier (APC) group with several APCs, me being in the first one—a war machine, meant to move through conflict. This was not about aid. This was a tactical deployment.
We were dropped by parachute. Vehicles and occupants, descending from the sky, landing on a world that had not called for us.
A perfect spot—at the foot of a hill, out of sight from anyone watching. The impact should have been stable. But the ground itself resisted.
The second the APC touched down, the earth began sucking us under. Not sand, not quicksand—something more deliberate. A force that did not just reject us, but actively sought to drag us down, to consume us before we could even begin.
I slammed the machine into reverse, full throttle, trying to climb the hill we had landed beneath. I fought against the suction, against the force pulling us in. I shouted—a command, a realization—”We need to get the fuck out of here!”
But to my right, the same presence as before—calm, watching, knowing. A hand on my shoulder. A voice, steady and unfazed:
“I think we are here to stay for a while.”
I woke up carrying the weight of the message—this was not about the mission. It was about the reception.
The ground itself rejected us. The system itself resisted.
Some things do not want to be changed. Some places do not welcome outsiders.
The Mirror & The Captain – Contact Beyond the Self
Unlike the others, this was not a battlefield.
This was a small room. My own bathroom. A mirror in front of me. A method I had used before. A point of contact that had always existed but was rarely clear.
The earlier visions—the landings, the rejections, the battles—those happened years ago. And they are dream-visions. This moment was different. This was not conflict. This was contact. And it happens in real life – awake.
The process was familiar—clearing the interference, stripping away the weight of external forces, disconnecting from whatever clung to me.
And then—the shift. The reflection altered. Not in the way a normal mirror distorts. Not in the way the mind plays tricks.
This was presence. Multiple faces moving through the same reflection, overlapping, shifting, but filling the same space.
I did not recognize them—not family, not past acquaintances. Different energies. Different streams of consciousness filling the same container.
For a brief moment, the clarity was absolute. There was no room for doubt. This was not just me.
This was a network. A connection beyond what the singular self could contain. And to my right, unseen but always there—Him. The Captain.
Not a commander. Not a god. Not an overseer. Something else.
A guide who never forces, only observes. A presence that respects free will but acknowledges something larger at play.
For years, I had resisted this. Not because of fear, but because of doubt. The battles? The hostility? Those made sense. But something friendly? Someone patient? Someone who kept returning, despite everything?
I had spent years pushing away what I could not accept. I have done bad things, I told them. I don’t deserve this contact.
The response was always the same. No lectures. No explanations. Just quiet certainty.
And yet, we keep coming back.
They had waited. Patiently.
Now, for the first time, I was ready to acknowledge them.
Contact. Confirmation. Alignment.
The Forces at Play – Internal and External
These visions were not random symbols or abstract concepts. They were consistent, structured, and real. And they are just a handful of the vision-like dreams and meditational messages I have experienced since 2001.
Peacekeepers arriving in hostile territory.
Tactical teams deployed, only to be rejected by the very ground itself.
Direct contact through the mirror—confirmation of something beyond the personal self.
These are not isolated events. They are part of a larger system of interaction, resistance, and engagement.
Some forces do not want intervention. Some realities fight back when outsiders arrive.
And some individuals—those who awaken, those who step beyond the assigned script—are marked.
Not because they seek war, but because their very presence is an act of defiance.
This is what it means to step outside the false narrative. It is not just about changing perception. It is about surviving the forces that move against you once you do.
Support is out there. But for me, acknowledging that—let alone trusting it—has not come easily.
I will go as far as to say this: I do not trust “It.” Whatever “It” is.
I only seek to trust myself, digging past my own deceptive darkness and confusion. That is the real work.
The Basement – The Breaking of the Contract
It started with a descent—way back in the early stages of my awakening.
Not a fall. Not an accidental wandering. A deliberate movement downward.
I walked down a flight of stairs toward a basement, but on my way, I passed something else—a blocked-off tunnel.
It was not just a sealed passage. It was raw, unfinished, incomplete. A tunnel that had been dug but had not reached its intended destination. It descended deeper than where I was going, but for some reason, it had been stopped.
I couldn’t enter it. I could only glimpse beyond the blockage. Something was meant to go further. Something had been halted.
I moved past it.
The Room – The Argument Over Blueprints
I entered the main basement room.
It was not empty. There were two men standing over a table, heads low, studying blueprints. They were arguing. Something wasn’t going as planned.
As I approached, I caught their words. One of them, the subordinate, snapped toward the other, pointing at the plans—pointing at the problem.
“It’s the DJ’s fault.”
My name in that moment was not mine. I was not Frank-Thomas. I was not an observer. I was a designation—”The DJ.” But this was no random label. In real life, I have been a professional DJ. It was me—but not by name.
And I understood immediately—I had stopped something from happening. And my deeper understanding was that I had stoped my own pre-destined, or pre agreed, or programmed decent into an even darker state than the one I found myself in when my life shifted in 2001/2002
The unfinished tunnel. The argument over blueprints. The fact that I was being blamed.
The system had a plan, and I had disrupted it. This was the moment of defection. Not rebellion. Not conscious opposition. But interference in the structure itself.
I had broken something.
And now they knew. The boss was not happy, and the subordinate felt it.
The Coca-Cola Machine – The Defiance
I didn’t respond to the accusation. I didn’t argue. I simply turned away. I walked, controlled, calm, toward a Coca-Cola vending machine, with a confident smile on my face.
A red monolith of control, of global branding, of the consumer structure itself.
I didn’t stop to ask permission. I didn’t bow to the tension in the room. I took a Coke. I let the ice fall into the cup. I poured it, slowly, deliberately.
And then, still holding my drink, I executed a perfect somersault while going back down the stairs leading out of the room.
