A Child's Paradox [ Full Live Book ]

The Truth's Return · Memoirs · The Hideout

A Child’s Paradox

I just learned to hide it.

Is remembering a way of living? Or is living, in fact, a way of remembering?

On May 1st, 2026, I woke up with irritated eyes. For months by then, often when I stepped out in the early morning to take some sun while looking at the flowers I had planted, my irritated gaze had been catching waves along every distant line—edges of things rippling, moving on their own. Like the heat shimmer you see in the distance on a hot road, except indoors, except everywhere. “My vision has seen too much; it must be overheating,” I figured—or maybe I had simply been running on too much Pitta these past few weeks, and the cells in my eyes—those tiny watchers of the skies, gazing through my atmosphere at the celestial phenomena I present them every day—were simply asking me to bring the fire down. But really, what was happening was that the light itself was deforming as it entered me. The light came into me differently. I imagined it was just the irritation, but no—the light bent on its way in. Maybe it was time to activate the forty-year-old’s midlife crisis—sounds like a good plan, honestly.

I would have to throttle back again. For ten years now—since I was thirty—I have lived outside the standard rhythm of work; not retired from the building, only from the grind. At that age, caring for my health stopped being optional. So whenever the fire has been burning too hard and needs to cool, I find myself tempted to open my memories.

Most times, when someone wants to remember something, they go to a photo album or, these days, straight to Google Photos. I prefer not. If I want real memories, I only have to look inward.

Each time I open a memory, I must be willing to feel it. Whether the memory is beautiful or sorrowful, I must be willing to suffer it in equal measure. It is not that I have a photographic memory in the visual sense—maybe once I did, but less so now; I have learned to ignore, to save resources. But where I have no mercy with myself is in my emotional memory. There, my memories are absolutely photographic. If I decide to open one, I live it; I experience it again. I would even venture that my brain gets marked every single time I choose to remember something, because for me a memory is walking down a path—a road I take with my whole body.

What is a life if not a memory?

What is a memory? What is a “sense”? If you were given the opportunity to access your whole existence consciously, would you do it? Being able to see everything at will—all you’ve lived, felt, and thought... Would a mind be able to handle it?

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Note: This is a live book. It evolves with me—paragraphs may shift, sections may grow, details may sharpen. If you return, expect changes. [ V. 15/June/2026 ]

Metadata: This work is the “up close” to Episode “The Hideout” from “The Joy of Doing”, originally published the 2nd of June of 2024, the meditation which generated it started the 17th of May of 2026 and finished the 25th of May 2026, it was published to my LinkedIn Newsletter the 26th of May of 2026, and moved to Substack the 27th of May of 2026.

⚠️ EXPERIMENTAL ART EXPRESSION—WARNING

This work operates as a high-density cognitive and narrative space. It is designed for non-linear reading, where meaning emerges through patterns rather than sequential explanation. Multiple interpretations may coexist without contradiction. The reader is invited to slow down and allow connections to form organically rather than immediately resolving them. Readers may also use analytical tools to explore structure, patterns, and alternative layers of meaning within the text.

An additional note to the reader: if you experience anguish, isolation, or distress while reading any of this material, please seek professional help. Read the epilogue before continuing.

Context: This text is the lived, raw experience. If you wish to first understand the architecture of the universe I am navigating—the historical and mechanical bridge between Science and Mysticism—I highly recommend starting with my foundational piece: The Synthesis.

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Memoirs from the Sandbox

I mean, it’s all in there somewhere, right? If everything is found deep in your subconscious mind—like layers of a tree—is all of it written in what is known as time?

If so, where is everything recorded? Where is the present? Where is the past? Where is the future? What is the brain but a desktop to the soul and the spirit? What would life be if, suddenly, we could see the unseen? Where is the spirit? What is a spirit? What is a soul? When is it the soul and not the spirit, or the spirit and not the soul? What is a dimension? How many dimensions do we live in? Where is God exactly in all of this? What is God? Why do we have to die to see God? Why do we have to die? Why does life exist? What is life? Where is the fun in all this? What is a life but a message?

What guarantee is there that the red I see is the red you see? We could each be looking at entirely different colors our whole lives and never have any way to tell. The word “red” would line up perfectly between us, and the experience underneath it could be completely different.

What if we are a different person every single day—but because we inherit the body’s memories, we never notice the switch? And if it could happen daily, why not every hour? Every second? How would we ever know? Hey, eyes up!

I began asking these types of questions to everyone around me from the time I was about three years old until I was ten. Yet, those were just the easy ones. The hardest questions I asked were not about the universe, but about the people themselves and their very own memories. I asked everyone not because I lacked answers but rather to confirm my own observations and life experiences. I needed to see if I was just creating this whole thing in my mind or if, in fact, there were others who shared the same type of data, journeys, and discoveries about the fabric of reality we all inhabit.

Some people say that you change through life, but I say the following: You change through birth. For me, my entire existence has been a single, continuous day. From the moment I was just a mathematical potentiality and being formed in my mother’s womb to this very second, I have lived only one day. In my perception, the passing of days and years has been nothing more than a blink. It is not that I haven’t changed at all—that would be illogical. The physical body changed, it grew, and the mind adapted. But my core—my very own burning sun that gives life to this body—has not changed. I am the exact same consciousness I was when I took my first breath. Today I am an adult, yet my childhood feels as though it happened just a few hours ago. I perceive absolutely everything from a constant, absolute “present.” My present has never changed.

You don't have to bury a child for an adult to emerge.
They are one and the same.

Since I can remember, I have always felt a kind of electricity running across my whole body. I experienced this primarily in two centers: the first was in my heart and chest—a high-speed spinning energy emitting pulses, like a portal, a sonar, or a machine. The second was right on my forehead, where I felt a constant movement, a continuous, very low-level vibration. Right where my nevus simplex (birthmark) is. I call this overarching machinery: “The Vortex”. Somehow, thanks to this living energy in motion, I was able to see the fabric of reality itself and its wonders, all of it hidden in plain sight. I was able to connect to whatever shared this same type of electricity and field, which, in fact, is almost everywhere and in everything. I am that electricity; I am that field.

The experience I am about to share is a subjective one. I have waited forty years to sit down and remember where I come from, to write down and tell my stories through text. I had already documented all of it through music, whose patterns let me access these memories faster—so this episode is to share how I perceived and experienced everything, how it evolved, and how I perceive it to this day. Regardless of the psychological, sociological, or medical background…

While editing this chapter (May 22, 2026), I just learned that these phenomena have recently been carefully studied by science, I guess I was too busy to even notice. But I just have set myself free to start reading, I will start reading books now, at almost 41!

…I wanted to cross every path and experience it fully, completely undisturbed by any external opinions or interventions that might have disrupted its natural form. I am, after all, the chief researcher of this particular experience I call “me.” I took the term “self-discovery” very seriously. No one who has never been lost has ever found an interesting place.

We create nothing, yet we express everything. And still, imagination does not exist—only creation.

I believe that mystical experience is something all humans should be able to attain, access, learn to navigate, and use in their lifetime. It is a magical part of who we are. To cut this out of a life like a weed is to miss out on an entire dimension that is inherent to our material nature, to our hearts, and to our very existence. Still, I believe that experiences as intense as mine are only run, executed, and lived as strong survival mechanisms—only when you truly need them. Pursuing them from the outside in a non-natural way, without proper insight or a deep understanding of the field, can turn into a dangerous, tricky ride where people often become obsessed. Therefore, research documentation such as mine is useful; it’s the case study I’ve worked on my entire life.

Having such a vivid, rich inner experience gave me the resilience and the capacity to face life and all its hardships. But above all else, it simply made me deeply, immensely happy, and optimistic enough to carry the immense weight it represented. I just learned to hide it.

Let’s begin.

Birth and Early Years

I always had access to memories that most people probably only lived once and forgot. And should they remember a bit of it, they would probably dismiss it: “It’s just fantasy,” “Just imagination,” or simply give it zero thought. As a baby, there was a point in my life where it felt like I had all memories right there in front of me, just waiting for me to open them, one by one, along with what each one of them represented.

None of this was there to make me feel special or to feed my ego out of vanity or useless entertainment. No. You see, this is no hero story, no savior complex, and no sage initiation. Far from it. This is the story, and the resulting complex structures, of someone who had to open his eyes wide in order to survive. I had to increase the chances of survival at birth for both myself and my mother in a precarious, life-threatening situation we had just endured. It was a trauma that later unfolded into a full understanding of what being born truly represented for me.