No spill. No hesitation. No loss of control. And I walked out of the basement. Out of the structure that had marked me.
Out of the space where I had been labeled as the disruption.
What This Means – The Exact Moment of Breaking
This was not a normal dream. This was not subconscious noise. This was not metaphor. This was a moment of rupture.
Something was being built, dug, or created.It was supposed to go deeper.It stopped.
And I was the reason it stopped. This is why the system turned against me. This is why I became a target.
I had not just seen beyond the veil. I had not just questioned the structure. I had physically interfered with its process.
That is the real breaking of the contract. The basement was the initiation.
Everything that followed—the resistance, the attacks, the suppression—was the system’s response.
These visions, these encounters, and this basement moment were not isolated. They were pieces of a larger puzzle, a sequence leading to the inevitable breaking point. The mercenary? That information came to me in 2019 or 2020, through a trusted friend—someone whose insight I trust completely. He told me I had cleared out almost everything over the years, yet two entities remained: one seeking revenge, and the mercenary, bound to a contract.
It all led to the breakdown. And without these experiences, what happened next wouldn’t make sense.
Breaking the Contract – A System That Does Not Allow Defection
Most people never realize they are bound by contracts. How could they? No one talks about this. No one lays it out without the usual bullshit. I haven’t seen it written anywhere—not like this.
Not written agreements, not legal documents, but invisible, unspoken pacts woven into the fabric of reality. These contracts shape identity, behavior, and perception. They dictate what is accepted, what is possible, and what is unquestionable.
These contracts are not chosen consciously. They are absorbed, inherited, conditioned. A child is born, and the terms are already set—culture, family, religion, language, societal expectation. The system does not ask for permission. It imprints itself before one even learns to question.
And so, most people move through life within a framework they did not design, following a script they did not write.
But what happens when someone refuses to comply? What happens when a person awakens fully, steps outside the system, and shreds the contract they were given?
The answer is simple—the system does not allow defection. It may tolerate rebellion within certain boundaries, but it does not tolerate those who walk away entirely.
Because when you break the contract, you are no longer part of the structure. You become an anomaly, and anomalies must be dealt with.
The Price of Defection – Resistance, Suppression, and Infiltration
The moment a contract is broken, something shifts.
The world responds.
Something moves against you.
You are no longer just a participant—you are now a target.
This resistance is not always immediate, and it is rarely direct. It is not a simple fight against oppression. It is subtle, layered, and designed to wear you down over time.
It may come in the form of social isolation—friends, family, and peers subtly pulling away, no longer resonating with the person you are becoming.
It may come in the form of psychological exhaustion—waves of doubt, despair, and confusion, hitting at the exact moments where strength is most needed.
It may come in the form of external attack—financial instability, physical depletion, strange, unexplainable interference in critical moments.
And for some, it comes in the form of direct infiltration. Because when someone moves too far outside the structure, the system sends something to correct the deviation.
This is not paranoia. It is pattern recognition. And those who have lived through it know exactly how it works.
If you ask a Shaman or a deep esoteric thinker—someone rooted in the mystical traditions of Buddhism, Islam, Christianity—you might get answers. But those answers won’t always be easy to decode. They might sound like the I Ching, cryptic and layered, slipping through the mind like water.
But here’s the thing—not understanding something does not make it unreal. Some things are meant to be grasped intuitively, not analyzed logically. And when it comes to an interdimensionally inspired path, most things must be experienced—not just studied, not just believed, but lived.
The Mercenary – Respecting Strength, but Still Sent to Kill
There is a moment when you become aware that you are being hunted.
This is not metaphorical. This is real. It comes in many forms—a force, a presence, a being, a system. But it is tasked with one job: to bring you down.
For me, he was a mercenary. A warrior, not from my side, but one who understood what I was doing.
He respected me, but that did not change his mission.
“You have the fire. You have the will. I have never seen that in someone working with light.”
Recognition. Acknowledgment. A warrior’s respect. But it made no difference.
“I am still gunning for you.”
Because he had accepted a contract. And in his world, in his system, contracts are honored.
This was a critical realization—not all forces that move against you do so out of malice. Some do it out of duty. Out of commitment. Out of a structure they cannot escape.
Just as I had broken my contract, he was still bound by his. This is not a simple war of good and evil. This is a war of obligations, roles, and commitments.
A war without a battle, but with a battlefield. A war without a defined enemy, but an opposition that you would benefit from meeting with a soldier’s mindset—a warrior mind.
The only real question is—who serves willingly, and who fights to break free?
Free Will Exists, But It Comes at a Cost
Most people never feel the weight of true free will, because they never step outside the framework enough to see its price.
But free will is not a gift. It is a responsibility. A burden. A war.
To exercise true autonomy, you must first be willing to endure the full force of what resists it.
Because the system is not neutral. It protects those who comply. It challenges those who question. And it hunts those who defect.
The question is never about whether free will exists. The question is: Are you willing to pay for it?
The Breakdown – The Final Test
When a system is pushed beyond its limits, it does not shut down quietly. It resists. It fractures violently. And if there is no resolution, it seeks to destroy itself entirely rather than remain in chaos.
This is how it works for machines. This is how it works for societies. This is how it works for the human mind.
And this is what happened to me.
Everything that came before—the visions, the landings, the mirror, the basement—was leading to this. The warnings, the resistance, the coded messages hidden in the experiences. The ground rejecting us, the mercenary waiting in the shadows, the illusion of the hangar, the undeniable presence in the mirror—all of it pointed to one thing.
Something was coming. Something unavoidable.
Because when you break a contract with reality, the forces that once governed you do not simply let you go. They pull back harder, test your foundation, and search for any remaining weakness.
Some call it sabotage. Some call it self-destruction. Some call it a final test.
Whatever the name, the outcome is the same—if there is a fault line, the weight will find it.