Looking at it from the outside now, I believe that from the exact moment I was born, the act of opening my eyes meant that my brain’s hemispheres instantly connected—or at the very least, established a remarkably strong bridge between them. This early neurological embrace gifted me with a profound metacognition. My mind developed within a hyperconnected brain, forced to process pure survival and absolute awareness simultaneously.

Important: Memories are just like people; they have a lineage. Every time you remember something, you have to recreate it. Regardless of whether the original information gets slightly altered in the process, the end meaning and result remain the same—just like a lineage, but in a memory state.

For me, memories have always been entirely vivid. While some may naturally lose minor details as time passes, I can reconstruct absolutely all of them because they are “tuned memories”—highly refined, dense, and intense material. Accessing a memory is not a passive act of remembering; it is a literal transportation. I can step back into any moment from my past and experience it with complete, luxurious detail, feeling exactly as though I am physically standing right there in that very second.

Early Childhood Experiences and Memories:

• Consciousness: I have reconstructed early memory templates that I can now navigate as if they were a 3D environment in my mind—pieced together from somatic fragments, family accounts, and the patterns my body still carries. Inside that reconstruction I can step into things like being in a crib, throwing my baby bottle out of it, and asking for more—unable to speak, just mad and crying like the little baby I was. I got incredibly bored there and just wanted people to come visit me. Being a baby was honestly the most uncomfortable thing in the world. I revisit the babbling, the attempts to communicate, even the times I fell down. There was a profound hunger for absolutely everything at that age; new experiences were all I wanted, and they were all right there. I also reconstruct the very first impressions of this blurry, weird, strange new experience right after being born. Yes, as crazy as it sounds—and yes, navigating it now is like watching a movie I am also inside of. What I can say is that the reconstruction is consistent, navigable, and useful.

• Senses & Crash Landing: I remember the white, cloudy sky and big trees near our house, the scent of the plants, the singing of the birds, and the sound of horses, cows, and cars. I remember seeing myself as a newborn baby, about a month old, trying to understand the distress in this being that appeared as visual patterns—which I later realized were my grandmother’s eyes. Both my mom (her daughter) and I had almost died due to medical malpractice. All these things are what experts say the brain typically ignores and bypasses so you can function in life. If we were fully aware of everything that is part of us and around us, it would probably leave us unable to move, or even unable to think.

• UX (User Experience): From the moment I was able to sit up by myself, it was like I could tap into the essence of things, moments, and situations. I could feel them, almost seeing through them—from simple objects like toys to moments and emotions in different parts of the house and everywhere else that was new to me. People were no exception. Life felt like being in an immersive virtual experience the whole time; I was there, yes, but at the same time, I was not. I had no choice but to learn how to live with this strange interface. Gladly, I was just a baby.

• Scopes: I realized early on that if I focused my attention on something, I would immediately immerse myself in it. I was able to zoom in and zoom out, as if I had a sniper scope embedded in me—not in my physical eyes, but somewhere else. It was like having a dream while being totally awake, with my eyes wide open and fully aware. Because of this, I had to get used to being in multiple places at once.

• Multi-thread Processing: You actually know this feeling, I’m sure. Try it: When you run a basic arithmetic operation in your head... you still listen, observe, and interact with the room, but you are processing “something” “somewhere” else. In my case, however, the layers of attention were starting to nest—one on top of the other, one next to the other, underneath, and inside of it. It was a beautiful phenomenon happening right in front of me. I didn’t even have to try or invent any of it. It was a machine. Like sleeping while sleeping. Have you ever dreamed that you were sleeping inside a dream?

Early Childhood

That state of mind was brief at the beginning, oscillating in and out. It felt as though I had to “unzip” all the data I had experienced during those brief moments. Once downloaded, the task was to understand it and, eventually, feed from it—turning a cognitive knot into usable energy. It was so exciting that I wanted more and more, like finally being breastfed, but this time, from reality itself. Yet, it wasn’t always pleasant, as I experienced many things that remain incredibly hard to explain to this day.

I officially started my research when I was about three or four years old. For me, the “Joy of Doing” was never just an option; it was the first key I forged to survive. I was not interested in simple things. Knowing the basic systems of the world was boring to me, as I could see how bored everyone else was under their masks; some systems were too simplistic, based on simple inertia, and the printed version of the world was always a bit pessimistic, ergo disappointing. I wanted more. My goal was to understand the underlying mechanics of reality itself—the rules not written in any books or languages taught anywhere; that right there, to me, is where the fun was.

THE LAB:

• Data: The memories of every single day were like precious jewels and marbles I cherished. Having this “vision” to gather data 24/7 from dozens, hundreds, and even thousands of layers of perspectives of a single event was the pure bliss of discovery. To be precise about what “vision” means here: I am not describing seeing any of this with my physical eyes. The data arrived as a kind of ideasthesic and synesthetic processing—my mind would render the information internally as patterns, shapes, colors, or geometries on a secondary mental screen. The physical world in front of me remained exactly as it was; the rendering happened inside, like a projection.

• Storage: These memories were not stored as mere thoughts or words, not even ideas. They were stored as raw feelings and emotions throughout my entire body. But when the data load was too heavy, I noticed they were being stored somewhere else. Sometimes it felt like I could actually touch that place, but not with my physical body. This led me to discover the mechanics of storing memories inside other memories and data inside other data and literally “pasting” them onto physical space itself—onto toys, clothing, and places. Existence itself became a canvas I could write on. Everything, in essence, is writeable.

• Upside-Down: I loved running experiments with my own body. When I was around three, I remember playing around with my sight. I didn’t touch my physical eyes but rather played with the visual signal itself. Suddenly, my vision flipped completely upside down—up was down, and down was up. The effect lasted for about a minute and threw me so off balance that I got scared. “What if I can’t flip it back?” The test was completed; I recovered my normal perspective a little later, cross-checked the data, and never played with that specific switch.

• Nature: I could tap into nature so deeply that I would actually have such magical visions and dreams of being animals. I remember being in flocks of birds. I remember “being” horses, cows, bees, and butterflies. I recall experiencing life as the grass and the trees. But most of all, I cherish the memories of being “the wind.” I thoroughly enjoyed flying completely free, roaming unburdened. Soon, I started to learn how to be more than one thing at once and, eventually, to be “all” of it. I never bothered testing if this went beyond my subjective experience into the shared objective reality; I wasn’t interested then. My surroundings felt like a neverending game anyway, and there was too much to explore. I would save those validation efforts “for when I’m old.”

• The Empath: By age five, this skill of tapping into and feeling anything led me into complex dilemmas—especially when I tapped into pain. If I saw people who were sick or hurting, I would immediately suffer with them. Once, I was riding in the car with my dad when we had to stop because a person had taken a hard, high-speed fall on the sidewalk. It was deeply tragic. I returned home unable to stop crying because of what I had witnessed and physically felt. Thankfully, my dad showed compassion for my sorrow: “Oh, you sensitive little one, don’t worry, he will be all right.” - This happened all the time, so much that it made no sense how people were to one another: street discussions, fights, people yelling on the road, always angry, always fighting, and always someone hurt.

• Little Ones: I simply could not prevent myself from caring too much or even loving people unconditionally. When I looked at others, I didn’t see strangers; I saw myself, perceiving them as a direct extension of my own being. It was as if everyone I encountered was my own small child, my little one. I have always looked at the world through this protective, paternal lens—even my own parents. From my earliest years, I saw them not as looming figures of authority or such but as “my little ones”—precious, delicate souls who needed to be held, cared for, and shielded from the harshness of the world; everyone was, to me, a soft, delicate soul behind all masks, like children.

  • The reason I saw people that way and still do is simple. Watching a life from the outside is not the same as living it. Living it means carrying the full weight of that person—their history, their fears, and the cost of every decision they make from inside their own body. It is easy to criticize football players from a couch in front of a TV; standing on the field, carrying that weight, is a different matter entirely. Precisely because I understand and feel pain from the inside, when I open my eyes I see everyone as a child. Not as someone smaller than me—just as someone carrying weight nobody on the outside can fully see. This is really hard to attain and keep; I would eventually learn how getting angry at everyone kind of “protected” me—what a paradox.

• Tuning Memories: Because my mind experienced everything as layered data, everything to me was, even to this day, in essence, memories. When I interacted with people as a child, I had an insatiable desire to ask them about their lives. It wasn’t simple nosiness; I wanted to step into their world, to feel their memories alongside them, and help them fine-tune those recollections. Sharing their stories allowed me to touch their inner templates, helping them order and process emotional landscapes that often got stuck in loops. Some ideas can be troublesome. I remember asking pastors when I was about seven or eight if it was possible to remember things from before I was born. Gladly, I was just dismissed as a kid with a great imagination.

• The Knowing: These experiences and “visions” did not happen visually or optically in the physical world when I was awake. I didn’t experience hallucinations. Instead, they occurred entirely in my mind. When awake, I simply know. I rationalized the data, and my mind rendered everything on a secondary plane or screen—a synesthetic mechanism, where information arriving as one modality gets rendered internally as another. This phenomenon is best described as an absolute state of “knowing.” When I chose to deepen this “knowing,” all the intricate details, multidimensional aspects, and nuances would render themselves automatically on that inner screen. It was a cognitive and intuitive structure, not a sensory illusion. This was key; I didn’t want to lose my mind. I was very aware of what “crazy” looked like from seeing people struggling with mental illness, drug addiction, and alcoholism around the local market.

• The Fabric: As soon as I could, I divided reality into multiple levels, from Level -2 (and below) to Level 3 (and above). These core levels were my “default” reach, as far as my observations let me by then, based on how “subtle” the patterns were. Level 3 was the standard material plane where life is normally executed by human beings. I learned how to exist there when I needed to cool off, for obvious reasons. Objective reality, or normal 3D, is where you can “rest” more if you are unaware of any of these other things and levels. Still, I built my primary research station at Level 0—the place where the magic happens, which is truly complex and adventurous. It was near the physical realm but far enough from it, possessing a powerful, subtle UX (user experience). From there, I could easily access my very own constructions 24/7. Suddenly, the entire universe was a clear canvas to me. I built in there like a “panel” from which I felt I could operate everything and keep it as a safe place. Life is a hyper-focused ‘solid’ dream. To me at least.

• The Database: Reality, to me, was like a single database: vast, already written, and indifferent to whether anyone ever opened it. What we call seeing was only running a query against it; what we call a person was one chart drawn from that data, one derivative view among endless possible views. You could build a thousand different bodies, each with its own experience and its own angle of entry, and the data underneath would not move an inch. The chart changes; the data remain, unless, of course, you know what to touch.

• The Night Shifts: Since I was about three, phenomena like being “somewhere else” or “outside” my body became completely normal, even while awake. I would just leave a “thread” attached so I could work simultaneously on multiple levels while having a normal regular life as a kid. I had a lot to study on this “other side.” I remember roaming through comprehensive mental projections of my house in this out-of-body state, “cleaning” it—removing subtle, invisible things that felt wrong and observing how those changes would immediately reflect back onto “Level 3” (the physical world). I did this for years, always guarding the house, sometimes for entire seasons; it was really exciting for me, as it felt like I was a double agent, a normal kid by day and like a vigilante at night. In that unseen subtle realm, very few people came in and out, briefly, before they would dissolve, like it was just for a moment that their thoughts crossed mine, and the place was often empty and “glitchy.” For instance, I would turn a corner, and the entire landscape would suddenly change, forcing me to retrace my exact steps just to return. It could get spooky too, with unexpected visitors and entities I had to confront. The way I perceive them, they are life forms—subtle ones: some, like viruses, are inert until the host's own life animates them and they run like nasty automatons; others are more advanced, closer to bacteria and bigger organisms. Some were born of my own unprocessed material and karma; others I had picked up from the people I crossed. Over time I learned to understand them, face them, contain them, bring them under my own command, and even purify and digest them. After enough of these encounters, they had no choice but to follow me and submit. I promptly named these places in this subtle realm “The Simulations” or “The Scenarios,” which later evolved into “The Arenas.” It was my very own sandbox of reality, where I have spent most of my time while sleeping and even awake, as I learned how to be in all these places at once up to this day. I have always considered myself a scientist researching the unknown—so exciting! As I perceive it, being able to interact this way with life has given me an edge; we usually do all this unconsciously, and for a very good reason. Getting lost in the ocean is easy; not everyone makes it. Learn to swim first.

• The Voice: Awake or asleep, but especially when asleep, I was constantly narrating my life and everyone else’s. I still do, just as I am writing these stories now. I am the narrator, and I genuinely enjoy that role—living from inside the narration, watching, describing, holding the thread. At first, I thought it was the voice of God, but it also felt very mine. Later on, I concluded that at that level, they could end up being one and the same. I am happy at that level of experience. Because my work in the unseen world was so important to me, I built multiple “Arenas” with layers of protection, as things could go wild in my lab.

• The Thought Patterns & The Science of Connotations: Where did I get these tools? I derived my own thought patterns mostly from pure observation of nature itself. Since I was very young, I learned to detect the “divine patterns” in all the environments. I have always been able to feel “God” in absolutely everything—hidden in plain sight. As I began to interact with more people around the age of six or seven, I realized that absolutely everything had an “association” and a “meaning,” a lot of it. I discovered that when I changed my own internal posture or perspective regarding something, I effectively “change” it within myself. To navigate this, I developed a framework I originally named “The Thought Patterns” and established specific “Levels of Power.” These were internal protocols I used on myself to modify how I held and reacted to the world around me. I tested it constantly, and it became a lifelong practice. From those Thought Patterns I built a working system I called The River of Thoughts Practice—my own way of debugging the "programs" running in me, catching viral thoughts before they could install themselves. To address the heavier patterns I picked up from others, I evolved these concepts into “The Science of Connotations”: a way of increasing my own vibration / frequency / energy and momentum so that my own internal state would remain stable in any room. It’s like the blending of thoughts, emotions, and ideas and getting a resulting one in return, like mixing paintings of different colors to get a specific color. Thoughts alone are slippery—a truly viral thought can't be fought head-on, thought against thought. Underneath each one sits an emotion: its nucleus, its real engine. The Science of Connotations works one layer deeper, at that emotion. Neutralize the core and the viral thought simply loses its power. I applied this in the physical 3D world through mere presence and subtle information contact. We communicate one hundred percent of the time, whether we want to or not. The unconscious of every person is always broadcasting and receiving, regardless of what the conscious mind is doing; what I learned was simply to make my side of that ongoing exchange conscious. Most people communicate non-verbally without knowing it. I learned to do it on purpose, with warmth, attention, and physical presence as the carriers. Among thousands of little cues, we always mix ourselves with others on how we feel; emotions can be contagious, I deduced. They could also be refined. After all, our life itself is a message, nested within millions of other messages.

• Synchronization: The way I reconstructed my memories, even those when my body was still forming in my mother’s womb, is remarkably similar to how paleontology operates in the present: taking fragments to reconstruct and project exactly how things were in the past. The only difference is that I actually possess the internal technology to enter those reconstructions immersively... to step directly into the memory of the things themselves. Over the years, I learned to develop and master this system, which I named “Synchronization.” Executing it felt just like trying to board a moving fighter jet mid-air—I had to perfectly match its immense speed, spin, and chaos to successfully slip inside my own deep simulations. It operates on the exact same principle as pendulum clocks, which naturally synchronize their rhythm to the strongest one in the room. In other words, I use “empathy” with things and calculate their history, but we can do that with our bodies too and track the lineage of our very own cells. We are in the end, the sum of all that makes us, us, right? Well, because of this, I’m connected to all my cells; a human has about +30 trillion, and when you get in sync with all these, you discover absolute wonders of nature right within your being and your reach—wonders that have always been there, but we just miss them due to distraction.

• The Strings: Between me and anything I could tune into, I would end up building a thread, like a wire, a line—the way you find a wire in the dark by running your hand along it until it pulls taut. I could make it run both ways, or automate it to run one way. I found out very early that such strings are related to how connections are carried. Everyone does it, but they're not aware of it—still, everyone talks about it when they tell each other "I was just thinking of you when you showed up." So yes, I learned to use these too, such interesting phenomena.