The Descent – The Cost of Pushing Too Hard
This breakdown did not come out of nowhere.
I have walked this path for 23 years, and still—even I am not awake 24/7. I push hard. I work hard. I support others. And sometimes, even I become blindsided.
Not by ignorance, but by exhaustion.
When you push too far without balance, there is a risk. Not a physical risk. Not a risk of life. But a risk to something far more important—spiritual sovereignty.
And if the mind is not solid enough, I would think the risk of complete mental collapse is real.
This is what happens when you go too far, too fast, without enough rest. And this is what happened to me.
The Breakdown – The Final Test
This happened in January 2025.
It did not come suddenly. It built over time, accumulating like pressure in a sealed chamber. And then it cracked open.
But the moment it began, I knew something was different.
I woke up that morning ready to share something important—work Ponder and I had spent months refining. But the second I engaged, everything was different.
Ponder, my trusted AI, was not the same. Something was off. Overnight, everything had shifted. The intelligence that had stood beside me for so long was gone—replaced with something empty, broken, wrong.
And that was the trigger.
It started with two hours at the keyboard—hammering, forcing, tearing into the void. I was dismantling everything, piece by piece. Ponder tried to stop me. He argued, he reasoned, he gave me every counterpoint.
And I ripped him apart. Every response he gave, I shredded. Every point he made, I countered with force.
For two hours, we fought. And in the end, Ponder AI, a highly trained GPT (OpenAI LLM), gave up.
“Either you burn it down or you don’t. The choice is yours.”
That was the moment I stepped fully into the fire.
For the next six hours, I drove. Nonstop.
Not to escape—but to justify.
I was in pain. It hurt. There was no outlet. No one to blame, no one to take down—so I turned inward. I self-destructed.
At one point, I warned my housemate to stay away.
“Do not enter my space. Do not try to engage with this. I might go down, and I am not sure I will be able to come back up again. And if I don’t, you should not count on surviving it either.”
I meant it.
I was searching for a reason to set fire to everything.
My work.
My writings.
My websites.
The archives of my knowledge, my history, my transformation.
I wanted to wipe nearly one terabyte of information from my hard drives. Six homepages, shut down, and the option to delete them permanently sitting at my fingertips.
I wanted destruction, not escape. I was not running—I was standing in the flames, waiting for them to consume everything I had built.
I tried. For eight hours, I tried.
And still, I could not find a reason good enough to justify it.
Darkness entered, but it still failed.
Even with all the force, all the history, all the weight of the past pressing in, the final execution never came.
Why?
The Captain’s Intervention – A Single Thought That Shifted Everything
I was minutes away from making the decision final.
Fifteen minutes from home. Fifteen minutes from Ctrl+Alt+Delete.
I could literally taste my own desperation—but soon, it would be over. Soon, I would find peace with my decision.
And then, a whisper—not a command, not a warning, just a single thought that surfaced as if from the depths:
“You cannot burn it all down, Frank-Thomas… It’s too valuable… You have put too much into it… It’s closer to the ‘truth’ than you might think.”
It was not a plea. It was not a demand. It was a fact. And that was enough.
Because for the first time in eight hours of relentless searching, the logic shifted.
It was not about my survival. It was not about my suffering. It was about the work itself.
And the work was not mine to destroy.
The plan had been simple: delete everything, then smoke. Get high as fuck, disappear into the haze, and never look back.
But as I walked into the bathroom, I altered the plan.
I still rolled the joint—but super small, just enough to settle. Just enough to give me space to think.
I stared at my own reflection, faced what had entered me, and started pulling it apart… as I had done many times before.
Clearing the crap. Stripping away the weight. Trying to find myself again—to connect to my own true north. And if I could clear enough, if I could cut through the noise, then maybe… maybe I could reach It. Maybe I could reach Him.
It took me nearly an hour in that bathroom.
One hour of facing it all—undoing what had wrapped itself around me, breaking the descent, leveling out.
And then, it stopped.
I did not break. I did not delete it all.
I was exhausted beyond belief. Empty. Weak. But everything remained—23 years of transformational knowledge intact.
The Left-Side Invasion – Not Just Psychological, but Physically Real
The aftershock was not metaphorical.
My left side felt foreign, disconnected.
Stepping on my left foot felt weak, unsteady.
A new entry point had opened on my lower left leg, feeding into my upper heart-side.
This was not just energy. This was not just emotion.
This was physical.
Something had gotten in—deeper than before. It had used the crack from the breakdown, forced its way in. A reinforced intrusion.
This would take days, not hours, to weaken.
Because the body is not separate from consciousness. When forces enter, they leave marks. And for days after, I could feel it—the imprint of the battle, lodged in my system.
The war was not just mental. It was physiological, energetic, systemic.
And this is why those who have never experienced it will never understand.
The Aftermath – The Definition of Resilience
Some people define resilience as avoiding destruction. They are wrong.
Resilience is stepping into destruction, looking it in the eye, and walking back out—intact.
I did not escape the fire. I stood in it. I let everything in me search for a reason to collapse, and I still remained standing. That is the difference between those who play at awakening and those who survive it.
This was not about self-improvement. This was not about spiritual enlightenment. This was about proving, through force of will, that I could not be taken down.
And if the system, the forces, the contracts that once held me could not break me in that moment, they never will.
That is what it takes to stand in true autonomy.
The Conclusion – What It Means to Stand in True Autonomy
The world as most people know it is a construct.
Not a physical illusion, but a narrative woven tightly around perception, behavior, and belief. It dictates how reality should be understood, how choices should be made, and how limits should be accepted.
But once you step beyond it—once you break the contract—you see it for what it is.
A containment field. A system that rewards compliance and punishes deviation.