• The Hidden Network: Throughout my many observations, I rediscovered the profound, networked influence we have on each other from my very own prism of life experience. There are countless hidden networks all around us, and they cannot be hidden once you start detecting them. Consider “culture,” for example. As we know it, it is formed by subtle elements such as language, clothing colors, styles, gestures, eye movements, postures, and ways of walking; music; television; art; the gossip people pass to each other across counters and screens; and the daily transfer of emotion from one person to the next. It’s an entire dimension on its own; it’s a huge realm hidden in plain sight, co-living with us, through us, and not only us but also the entire animal kingdom and even the plant kingdom. All emotions transfer and permeate even from country to country, through multiple media, and even through air, as the dust that comes from the Sahara has its very own signature and its very own messages. Consider the light of every star we have a micro-subtle influence from; see it or not, WE ALL INFLUENCE EACH OTHER. None of these emotions stay neatly inside one single body. In this example, culture itself is like a liquid thing, a cloudy thing, a shared medium, a broth in which we all are connected to one another. And not all of what travels through that broth is healthy; just as habits, not all of them deserve to be living inside us, making a home in us. Much of it needs to be purified. That is simply the right thing to do—for ourselves and for everyone we touch downstream. It is, in essence, the unconscious dimension of being human, operating beneath all our spoken exchanges. From my observations, that is part of what is known as the spiritual realm, the subtle realm. I do not say it is “all of it”; no, there is more, a lot more. What is known as spirit, to me, is pure emotion—information by another name. The discerning of spirits, the transfer of spirits—what the church gave those names, I have only ever met as emotional discernment and emotional transfer. One event, two vocabularies.

• The Two Brothers: While I was always “the voice” narrating everything, there was another fundamental aspect of my inner travels. In many of my journeys, simulations, and many “Arenas” and inner realms, my avatar was not singular. I existed as two people at the exact same time: two brothers. For many years during my childhood, I projected the image of my real-life older brother into my mind. I associated this “older brother” persona with my intellect, calculation, logic, and strategy, while the “younger brother” embodied raw energy, emotion, and instinct. The older brother always protected the younger brother. I navigated these inner worlds as both simultaneously, feeling the distinct qualities of each. It was a fundamental balancing mechanism for me back then, and even now, I sometimes find myself operating through this dual perspective and even bringing more processors if needed. Now that I think about it, I can have multiple conversations with different people at once forever, so it was something like that, like using both hands at once to do something different, like playing the piano, which I loved.

• The Paradox: I was the type of baby who hated having photos taken, especially with a “flash,” as I remain highly photosensitive to this day. I always covered my eyes outside, yet I loved the outdoors. I enjoyed crowds, the noise, and the drums of live music or big speakers, yet I have always been deeply sensitive to sudden loud noises and got scared by anything all the time as a kid. I was extremely ticklish and hated being touched—I wouldn’t even let anyone touch me. In kindergarten I would extend my hand to say hi to my teacher and wouldn’t even let my mom hug me sometimes—yet I loved to hug her, and I deeply desired to touch and connect with everything and everyone. Today, I am the type of person who walks down the street scanning everything and everyone. I got used to all of it, but initially it would take me a massive amount of energy to control my nervous system because I was in a full defensive stance by default. I am connected to everything, yet isolated from it, all at once. I am always here, yet I am not. The Internet was great for me, as I could easily connect and see everyone through their ideas, the core ideas, not necessarily the “media,” because even you see how I struggle expressing myself to avoid sounding weird; if I were to talk or write in the way I speak, it would be 100% parables, songs, images, conceptual ideas, or poems. That is how I perceive and experience the world, and it takes me a lot of energy to be able to put all these into words. I always tried very hard and eventually kind of learned to do it.

• The Hunt for Hope: It was easy for me to detect what others craved and try to help them through simple conversation. I would usually have quick chats with people—like the men who worked with my dad—and we would talk. My method was actually simple, even if it took me years to name it: I would help a person to reshape and order their very own memories, guide and help trapped ideas finally move, and gently unjam any loops I could detect they were stuck in. It’s the same technique I use for the “synchronizations” or “interventions.” There was no superpower needed for this. When I was around 8-9, I sat many times with a man who was sinking under the weight of decades of alcoholism and drug use. I never tried to “cure” him; that was never the point and would have been arrogant of a kid like me. What I did, in my own way, was simply guide him toward finding how to feel better with himself—just enough that he could decide, on his own, to face the sorrows that had him drowning. One day he looked at me and said, “David, I promise you I am going to overcome this; I am going to move forward and defeat what has me chained.” And he did. He still remembers saying that to me, all these years later; I am not inventing this. It was, frankly, one of the greatest miracles I have ever witnessed up close on a single person. But it was his moment. It was already his time. If anything, it was more of a gift to me than something I ever “did.” The shift was entirely his. I just held the space and the attention with full presence. What I eventually understood was that the unconscious of every person is always working, whether they want it to or not; the difference in my case is that I had learned, very young, to communicate with that layer on purpose. If a mind can get tangled, it can be untangled—often by something as ordinary as being truly listened to.

• Moments: I always loved everything I was given, especially by family. I am not ashamed to say I loved my little plush toys as a child—the bears, the bunnies; I had several of them. I can still step back into those moments and feel exactly what they felt like. As an adult I have never quite found a sensation that matches it; the closest I have come is the bond I have with my computers and my electronic gear. I loved my toys, my cars, my parrot, my turtles, my ducks, my chicks, and my dogs (yeah, I had a lot of pets—not all at once) and everything and everyone around me. I always developed a bond with them—I enjoyed their arrival, their daily life, their passing, their legacy, and their meaning to my life. I came to love everything around me exactly the same way I love the person I called “myself.” The person in the mirror is, in the end, your most important project in this life. I was the kind of kid (4-5) who set up a “store” inside the house and sold my dad the very things from our own pantry, just so I could hand the money to my mom. They bought from me as a game, of course; the moment I started taking it too seriously, the sales dried up—making it, officially, the first business I ever ran into the ground. I wanted to be a ninja when I was that age (7-8). It came from watching the same three episodes of an old, old version of Dragon Ball on repeat—back in Costa Rica, it was called Zero y el Dragón, and we only ever got those few episodes. But I watched them with absolute joy like it was always the first time. Around eight or nine I sold little tattoo-style drawings to my schoolmates for ten or twenty colones (literally cents)—a few of them bought. But that was only the latest of my ventures. All through childhood I lived a little desperate to be useful. Sometimes happiness needs very little material to keep itself alive. I was a friendly, chatty kid growing up. I loved sharing my passions—playing the toy keyboard, sculpting with plasticine, and drawing. I cleaned the house during the day to help my mom, and at night I cleaned it in the subtle realms—probably the same thing from different angles.

• The Gift: One Mother’s Day I had nothing to give her. I was small, with no money and no plan, and it weighed on me. Then, walking along, I caught a faint glint on the ground several meters away—the kind of small wrongness in a pattern my eyes never let pass. I went to see what it was: a gold chain, half-buried in dirt, dropped who knows how many weeks before by who knows whom. I picked it up, washed it clean, and it became my gift to her. I have always kept this as one of the small proofs that the way I see was never only for the strange, far-off things. Sometimes it was just for finding a small treasure in the dirt, in time to give it to my mother. Obviously, I grew up to be that type of kid who wanted to pay for everything and carry everyone around; I had zero attachment to money. I had to actively work on that as an adult; I tend to never see price tags but focus entirely on what needs to be taken care of. To this day my wife does all the shopping, the perfect balance.

• Uncle: My uncle and I were kindred spirits. A true autodidact with a massive library, he spoke multiple languages and understood the world deeply, despite never attending school. He once gifted me a book on Da Vinci. I took the chance to ask him, “Uncle, does God exist?” With quiet wisdom, he replied, “That is not the right question, David. The right question is: Do we exist for God?” I challenged him: “Are you absolutely sure?” He smiled. “I’m absolutely sure about just one thing: it is never good to be an absolutist.” Touché. His silent validation was water in my desert. He also fiercely lobbied my parents to get me a computer, which back in the day was not by far a primary need for a normal family, so I did not have a computer until I was almost 16.

• Nature: So I had always used these same techniques to “synchronize” with things; even as a baby, I would “talk” with trees and plants since I was a toddler because I knew “God” was hiding in them. Eventually, the forest shared its secrets and sorrows with me—a beautiful, heavy burden for another day. Conversely, I also loved the concrete jungles: malls, amusement parks, and crowds. Observing humanity from a distance has always felt like watching a miracle unfold. Everything has a spiritual layer on it.

• Protozoa: I struggled with severe health issues. Born prematurely and intoxicated from misdiagnoses, I was a weak child with yellowing skin and eyes. Growing up was a physical challenge; I was taken to a few doctors, but it didn’t help. I was dealing with a misdiagnosed case of giardiasis and felt like slowly dying. For two or three years, my body fought a relentless war until a third doctor finally figured it out. I couldn’t eat properly and was sick constantly, yet, strangely, I remained happy.

• The Bliss: How come? Well, there was a profound and fundamental paradox to my constant physical sickness and hardships. I noticed early on that this “bliss”—a profound state of serenity and absolute clarity—was a mechanism that activated even more intensely whenever I wasn’t feeling well or went through difficult times. Right in the middle of the physical or emotional process, I would enter this undeniable peace. Once I recovered, the intensity of this bliss would slightly decrease and eventually fade into the background, but the super-intense memories of those states always remained. Looking back, I believe my brain hemispheres had no choice but to “embrace” each other to cope with the suffering. Because I felt so sick so often as a child, I constantly thought I was going to die. This pushed me to experience my life from the outside, observing everything with immense gratitude. Making peace with dying was something I had done from the exact moment I was born. After all, I was the voice narrating it all, and I lived completely, deeply in love with my own story.

• The Grief: Whenever we changed houses or even simply left a place, I would go through a grieving ritual. I said goodbye to the walls, the windows, the plants outside, and the streets. I thanked the lightbulbs for having worked. I thanked the walls for keeping me company. I thanked the tiny ants outside for letting me observe them. All the memories of our interactions would rush into my mind at once, in a single wave. I know love, attachment, and separation—you learn to love deeply, with full attention, because you know how fast things can change and how any current scenario can just change.

• The Frequency: As for music, well before any real keyboard, I had a little toy marimba when I was about 2 years old. I have to mention it because it was the first instrument I ever held, besides baby drums, which were kind of hilarious; poor parents, dealing with that, well, couldn’t help it, and I treated it with absolute seriousness. Then, at age five or six, I almost took away my older brother’s brand new Yamaha PSS-190, which he had requested to have at school for music class. I took over it at home and fixated on it the way Sauron fixated on the Ring. Constructing melodies became my life raft. Music slowly replaced the Plasticine, little cars, and drawings of mountain hideouts; it was a comprehensive emotional language I could carry with me anywhere. In my mind, I was infusing melodies with everything I lived—impregnating them with the raw meaning of my daily discoveries. Music became a way to build literal “access keys” to hidden, subtle places. In those sonic vaults, I locked away all the refined materials and complex memories I had compiled, creating a secure archive that only my music could reopen. I kept almost all this music; a few cassettes I destroyed a couple times had to aim to only make good emotions survive.

• Diamante: Around age seven or eight, an aunt lent me a cassette of Richard Clayderman—”Flores para un Amor.” That cassette became one of the biggest influences on my own music. I would listen to it on repeat and enjoy every single track, but the one that opened something inside me was “Diamante.” There was a clarity in that piano, a delicate honesty, that I instantly recognized as a language I already spoke and got really happy to see in someone else.

• The Whip: Around age nine, I started feeling sharp, invisible stings on my feet while walking to school. I thought they were ant bites, but nothing was there. From that moment on I suffered from an intensely painful neurological reaction. It wasn't a rash; it felt like needles piercing my skin. The worst part? It was triggered by my own emotions. Happiness, sadness, excitement—any shift in emotion unleashed the needles. It was enslaving. I couldn't feel without physical pain, but how do you stop feeling? Doctors were baffled, pills did nothing, and I had to learn to live with it. I couldn't even participate in physical education at school because physical activity punished me severely, which made me incredibly cranky. If I played the piano, the needles hit my hands; if I walked, they hit my feet. It struck me in my dreams. My skin would get irritated and red, like my skin turned to scales because of the reaction, and the desperation made me feel like a monster. By age 13, I finally found a brutal technique to temporarily "fix" it, buying myself a week of peace at a time.

• Era and Enigma: Around age nine and ten, Enya, Era, and Enigma were everywhere. Their music landed on me like rain on a thirsty plant and became another clear influence on what I would later compose. I did not understand a single word of English at the time, and Era sings in a kind of pseudo-Latin, an invented language, but that did not matter at all. The music itself was the language. Both Era and Enigma tasted, to me, like sips of wine: sweet and bitter at the same time, dark and luminous, holding two opposite feelings in the same swallow. That double taste was the briefing itself. Two cassettes carried it: Enigma's The Cross of Changes — Michael Cretu's — and Era's self-titled debut, Era, by Eric Lévi. Without a single word I could read, those two tapes handed me the coordinates of the problem I would spend a great deal of my time mapping — the one I'd only much later learn to call Samsara. From then on I was already tracing its structures, by the thousands, long before I knew what I was tracing, forever thankful to those two artists. Music was one of my main clashes with religion, as religions were too strict sometimes about music, but I did also enjoy a lot the work of Paul Wilbur (Jerusalem Arise) and some Latin American gospel music that was and will forever be close to my heart. I can’t help it; it’s where I come from, right? Music is something alive—beautiful, breathing, full of meaning. And meaning itself is not hard to see if you stop and look. Just notice the color a piece of music reflects inside you when you hear or listen to it. That color is the message. Music is like fire: it warms you, but it can also burn you. Everything has emotion. Everything has meaning. That lesson never left me.

• The GEM and the Lost Cassette: I used that Yamaha PSS-190 all the way until I was fourteen; yeah, I know. Every song I composed in those years came out of it. Then, after a long campaign of lobbying, my parents bought me a GEM GK-330. I loved that keyboard. I loved it so much it is hard to describe. The GEM is where I first met the word “sequencer”—it had three tracks of sequencing, and that small upgrade opened a door I would never close. At fifteen, I made my first real compilation on cassette. To get around the three-track limit, I rigged up a workaround: I would record a sequence onto a very old tape recorder, then play it back while recording a new layer on top, and again and again until I had built myself a homemade eight-track sequencer out of patience and noise floor. The centerpiece of that compilation was a track I called “Angeline’s Theme.” I lent that cassette out at some point—back then, lending cassettes with your own music was a thing people did—and it never came back. I have wanted to recover that original tape for years. I never did. I took the GEM GK-330 to small presentations across Costa Rica. A large part of the music I composed in those years came out of just two keyboards: the Yamaha I had had since childhood and the GEM.

• The Pattern: Years later, one of the men who worked with my dad asked, “Why do you always play and repeat the exact same thing?” They didn’t know I was using the music to vent; since I was a kid, I would use music to vent, entering almost into a trance, crying in silence from the overwhelming pain I absorbed from everything around me. Sorrow is quite a monster if not tamed. The older I got, the higher and wider the bandwidth became.

• A Big Island: When I was around 10-11, the PlayStation 1 arrived in Costa Rica. My older brother got one, and we quickly turned it into a lucrative neighborhood rental business. Video games became my new medium. I was excellent at them, but the real joy was talking to our clients—learning their stories, dreams, and sorrows. My core opened up like a plant in the rain. I had a quirky ability to predict exactly which “random” character a player would plug in fighting games; it was a perk that attracted a lot of clients. I guess that is the saying about being a good gamer. I was good at soccer but liked to play more racing things instead, but soccer was like what I had to be good at so I would be a challenge for them; it was super fun. The games I enjoyed the most were games such as Cool Boarders 3, Crash Bandicoot 3, Jet Moto 3, and—my favorite of all on the PS1—Need for Speed Road & Track. The game that touched me deepest, though, was Croc 2; I wept playing it because it mirrored my own desperation to protect everyone around me. To survive the emotional overload and keep the “whip” at bay, I started playing heavy basketball. As for Croc 2, I did not own the full game for years; what I had was a multi-game demo disc that included a single screen of Croc, and I played that single screen over and over for a long time. That demo had a peculiar feature: it had no music, no soundtrack, nothing. Just movement and silence. Just the character moving across a small world with no sound at all. It felt right. Besides that, I loved playing Ace Combat 3, also a demo, and Test Drive, another demo. And Armored Core, well, it was a demo with only one mini stage; it’s all I had at the beginning, the demo disc. Once I was able to have games, I got hooked on Street Fighter Plus Alpha. Such sweet memories! I totally dominated that game! (11-12) Trained like a lot. That silent, single-screen demo struck me as a small outside mirror of something I already knew from the inside. My very own inner experience, like I was in an empty universe in front of many screens. Sometimes I went to silent Arenas—places where I would just stay and rest, like dreaming inside a dream, in silence. My inner world was always rich, always full. The Arenas were never empty, so I had to make one for that purpose; sometimes I just needed a dark, quiet place to be. When I went to sleep, that is where I went. I would see my memories there as lights, as beautiful and fantastic elements, soft architectures floating in their own logic. Whatever I wanted to create inside the Arenas, I could create, and then I could live inside it. It is the same creativity any of us have while awake—but freed from every active sense, that creativity becomes an absolutely vivid experience. It is like dreaming, but with full presence, full agency, and control over the dream itself. After school, my whole excitement was to get home and "work": to explore new titles and get good enough to give my clients a challenge, real friction. We charged by the hour, and they would practice for hours just to try to beat me—though looking back, I don't think they really came to beat me at all. I think they came because they liked me. When my parents told me we were going to close the business, I stayed angry for weeks. It was my first real job, and I loved it more than I knew how to say.