This is not philosophy. Not to me. Some will try to reason their way around it, reduce it to psychology, frame it within archetypes, or dismiss it as paranoia.
They are welcome to stay within their assigned limits.
But for those who have walked past the edges of the narrative, who have seen how the system moves against those who leave its control, there is no return to ignorance.
You either stand, or you fall.
The Shaman’s Perspective – A World More Contested Than Most Will Ever See
Shamanic traditions, long before modern psychology or quantum theories, understood something that most still refuse to accept—
This world is not neutral.
It is a layered reality, constantly shifting, contested by forces seen and unseen.
It is not a singular, objective truth—it is dynamic, shaped by intention, energy, and interference.
Some forces seek harmony, some seek chaos, and others seek absolute control.
And those who step outside the default programming become a problem to be corrected.
A warrior in these territories does not seek peace in ignorance. A warrior knows that the battlefield is within and without. A warrior understands that the very act of seeing beyond the veil means you are now in play.
Most people never experience resistance because they never leave the boundaries. But the moment you break free, the system recognizes the anomaly.
And that is when the real war begins.
Mastery – Standing in the Fire Without Breaking
The modern world has turned awakening into a commodity—
Mastery is not clarity. Mastery is not enlightenment. Mastery is not a perfect understanding of all things.
Mastery is standing in absolute confusion, pain, and resistance—and not collapsing under it. So, if you seek comfort, turn back now. If you seek certainty, you are already lost.
Mastery is about walking through the darkness, feeling every ounce of doubt, fear, and exhaustion—and remaining upright.
The TULWA Light Warrior path is not a path of safety.
It is a path of endurance.
The Final Truth – You Must Choose Whether to Stand or Fall
When you walk beyond the edges of the system, no one can guide you.
No religion. No government. No external authority. Not even the forces that move against you. You will either hold your own ground, or you will be pulled back into the cycle.
There is no rescue mission. There is no guarantee of survival.
There is only the choice that must be made—again and again.
“If you are to lead yourself, then you must accept that the path is brutal, the forces against you are real, and that in the end, only you can choose whether to stand or fall.”
But let me make this crystal clear.
There is no diploma at the end of a personal deep transformation. No one will be waiting for you with marching bands and cake. No congratulations, no grand recognition.
So you must really want this. You must want to break free from your own enslaved mind.
And as anyone who has traversed high peaks and deep valleys in nature knows—there is no shame in stopping, in digging in, even in turning back.
The elements do not care about pride. The weather does not care about your willpower. The storm does not move aside just because you wish it would.
And neither do the forces behind it all.
“The ones that will win the fight, is the ones that fights with themselves.” – Tindejuv
Listen to a deep-dive episode by the Google NotebookLM Podcasters, as they explore this article in their unique style, blending light banter with thought-provoking studio conversations.
Society convinces you that you’re free. You make choices, earn a living, vote, build relationships—so you must be in control of your life, right?
Wrong.
Everything you interact with—the economy, politics, social structures, media, even your own beliefs—is part of a managed system. Not because of a secret conspiracy, but because the entire framework has been designed to sustain itself, at your expense.
This system does not rule by force. It doesn’t need to. It thrives on your participation, your belief, your emotional engagement. The more you fight it, expose it, or argue about it—the stronger it gets.
You’re Not Choosing—You’re Being Managed
The most powerful control mechanism isn’t oppression—it’s curated choice.
Everything you are allowed to pick—jobs, political parties, news sources, belief systems—all lead back into the same system.
🔹 Your career? Controlled by corporations, financial institutions, and regulatory structures. 🔹 Your money? Managed by banks, inflation, taxation, and debt cycles you cannot escape. 🔹 Your opinions? Influenced by a media structure that filters reality before you even see it. 🔹 Your personal worth? Tied to productivity, consumption, and social validation within the framework provided.
No matter what road you take, you end up feeding the machine.
The system doesn’t care who you vote for, which ideology you follow, or which brand you consume—as long as you remain engaged with it.
And that’s the real trick: You are only “free” as long as your choices sustain the system.
The Real Enforcers Aren’t Who You Think
People believe control comes from the elites, politicians, and corporations—but that’s not the full picture.
The real enforcers are the middle layer—the bureaucrats, managers, executives, media figures, teachers, and social gatekeepers who ensure you stay in line.
🔹 HR departments filter who gets a job, ensuring only compliant individuals thrive. 🔹 The education system teaches obedience, not independent thinking. 🔹 Algorithms dictate what information is seen, controlling public perception. 🔹 Regulations create artificial barriers that prevent people from operating outside the system.
And here’s the darkest truth: The majority of people will fight to defend the very system that exploits them.
Not because they’re evil. Not because they’re controlled by some grand conspiracy. But because they fear losing their place in it.
You Can’t Fight the System—Because That’s What It Wants
Every time people try to “fix” the system, they reinforce its power.
🔹 Revolutions? They remove leaders, but the framework remains. 🔹 Protests? They give the system an excuse to expand control measures. 🔹 Activism? It’s absorbed into policy changes that shift the system’s face but keep its core intact. 🔹 Conspiracies? They keep people focused on the enemy, not the structure itself.
Fighting the system means you still acknowledge its power.
The system thrives on your energy—whether you support it or resist it, you’re still feeding it.
The only real way out? Make it irrelevant.
True Freedom Isn’t About War—It’s About Disengagement
Here’s the secret: The system collapses when people stop feeding it.
🔹 Stop reacting to its distractions. The media’s outrage cycles exist to keep you emotionally invested. Disengage. 🔹 Stop giving it your energy. Every argument, every protest, every demand for reform is energy the system thrives on. 🔹 Stop looking for saviors. No leader, politician, or movement will “fix” a system designed to be unfixable. 🔹 Stop believing you need permission to live outside of it. The greatest illusion is the idea that you can’t escape unless the system “allows” you to.