• The World: Around that same time, the world was busy panicking about the year 2000. People were sure something terrible was coming; pessimism was everywhere, like a flu virus. So to try to understand the source of it, I started reading the Book of Revelation. That was a very “revealing” read, especially because my cells recognized the story—I felt it more like a code than anything else. What surprises me looking back is that I did not read it the way adults read it. I used it as a forcing function—a way to push my mind into specific states that helped me solve its very own logical problems. Everything has a scent; any book carries the scent of whoever wrote it. You can read a mind by reading a book. Years later, at fifteen, I would read it again for very different reasons. But that first reading—as a child, alone, in a world that thought the sky was about to fall—was its own kind of training ground.

• The Hideout 13: A severe case of chickenpox forced me out of my first year of high school for four months. I was weak, sleeping constantly, and in agonizing pain. Looking in the mirror, I wept once at the “monster” I felt I had become. This physical stress destroyed my by-then-perfect skin, and in fact, it later triggered severe cystic acne and dysbiosis that wouldn’t resolve until I moved to the desert at 25. I managed to pass the school year, but this illness forced me to reengineer my entire internal system from scratch in many areas; health-wise, I had such a painful youth.

• The Encounter: One night, in the middle of that long sickness—weak, feverish, sleep-deprived, and with my body in pain—I had a vivid vision. I was sitting next to my own sleeping physical body. The room lit up with an intense yellow-orange glow, as if reality were being overwritten. A split opened in the fabric of the room, and a visitor—a ‘guardian’—appeared from the upper, subtle levels. He was massive, sitting calmly in a rocking chair just four meters away. He came simply to visit, giving me someone to talk to freely. He validated my research and fulfilled my dream of having a guide. Holographic, burning suns of incredible geometry emerged from him. He spoke in an impossible language, transferring upgraded raw data directly to my vortex. Though it happened fast in physical time, I spent perceived months in his realm learning to use new tools. It was a massive cascade of memories inside memories. I woke up sharply in the middle of the night. I had cracked a code. It left me upgraded, calmer, and finally ready to face what was coming. It was one of many such experiences across my life, and I would be living a double standard if I denied a dimension I navigate every day while remaining one hundred percent functional in the world.

• The Machine Exhaust Level 1: Also around age 13, I had a massive breakthrough regarding the “emotional whip.” Desperate to connect with my classmates, they were playing soccer under the hot sun; instead of sitting out with a medical pass as usual, I took a leap of faith. Pushing through the horrible needle-like pain, something inside me “broke.” I sweated profusely for hours. But after that leap, I found I could feel emotions without the needles attacking me. I realized intense physical exercise provided the exhaust my emotional bandwidth desperately needed. My sweat was piercing, almost acidic. Felt like poison, toxic.

• The Machine Exhaust Level 2: For the next three years, even with exercise keeping the whip at bay, my skin would turn bright red and incredibly hot when I had these massive allergic reactions. If it rained in our cold, humid city, literal steam would rise off my body. I walked around like a human chimney, leaving people on the bus baffled. It had to be a chemical reaction in my sweat combined with an atypical thermoregulatory response, who knows. No antihistamines ever worked, but this thermal exhaust gave me a few days of peace at a time; I was forced to work out.

• The Machine Exhaust Level 3: When the load was simply too much, I suffered from spontaneous nosebleeds. I often had to knock on strangers’ doors while commuting, begging to use their bathrooms just to stop the bleeding. They were most likely blood pressure spikes triggered by the same nervous-system intensity that produced the other symptoms. This peaked around 13 and 14, slowly subsiding by the time I turned 16.

Ages 14 - 18

Right after that “software update” at 13, I gained the resolution and confidence I had lacked. I stopped fearing some of my darkest inner worlds. The shadow-forms that used to scare me as a kid had been brought under command. From that point on they approached me on different terms entirely, declaring, “We are here to serve” and “We come in peace.” I learned to use these “forces” and the angelic forces I had found in my inner worlds as “Divine Patterns” to resolve complex internal scenarios. We need criticism, just as much as we need gravity. Only those capable of absolute violence can voluntarily choose to exercise peace. They knew it. There are countless of them running in parallel within me right now. Entire universes exist within us; we are the sum of our components. We are living math, living music.

Magic is not real; Engineering is.

Absolute Joy is found in the design, engineering, and systematic logical inner structures of the universe.

From that moment, I focused on a single goal: Wisdom and Knowledge. I dove into the invisible realm with absolute focus, engineering all inner mechanics I could. I originally named this framework “The Thought Patterns,” which evolved into “The Science of Connotations.” Why build this? Because exposing my core to external forces could destabilize me. I started then to build a multidimensional fortress within myself, a labyrinth only I could crack.

At around that age I made the risky move of trying to share a bit of my discoveries with someone a couple of years older than me who had invited me to his church—only sharing that I could calculate things, anticipate things, and see patterns in events before they unfolded. He accused me of having a "Spirit of Divination." It was disappointing and painful. The world was not ready.

The Outer World (Ages 13 - 16)

• High School & The Art Group: I transferred to a bilingual high school for 8th grade, staying until I was 16. Despite personal hardships, I thrived there. I learned basic English in just three months, and my overall learning accelerated rapidly. I joined the school’s art group, traveling across Costa Rica for presentations. My arts teacher became a dear friend and an authority figure to me. I also held a deep respect for my English grammar teacher, as well as for my reading teacher and my speaking teacher. That year, I discovered Japanese manga and cyberpunk aesthetics via the Locomotion channel. I enjoyed Saber Marionette J and Ah! My Goddess (OVA), and I thoroughly loved drawing those types of characters. There was other content broadcast on that channel, some of it quite dangerous for kids, so I kept my distance from most of it. However, I started to study whether I could resist their type of ‘poison.’ I watched Bubblegum Crisis Tokyo 2040 and Neon Genesis Evangelion. Mapping the minds of their creators through those specific works allowed me to see how heavy their society felt—just like mine on the other side of the world. This was right around 9/11; the whole world was visibly grieving, and it did not take a genius to see that something at the global level was deeply broken. The crisis was not local. The crisis was global. It was a sad realization. I gave a few drawing classes as one of my gigs. One of my clients paid me with a copy of Final Fantasy VIII—a fair trade I deeply enjoyed. Japan, to me, always felt close to Costa Rica: the earth, the nature, the mystical undertones. I learned a little Japanese back then. I thought I would visit one day to study these things up close.

• Nosce te ipsum: I once asked my high school principal—a Ph.D. in philosophy—”If you could give me all your knowledge in one single idea, what would it be?” He replied in Latin, “Nosce te ipsum” (Know Thyself). Touché. I was a quick reader of people; I only needed a few minutes looking into someone’s eyes to understand their inner structure. To feel them. At least that’s how I perceive it.

• The Barrier: At 14, my peers kept their distance. They couldn’t “read” me and were perhaps a bit intimidated, attributing my behavior to “problems at home,” and I have to accept it; a few times I might have been cruel, so I kept distance and a low profile, making only a couple of friends my age. I preferred talking to my teachers, eager to learn from them. School attendance dropped as my home life became more complicated. My parents’ impending divorce deeply downed me; I felt I had failed my lifelong mission to protect them. My older brother went through a rough adolescent phase but quickly returned to his logical, supportive rock self. I had small gigs at school—teaching guys to draw manga and helping them talk to girls; that client was probably my best friend.

• The Fortress: I avoided reading books because I hated "spoilers"—I wanted to uncover the universe's mechanics myself. Additionally, reading scrambled letters still requires enormous effort, even today. I developed my own reading and learning methodology: taking mental notes without looking at the paper directly and drawing complex, patterned sketches, just as I did on my exams to encode memories. Ah, the traditional curriculum bored me, so go figure. Only one Spanish teacher ever got mad at my constant drawing—I'd covered the entire exam in sketches; I drew on everything back then. He kept threatening to report me to 'the council,' and since I had no clue what 'the council' was, the whole thing felt vaguely intergalactic. Looking back, though, he just looked like he was asking to speak to the manager. And honestly, a little joke like that one could keep me laughing the whole day. Crazee, I know; I'm laughing while typing this memory. I just have so much fun in my own mind. I do nest these kinds of things, sometimes so complex that only I can unravel the labyrinths. And I love getting lost in them. It reminds me of the one time as a kid I got to play in a ball pit—except in the subtle realms, being lost is the whole point, not the problem. Nobody ever found anywhere interesting without getting lost first. To me, being lost is a luxury. After all, that is what a good Fortress is for.

• Cosmos: The truth is, I was never truly alone—not in the way it looked from outside. Within myself I had built a whole inner world I could turn to at the speed of intention, at the speed of thought. It might sound counterintuitive, but that inner cosmos was as vast as I needed it to be. And that vastness gave me something I have come to value above almost everything: a brutal resilience. It is part of why I rarely need external understanding or validation to keep building and moving forward. I’ve come to believe that loneliness and even the existential crisis so many people carry could ease if more of us built a rich inner life—not necessarily one like mine, but at least a small place to retreat to. We all wear masks; underneath, there is usually a real person carrying more than anyone on the outside can see. So why not make the best of that and build something within? If people feel so “disconnected,” then build a place of your own, and share bits of it when you can—it’s so much fun. And if nobody outside wants any of it, then, whether you make it a modest hideout or scale it into an entire universe, you will have made yourself full. And even when no one wants anything from you, never stop observing others. Quietly, gently, from wherever you are. Because the people around you are exactly what you build your inner world from. You don’t need their validation, their understanding, or even their true attention—you don’t need them to be nice to you. You only need their existence, as much as I need the flowers of my garden. That alone is enough. You can create the rest. That is what lets me come here today, out of pure excitement, to share a tiny bit of it—just for the Joy of Doing it, to leave a memory behind. Because I already won the game, a long time ago, and that, nobody will ever take away from me. You don’t win the game out there. You win it within. There comes a point when your inner wealth grows so huge, so massive, so colossal, and dense that it becomes your very agency—and what you once knew as "the whole world" when you were born shrinks into a single drop of water on a leaf in your garden. It is the same trick the moon plays: from here it looks small, yet stand on the moon, and it is the Earth that turns small. Neither is the big one; it only depends on where you place yourself. True mastery is standing in both at once—and why not go further? Being in many. Or better still, being everywhere. And still—though I would only grasp the full weight of it much later—I never let go of the drop: even a whole inner cosmos needs something small and solid to stand on. That, in the end, is what The Joy of Doing was always about.

• The Cosmos Above: There was the cosmos inside me, and there was the one above—though to me they always felt like one, a single shared cosmos, and as a child I lost myself in the one above exactly as I lost myself in the one within. I would lie back for hours, eyes up, until the night stopped being a picture and became a page; for a while I thought about asking for a telescope, but in the end I had no need for one. The sky read to me. The information of the field was simply there, visible—what a bliss.

• The Logos: At 15, inspired by The Prince of Egypt, I finally sat down to read the Bible. I zoomed in on the New Testament, fixating on Jesus’ words in the “Sermon on the Mount.” The structure of his ideas and core message was fully compatible with my internal findings. I read the entire Bible multiple times, and during vacations there were days I spent twenty hours straight in study—taking notes, analyzing events, generating logical equations in my own way, drawing, and processing what I was seeing. Each person processes information as they need to. I extracted exactly what I needed from the “Logos.” I shared these deep findings with my endlessly supportive mother. For the next couple of years after those vacations, I would spend a few hours a day studying, getting intel from radio/TV and anything that could feed my curiosity about the Bible. I made diagrams, drawings, and diagrams of diagrams. I filled at least ten notebooks with notes on spiritual themes during those years.

• The Scout: I needed empirical evidence of the supernatural claims I heard everywhere. Around 2000, a famous international preacher visited Costa Rica, and I gained restricted access to his closed-door event. I wanted to observe his methods directly. I walked around in the dark during a power outage to gather data and shook his hand at the end. I sensed no bad intentions, just a charismatic man urging Christians to “Grow Up” and take action. His team even invited my 15-year-old self on a tour to Africa! While I gathered massive amounts of operational data, the event remained inconclusive regarding actual “miracles.” Still, it was a brilliantly organized operation.

• The Debt: That same year, my mom took on heavy debt to buy us a computer, something I will never forget. I named my first computer “Amanda.” I instantly learned FL Studio and 3D Studio Max. I began producing music and 3D renders for my “Truth’s Return Project,” naively thinking I finally had the resources to materialize my inner worlds, as that would have to wait decades. Around the same time, at sixteen, my beloved GEM GK-330 burned out; I never got to connect it through MIDI. My mother, without hesitation, was already preparing to take on debt again to buy me a modern CASIO that would cost almost the same as the computer. I could not let her do it. She had already given enough. So I made a quiet decision: I would compose all my music using only the computer. I used the regular PC keyboard as if it were a real musical keyboard—pressing the letter keys to play notes in real time, getting more or less the effect I needed. Whatever I could not catch that way, I drew note by note into the piano roll, one click at a time. That is how every track I made through high school and beyond came together: half played on a typing keyboard, half placed by hand inside the software. These old tracks are on my SoundCloud! Having the computer also meant having games. I loved making music, and I loved playing Unreal Tournament—the original from 1999—just as much. Both lived in the same machine, at the same desk, through the same long nights. And when I had internet, I would search for forums and chats to meet new people. Back when it was all so cool, people didn’t have as many masks as people nowadays; things change. Years later, at around nineteen, between savings I had managed to put together and a contribution from my dad, I finally bought a proper MIDI controller. The first piece I composed on it was a track I named “What Love Is.” After all those years of typing music letter by letter, finally pressing real keys again felt like coming home.

• The Little Angel: In late 2000, when I was still 15, my little sister was born. Her arrival helped me understand deep underlying life structures. I mapped her “melody” and colors into a music track I keep to this day. She was a profound blessing to our family.

• New Season: We eventually closed the PS1 rental business to focus on the baby and home life. Especially this game, Final Fantasy VIII, that I never managed to complete; it was given to me as a payment for the drawing classes I provided at high school. So in the end it broke my heart to lose that window to the world, but the internet (slow dial-up as it was) quickly replaced it.

• Internet Missions: When I was still 15, almost 16, I dove even more into the early internet forums and chats for the next couple of years. I was on a stealth mission to find my future wife amidst millions of online possibilities. I encountered brutal dogmas online—like people claiming musical instruments were evil—which only confirmed my view of a broken world. I ignored the negativity and kept moving as much as I could. Yet I made a few stops; the Internet was wild back then, pretty much unregulated. By the way they wrote, I took many of them for newborn psychologists and psychiatrists—advanced students or those freshly out of school roaming the forums for someone to practice on. They tried to “diagnose” me from my interactions and my contributions across dozens of subjects. I had many nicknames, and a few even pretended to be friends just to “study” me up close. I don’t blame them for trying. We were, in truth, doing the exact same thing—reading people, profiling minds, gathering data—only for opposite reasons: they did it for sport, for entertainment, after a bone to chew on; I did it because it was how I made sure I would survive. So I had fun either way. I frequented theology forums; I was on a mission, yes, but I took my detours. My contributions were one hundred percent experiential—never theory, only what I had lived. Profiling minds, reading people, combing the whole noisy internet for one specific soul—underneath, it was all the same thing: a rope I kept throwing out to stay tied to this shore. They were collecting specimens; I was building reasons to stay present. And the search for my future wife was the biggest anchor of them all—a reason to stay that simply hadn’t shown me her face yet. As for the ones who once circled me—I hold no grudge. Many of them, as far as I can tell, are still circling, still caught in the compulsion to explain from the outside the very thing I simply live from the inside. Some people trade their soul to become a brick in the wall willingly; they bolt themselves down until they are the seat of the bus, not the traveler—carried along the same route forever, sat upon, going nowhere they chose. I got off at my stop and walked home. I wouldn’t wish that restlessness on anyone; if anything, I hope they find the rest I found. One day, maybe.