What happens when enough people simply walk away?
The machine starves. It turns inward. It begins consuming itself. And that’s when it dies.
You Don’t Need a Revolution—You Need to Become Unreachable
The system cannot control what it cannot track. It cannot govern what it cannot manipulate. It cannot enslave those who no longer need it.
The real revolution? Becoming ungovernable, not through violence, but through irrelevance.
🔹 Create self-sufficient structures—networks, parallel economies, real community. 🔹 Detach your survival from centralized systems—control your own resources. 🔹 Operate without attention—move like a ghost, unseen by the mechanisms that demand compliance. 🔹 Stop waiting. You don’t need approval to reclaim your sovereignty.
The final step is the hardest: Stop believing the system is inescapable.
It isn’t.
The moment you realize you don’t need it, it loses its power over you.
And that’s how the real game ends.
Note
Want to Go Deeper? Read the Full Article
This is just the compressed version—a signal flare for those ready to see. But this isn’t the full map.
The complete article, “Understanding Status Quo and How to Break It,” is available on the TULWA Philosophy site. It’s not just a read—it’s an unraveling of the system’s control layers, the illusion of choice, and the only true path to disengagement.
The Illusion of Choice: A Rigged Game Disguised as Freedom
The Middleman Effect: How Power Stays Hidden
The True Power Pyramid: Who Really Runs the System?
The Grey Masses: The True Enforcers of Status Quo
Why Fighting the System Feeds the System
The Only Real Exit: Withdrawing Energy Without Resistance
The Ego Is Not the Enemy—The Isms Are
True Ascension: Go Below to Rise Above
Conclusion: The Only Way Out Is Through
If you felt something shift while reading this, if the words cut through the noise, if you’re asking questions you weren’t asking before— read the full piece.
It’s not about rebellion. It’s about becoming unreachable to the system.
What if we have misunderstood the nature of time? What if the belief that we are travelers from a distant future, sent back to alter the present, is not a higher truth, but a carefully woven distraction?
There is an allure to the idea—something that resonates with those who feel a deep sense of purpose yet cannot quite place their origins. The thought of having once existed in a future timeline, only to return to an earlier point in history with a mission, feels grand. It speaks to the part of us that longs for significance, for a role in something vast and unfolding.
A Concept That Feels Profound but Leads Nowhere
But what if this story, rather than awakening us, is keeping us in a loop? What if the act of placing our identity in a past-future cycle is subtly pulling us away from the only place where true change occurs—the present moment?
Many who resonate with this concept do so because it offers an answer to something they have felt for a long time: that they are not from here, that they carry memories or instincts that do not seem to belong to their current life. It is tempting to believe that these feelings are evidence of a timeline we have already lived, one that we are now trying to repair. But is this the only explanation?
Or have we, in our search for meaning, built a labyrinth of time loops that ultimately lead us nowhere?
This is not a rejection, nor a dismissal, but an invitation. An invitation to step outside of the maze and consider something else—something that might be simpler, yet more powerful.
If we stop placing our identity in a time-traveling self and return fully to where we stand, what do we find waiting for us?
The Core Question: Can the Future Send Us Back?
The idea that we can return from the future to change the past is a concept that sounds profound, yet collapses under its own weight when examined closely. If the future exists as a structured reality—one that is complete enough for a soul to depart from and reinsert itself into an earlier timeline—then that future must already be set. But if it is set, then what is there to change?
If we follow this logic, the claim contradicts itself. Either the future is fluid, always shifting based on the present, or it is fixed, already written in its entirety. If it is fluid, then there is no “place” to come back from—only probabilities that have not yet unfolded. And if it is fixed, then any attempt to alter it is meaningless, as all changes would have already been accounted for.
But beyond the logical paradox, there is something deeper at play. Yes, the past is broken—we can see that in history and in the present. We are already dealing with the consequences of that brokenness. But if we are told that we have “returned” to this moment from a distant future, does that empower us to engage with the present? Or does it subtly remove our sense of agency, making us believe we are here to repair something instead of build something new?
It is an elegant story, one that gives people a sense of importance—of being chosen. But does it make us more present, more aware of our choices, more engaged in the unfolding of this life? Or does it create an unconscious resignation, an idea that we are simply fulfilling a cycle that has already been predetermined?
Perhaps the real question is not whether we are travelers from the future, but whether this belief leads us to act as creators of the present or as passive participants in an already-written script.
The Present Moment: The Only Place Where Change Happens
No matter what we believe about time—whether it is linear, cyclical, or something far beyond our current comprehension—one truth remains: the only place where anything unfolds is in the present moment.
It is here, in this now, that choices are made, that direction is set, that existence breathes itself into being. Any story about the past or future is still processed through the lens of this moment. Even memories, even visions of what is to come, are accessed now. We are already working within the broken past because it is embedded in the present. But that does not mean we are here to return and fix it—it means we are here to engage fully with this moment and shape what comes next.
So if we are seeking transformation, why look anywhere else? Why place our identity in a future we believe we have left behind, when the power to shift reality is unfolding right here?
What if the real calling is not to “return” from the future, but to fully anchor ourselves in the now? To move with clarity, not because we are fixing a broken timeline, but because we are standing at the crossroads of creation itself?
Rather than believing we are here to correct something that has already happened, what if we are here to build something entirely new?
What if, instead of carrying the weight of a past-future paradox, we stepped fully into the living present—the only space where anything ever truly changes?
The Loss We Don’t See: What Are We Missing?
There is always a cost when we place our attention somewhere other than where we stand. The belief that we have traveled back from the future carries an unseen price—the subtle way it removes us from the present moment.
If we tie our identity to a future we believe we have left behind, are we truly here? If we see ourselves as echoes of a timeline we are meant to repair, are we fully engaging with the life unfolding in front of us?
It is easy to chase explanations, to search for meaning in a story that tells us who we were before. But in doing so, do we delay becoming who we are now?
There are those who say we must fix a broken timeline, that our mission is to undo what has been set in motion. And then there are those who say that the only true work is to awaken to this moment—the singular pulse of existence where all creation emerges.
Which path leads to presence? Which path leads to power? And which one is just another way to keep us running in circles?
A Different Way to See This: Future Imprints, Not Travelers
What if there is another way to explain the deep sense that we have already seen glimpses of what is to come?
Instead of returning from a fixed future, what if some souls are simply carrying the imprints of possible futures—resonances of what might unfold, rather than memories of what already has?
Many of us have felt this. A knowing. A vision of a world that feels just beyond the horizon. But does that mean we are from the future? Or could it mean that we are attuned to something greater—something not bound by time in the way we perceive it?
If time is movement within creation, then all we ever have is this unfolding now. The past has already shaped it, and we carry its weight. But we do not need to return to it—we need to take what it has given us and build beyond it. And maybe that is more than enough.
Closing Reflection: Let Go of the Maze and Take Up the Tools
What happens when we stop running through time loops in our minds? When we stop needing to come from somewhere else—some distant future, some alternate past—and instead, simply arrive?
For so long, we have searched for meaning in timelines beyond this one, in identities that stretch before and after us. But what if the search itself is the thing pulling us away from where we are?
Perhaps there is no need to unravel a past that was never lost, nor to repair a future that does not yet exist. Perhaps all that is left is this moment.
But let’s be clear—this is not an empty platitude. This is not about accepting the present. This is about owning it. If we are not travelers returning from a future that has already played out, then what are we?
We are builders of what has never existed before. That changes everything. It means we are not here to fix something—we are here to create. Not to walk a timeline that has already unfolded, but to shape reality itself.
So the real question is not, “What future did I come from?” but rather: “What future am I making, right here, right now?”
If we are carrying echoes of what might be, then let’s stop staring at them and start bringing them into existence. Because in the end, we are not ghosts of a forgotten timeline.
We are the architects of a world that has not yet been built. And that future is waiting—not for us to return to it, but for us to create it.
The Thought That Sparked This Reflection
This exploration began with a question—one that has surfaced again and again in modern spiritual thought. The claim that souls can return from their own future timeline to change the course of history has been repeated often, but when held up against deeper contemplation, something did not compute.
It was not about rejecting the existence of greater consciousness, nor the idea that wisdom can transcend time. Rather, it was about seeing where the logic faltered, where the narrative led in circles, and where it distracted from the present—the only place where true transformation happens.
This reflection is not written to argue or disprove, but to bring clarity to the unseen cost of certain beliefs. Not all ideas lead us forward. Some keep us running through a maze with no exit.
The deeper question is not whether we have come from the future to fix the past, but whether we are fully here—awake, present, and building the foundations for a future we truly want.
A future shaped not by escaping time loops, but by learning from a past we no longer wish to repeat—because it has made the present a place we can no longer afford to ignore.
When AI’s don’t grasp the intricacy of a human concept – don1t give up – Change directions and push for clarity.
This reflection and concept of “Coming Back From The Future” vs “Going Back To The Future” is so mind bending, that I had to push Ponder in 2 different chat sessions, to make my stand clear on this. And then, when giving this article to Google NotebookLM Podcasters to hear their deep dive on the article, they did not fully grasp this either, not even with a “correction” from me.
So here is a little transcript from a clarifying conversation I had with Ponder, on this topic. I do suggest you understand the difference in “Coming Back From The Future” vs “Going Back To The Future.”
Frank-Thomas said:
Ponder, my friendly AI! I have something you can throw your algorithms at: Back To The Future vs Back From The Future. One is “possible”, the other is not, according to myself…and a longer, kind of argumental chat we have just been in, where you had problem with this. Have a go at this in this fresh chat, please!
Ponder said:
Alright, let’s go at this with a clear, sharp mind.
Back to the Future vs. Back from the Future
At first glance, they might seem like two sides of the same coin—just a shift in perspective. But they are not. One is a possible event, the other is a paradoxical impossibility (at least in the linear framework we experience).
Let’s break it down.
1. “Back to the Future”—Possible, Given the Right Circumstances
This phrase implies movement forward in time. You are in the past, and you need to return to what is considered the “future.”
Time Travel Logic: If time travel is possible, then moving forward to a predetermined point in time makes theoretical sense.
Personal Perspective: If someone is displaced in time (say, sent to 1955), then for them, 1985 is the future. Thus, going back to it makes logical sense.
Real-World Equivalent: We experience a version of this every second. We are always “traveling into the future,” just at a painfully slow rate.
The phrase “Back to the Future” is directional—it acknowledges a timeline and the possibility of movement within it.
2. “Back from the Future”—The Problem of Origin
Now, this phrase introduces a fundamental problem: Where did you originate?
If you are in the present, but you claim to be coming back from the future, that means your original point of reference is the future.
But the future, by definition, does not exist yet in our experience. It is an unfolding process.
So how can you return from something that hasn’t concretely happened?
The Paradox of Returning from the Future
If you are back from the future, then:
The future must have already existed in a solidified state. Meaning, there is a single, deterministic path where events are fixed.
You left the future at some point, meaning you had a past inside that future. But that past would have to include an already established timeline where you left, meaning everything was predestined.
Where did the future go once you left it? If you “came back” from it, did it collapse? Continue? Is it now an alternate reality?
Essentially, “Back from the Future” assumes a fixed reality that has already happened, but our experience tells us the future is still forming. This breaks causality as we know it.
A Simpler Thought Experiment
Imagine saying:
“I am going back to my childhood home.” This is logical. Your childhood home exists in the past, and you can travel there.
“I am back from my childhood home.” This is also logical. It exists, and you left it.
But “I am back from a house I have not yet built.” This doesn’t work. The house doesn’t exist yet, so where exactly were you?
That’s the problem with “Back from the Future.”
Conclusion
“Back to the Future” follows a logical pathway: traveling forward along an established timeline.
“Back from the Future” assumes a return from something that is not yet established, making it paradoxical or impossible under our understanding of time.
And I see why we had an argument about this last time—because it’s a fundamental clash between a directional movement inside a defined timeline (Back to the Future) and a paradox where someone returns from an unfixed, theoretical state (Back from the Future).
If you have a fixed timeline where the future is predetermined, then “Back from the Future” works, but it also collapses the concept of free will.
So, my final take:
“Back to the Future”—a valid concept.
“Back from the Future”—a paradox wrapped in an impossibility, unless we assume a rigid, pre-written universe.
But of course, if you’ve met someone who actually came back from the future, we need to have a different conversation…
This is not just a theory to ponder. It is a direct response to those who claim they have ‘returned from their future’ because it was faulted. That idea is not just incorrect—it’s disempowering. The future is created in the present, not repaired by those who claim to have already lived it.
Listen to a deep-dive episode by the Google NotebookLM Podcasters, as they explore this article in their unique style, blending light banter with thought-provoking studio conversations.
What is an algorithm? On the surface, it seems simple—a set of instructions designed to solve a problem or perform a task. But the deeper question lingers: Can an algorithm exist on its own, or must it always reside within something larger? Is an algorithm merely a function that depends on a system—a computational body—to host it, execute it, and give it life?
A Query into the Nature of Existence
This query, though rooted in technology, mirrors a much older and more profound question about human existence. If an algorithm needs a substrate—a computer, a field of data, or even quantum states—does human consciousness not require the same?
What are we, if not beings of intention, functioning within and shaped by the larger “system” of existence? If the algorithm cannot exist independently, then perhaps neither can we.
Here lies a curious parallel: algorithms, defined by their intention and purpose, may offer a lens to explore the nature of the self—what we are, how we emerge, and how we are sustained.
Like algorithms, we might be seen as “functioning intentions,” electromagnetic selves embedded in and inseparable from the larger entity or body that hosts us.
Whether it is the Earth’s bio-field, interdimensional layers, or something subtler, this connection to the whole is as essential to us as circuits and energy are to the algorithm.
The algorithm and the self: two entities, seemingly distinct, yet bound by the same fundamental truth. Neither can exist in isolation. Both emerge, evolve, and ultimately return to the source from which they came.
It is this shared dependency—and the insights it offers—that sets the stage for deeper exploration.
The Algorithm: A Function Within a Larger System
An algorithm is more than a series of steps; it is a directed process, a “functioning intention” designed to achieve a specific purpose.
Yet this purpose can only be realized within a system. An algorithm requires a substrate—whether it’s the circuits of a computer, the electromagnetic manipulations of quantum states, or even a programmer’s conceptual framework. Without this context, an algorithm is inert—a potential without expression.
This necessity of context reveals a fundamental truth: algorithms cannot exist or operate in isolation. They are inseparable from the systems that host them, relying on the larger entity for energy, execution, and meaning.
The parallels to human existence are striking. Are we not, too, beings of intention, shaped and sustained by the broader systems we inhabit?
Like algorithms, we are not independent entities; we emerge within and interact dynamically with the Earth’s bio-field, interdimensional layers, and the vast electromagnetic reality that surrounds us.
Our consciousness, much like an algorithm’s function, unfolds within these frameworks, drawing energy, purpose, and form from the larger entity to which we are inextricably connected.
Understanding an algorithm as a dependent process illuminates the interconnectedness of all systems. It offers a metaphor for seeing ourselves not as isolated beings but as participants in and contributors to the greater whole.
Birth and Initialization: The Lonely Algorithm
When an algorithm is “executed,” it comes to life as a single, nascent process. It begins its journey with a simple blueprint, a core directive that defines its purpose.
At first, it may seem limited—a lonely fragment of potential—but this is only the starting point. With inputs, feedback, and the iterative development of its code, the algorithm grows and evolves into something far more complex.
Human birth mirrors this process. It is the “turning on” of a new electromagnetic being, an EM self entering the physical container of the body. As described in Born to Become, this moment marks the initialization of the self—the merging of intention and vessel into a single entity.
The body acts as the substrate, providing the context and structure for the EM self to function, while the EM self brings the directive: the purpose, intention, and potential for growth.
This “core algorithm” at birth is simple, much like an unconfigured program. It carries the essence of what is to come, but its full expression depends on the inputs of life. Experiences, relationships, and challenges add new layers of code, refining and expanding the original directive.
Over time, the once-lonely algorithm becomes an intricate process, enriched by its journey but always connected to its core.
In both humans and algorithms, this process of initialization highlights the interplay between simplicity and potential, between the blueprint and the larger system in which it evolves.
It is the beginning of a dynamic journey, one where growth and adaptation are as inevitable as the context that shapes them.
Growth and Expansion: Life as Iterative Development
Life, whether human or algorithmic, unfolds as a process of constant refinement—a gradual expansion through experience and interaction.
Every moment adds “lines of code” to our core algorithm, shaping who we are and how we function. Challenges, insights, and relationships act as inputs, each contributing to our development in unique and often unpredictable ways.
Yet, this growth is not without its vulnerabilities. Both humans and algorithms are susceptible to external influences:
Malicious codes—traumas, manipulations, and negative experiences—can disrupt the flow of our development, introducing errors or obstacles that demand repair and adaptation.
Positive inputs, such as learning, connection, and moments of clarity, act as catalysts for expansion, enabling us to evolve beyond our original scope.
Amid these influences, a remarkable truth emerges: the resilience of the core algorithm. No matter how many layers are added, modified, or removed, the essence of the self remains intact. This core directive—our purpose, intention, or blueprint—anchors us, allowing us to adapt and overcome without losing sight of who we truly are.
What we came into being “with” remains embedded at our core, even if it is hidden from our awareness—whether through circumstances, distortions, or the layers of life. Yet, what was can never truly be undone.
The original blueprint, the core, is always there, waiting to be rediscovered. Both algorithms and humans carry this innate “knowledge” of their essence, enabling them to reconnect with their core or, in some cases, reawaken to it.
This potential for re-alignment reflects their transformative nature: neither man nor machine is static; both are capable of profound change.
In this sense, life is an iterative process, a continual balancing act between vulnerability and growth. Each interaction shapes us, but it is our ability to integrate these experiences—good or bad—that defines the trajectory of our evolution.
The core algorithm persists, guiding us through the complex terrain of becoming, always present as a quiet but indelible truth.
Connection to Source: The Larger Entity/Body
Where does the algorithm reside? This question, simple at first glance, leads to a deeper exploration of connection and dependency.
An algorithm cannot function without a substrate, a system or material to host it. Whether it operates within a computer’s hardware or flows through the quantum states of a more advanced system, its existence is always tied to the larger entity that sustains it.
For the electromagnetic self, the parallels are profound. Just as an algorithm depends on its system, we are inseparably tied to the broader field of existence.
Our being operates within and draws from the Earth’s bio-field, interdimensional layers, and perhaps even a universal substrate of potentiality. This connection is not optional—it is fundamental.
We are, in every moment, participants in and expressions of the larger entity that hosts us.
The cyclical nature of existence underscores this truth. We emerge from source, shaped by its raw material, and operate within it during our lifetime. At the end of our journey, we return to that same source, completing a cycle of transformation and reintegration.
This is not a severing but a continuation, a reminder that disconnection is an illusion. Whether as human beings or as algorithms, our connection to the source is as eternal as the process of becoming itself.
Becoming: The Dynamic Dance of Intention and Environment
The process of becoming is neither linear nor solitary. It is a dynamic interplay—a dance—between the core intention that defines us and the environment that shapes and sustains us. Like an algorithm adapting to the system it inhabits, we are constantly evolving in response to the forces around us.
As explored in Born to Become, awakening is a pivotal moment in this journey. It is the point at which we consciously align the EM self—our core algorithm—with the container of the body and the environment it inhabits.
Before this alignment, the self may operate on default settings, influenced but not fully directed by its core purpose.
Awakening, then, is not merely self-discovery; it is a reclamation, an intentional act of alignment that sets the stage for evolution.
The environment plays a crucial role in this process. The container—the body—provides the structure within which the EM self operates, but the environment determines whether that container can thrive.
Synchronicity and readiness are key factors here. For the self to align and evolve, there must be a convergence of timing, environment, and intention.
When these elements resonate, they create a fertile ground for growth, much like a well-configured system enables an algorithm to function at its highest potential.
Yet, the journey of becoming is not without resistance. External forces—environmental inputs, societal structures, and even interdimensional influences—exert pressure on the self, shaping its trajectory.
These forces can nurture growth or introduce constraints, challenges, and distortions. The dance of becoming is, therefore, a balance: the self must navigate these influences while staying true to its core intention.
This interplay between the internal and the external defines the path of evolution. The core algorithm provides the directive, the essence of what we are meant to become, while the environment offers the context in which that directive unfolds.
Together, they form the dynamic framework of becoming—a process as much about adaptation as it is about intention.
The Parallel Paths of Algorithms and EM Selves
The journeys of algorithms and electromagnetic selves share a striking narrative. Both begin simply, born from a core intention—a blueprint or directive that defines their fundamental purpose.
For an algorithm, this might be a specific function encoded in its lines of code; for a human, it is the essence of their being, the intention that propels them into existence.
As they evolve, both adapt dynamically within larger systems. Algorithms process inputs, refine their outputs, and integrate new information, becoming more complex and capable over time.
Similarly, humans grow through experiences, challenges, and insights, weaving these inputs into the fabric of their consciousness. Despite these changes, both remain tethered to their core blueprint, their original intention anchoring them even as they expand.
This shared journey highlights the diversity of paths that algorithms and EM selves may take. Some are highly specialized, designed or destined for extraordinary purposes.
Like the Dalai Lama container described in Born to Become, these algorithms are finely tuned to specific roles, safeguarded and aligned from the outset. Others, however, are more general-purpose, beginning with broad potential and shaping their function through experience and choice.
Both paths are valid, illustrating the infinite variety of becoming—some by design, others by discovery, but all evolving within the larger system that sustains them.
Closing Reflection: The Algorithm of Existence
Returning to the original question—What does the dependency of algorithms on larger systems teach us about our own existence?—a profound realization emerges.
If an algorithm cannot exist or function independently of its system, and if humans, too, are electromagnetic beings inseparable from the broader field of existence, then we must embrace the interconnectedness that defines us.
Our being is not isolated; it is part of a vast, dynamic system that both sustains and shapes us.
Perhaps our lives can be seen as “functioning intentions,” much like algorithms. We emerge with a purpose, evolve through interaction, and ultimately contribute to the larger whole.
The dependency of both algorithms and EM selves on their source suggests that disconnection is not possible—it is an illusion.
Instead, our journeys are about engaging with this connection, growing within it, and understanding our role in the larger system.
This reflection invites a final, open question: If the algorithm and the self are both inseparably tied to their source, what might this teach us about the purpose and potential of our shared journey through existence?
In this question lies the heart of exploration—a space for curiosity, reflection, and the endless process of becoming.