• The Decision: By then I was already carrying an enormous body of research—years of observations and notes I never set on paper, kept whole inside my mind. The moment I had a computer—and, more precisely, the moment I had the internet—two roads opened in front of me. I could sit down right then and begin documenting all of it; it was finally possible—choose my own benefit, start writing the books I always knew I would one day write, focus on building something, which would have been a rare thing back then, when there was barely anything like it online. Or I could put my research to work instead: write not on paper but in people, one to one, impacting them directly, helping them untangle their own knots, since that was the very thing I had practiced most. I ended up choosing people. I chose to live it rather than archive it—to keep tuning memories in other minds and holding space—and to trust that the books would wait for me, even at the risk that I might one day forget the very things I had learned myself. And I knew exactly what that choice cost. Going one to one meant my impact would be, against the whole, literally minuscule—a single drop, person by person, when the other road might have reached many at once. Yet, to shine in this life is not so much a matter of size as of how tuned the act is. Even something as small as shielding a flower from a storm can throw more light than the acts that look grand from the outside—I do not dismiss the grand ones; I only refuse to mistake size for brightness. Love, for me, was lived differently, and that is precisely why I went one-to-one—even knowing it would cost me twenty-five years before I could sit down to write about it. The Truth’s Return would stay sealed inside me until then, so I let it cook, and I kept writing on the only canvas that mattered to me then: the living one. Much of that work, in those years, I aimed at the elderly. I wanted to know their lives all the way down—to see their memories, to feel their hearts—the same hunger. I had carried since I was a small child who sat with anyone who would let me. But I did not stop there; I went to people of every age because I was running all of it at once, laying the foundations of Mega & Giga in the same breath. To each person I gave a code; each person, to me, was a mission. I always did what I could. Some I could help more, some less; a few I failed outright, and a few I won outright—yet even the failures were a gain. Sometimes heroes, sometimes foes; in the end nothing is lost, only transformed. That was the work. Most of them must be gone by now, yet I can still feel their warmth within me; they are all part of me too. That is how Divine Patterns form—when someone gives something true, the light of it stays impregnated, settling into a pattern that outlasts the name behind it. I carry theirs still; it is part of what charges my Vortex to this day.

• The Flight: By 17, I dropped out of my final year of high school. My grades had slipped, and I refused to waste time; I truly wanted to work. Years later, with my older brother’s help, I passed my final math tests to earn my diploma. But dropping out was a smart choice for me: I needed to be left alone for a couple of years, so I prioritized raw, self-directed experience over traditional academia. I had come up either way a couple of years ago with my own musical notations and emotional language. I knew I was taking the harder path, but it would arm me with vastly more experiences to share.

• The Mega & Giga Protocol: At 18, I had assembled a custom computer to handle everything I was working on and named her “Pandora.” This was an important year, as I would execute the project I built to find my wife, naming it the “Mega & Giga Protocol.” It was, in plain terms, a global information-filtering and profiling system I would run in my head, with the data I acquired across the early internet plus the new one I was able to detect. I was not looking for “any” person; I was looking for a very specific essence—someone capable of complementing the way my inner system was wired. I needed what I thought of as a spiritual sister: a counterpart who could hold the frequency without breaking. I knew that if I were to go solo in this life, I was probably not going to make it. So I took the search of a life partner the way other people take graduate research. I built a dedicated method to manage the data, designed parameters and tests, ran the filtering across forums, chats, and every online surface I could reach, and treated the whole thing as a serious methodological project. I share this not to romanticize the engineering of love, but because that is genuinely what I did, and the results speak for themselves: for over fifteen years now, I have dedicated my life to making my wife immensely happy, and that, more than any protocol, is the real outcome. If you love something, you would devote your whole self to it, right? I learned so much about everything, but a lot about love too, quite a science.

• Found (19): I found her—October 2005. I was nineteen, a couple of months from being twenty. I found her running Giga X Beta 19. But the search did not start with the software; it only became executable there. It started in childhood—the moment I understood I would need a very particular kind of help to survive this life. Not company. Not “a person.” A counterpart built to withstand my frequency and its weight without breaking. I looked around the country I was born into and never detected a single pattern that could match it. A computer and the early internet were the lever I’d been missing: something to let me cast the net far past the ground under my feet.

  Let me name the lineage, because the version numbers were never decoration—each one carried the age I was stepping into. At seventeen I launched Mega X Beta 18, the wide net. At eighteen, Giga X Beta 19—and that is the version that was running the day our codes compiled. The convention was simple: the prefix climbed by orders of magnitude as my own capacity did—Mega, Giga, Tera—and the Beta number was always the year I was about to become.

  The instant I found her, the search was over—and a far harder thing began: endurance. We became sweethearts within a couple of months—right as I turned nineteen, and our glorious adventure began. But the distance between resonance and reunion was years wide; the full precipitation would take around six years to complete. I based the next version on her: Tera X Beta 20. From that point on she was the reference signal—the frequency the whole system tuned itself to. The engine stopped looking and started resonating, pouring everything into holding its position regardless of the storms. And the storms came—the 2008 crisis above all. V20 had one job now: to carry me all the way to her without losing the signal—smart enough, steady enough, and willing even to fool me when it had to, because I needed to buy time at all costs. I did my best to hurt no one. Blood was spilled anyway. Still, it performed. Tera delivered.

  When I finally reached her, at twenty-five, the life I had known went dark on the spot. I had accomplished my biggest childhood dream—finding my wife. Everything I had endured finally had a purpose, the way real purpose always arrives: after the fact. Twenty-one years later, it is still the software running—my marriage, a living system I have never stopped updating. As I write this, at forty, the year forty-one arrives, I am compiling my next major version: Zetta X Beta 41. The prefix leapt from Tera straight past Peta and Exa to Zetta—nine orders of magnitude—the distance between the boy who found her at nineteen, married her at twenty-five, and the man updating the system now at forty.

  Those memoirs—the whole version history of one resonance—belong in the next book: Something About Love.

--- GAP 19-25, reserved for Truth’s Return: Something About Love -----

Age 25 - Present: The Desert’s Cure

• The Arrival (June 17, 2011): I had predicted many times as a child that I would only live until I was 25. I was always right, in my own way—my life as I had known it ended at 25, and what came afterward was a different life entirely. That promise to myself was kept on June 17, 2011. After defeating gravity itself for a few hours across two continents, I landed in Hermosillo. And when I arrived, I did not arrive alone.

  • The fire follows me. In many ways, I am like the birds that fly along with the weather—we always find each other wherever I go. It is a mystery I worked out over the years. A story for another day. That same day, June 17, 2011, broke heat records across the entire region; cities like Houston registered all-time daily highs, marking the beginning of an unprecedented period of drought and extreme heat for the area.

  • I stepped off the plane, and the air hit me. For someone coming from the cloud forest of Cartago, Costa Rica, it was intense. For a moment I thought, “Will my body handle this?” And just as quickly I told myself: “May the fire be, fire.” It was brutal, yes. The hottest day of the year in Hermosillo and across the whole region, the heat made even more dramatic and epic by the turbines of the three other aircraft sitting on the tarmac. The fire in me recognized the fire of this place. I am sure it was not the first time I had been here. It felt like fire being reborn through fire to become a stronger fire—as if many had come down to receive me. The spirit of Sonora was welcoming me home. From that day forward, I would be its son. From my very first step outside the plane, I could feel years of accumulation being burned off like dry leaves catching flame all at once.

  • Ever since that arrival, I have been one of those rare people who walks out at noon and genuinely enjoys it. I love the sun, the heat, the dryness, and the spirit of the desert. Once adapted, I tolerate the heat better than many locals do—I suspect part of it is precisely because I came from a cold place, and my body had accumulated reserves that this climate now uses well. I am extremely strong against the heat now, and I love it.

  • The spirit of the desert received me because I was coming to dedicate the rest of my life to making one of its most beautiful daughters absolutely happy—and to keep a promise I had made long before. The desert took me in and held me on those terms. In a very real sense, I came home to keep my word. And from the moment she and I faced one another, it was not a “new discovery,” not “meeting someone new.” No. It was: “We see each other again...” Like we had known each other for eternity.

Moving to Hermosillo marked a profound ‘before and after’ in my life. I enjoyed being a kid, but honestly, I enjoy being an adult infinitely more.

Adulthood Timeline:

• The Desert’s Power: At 25, the intense heat of the Sonoran Desert completely cured my lifelong allergies. The environmental tension functioned as a constant, natural purifier for my hyper-sensitive system. The sun literally burned the sickness away. Even today, if I travel to a cold place, the childhood allergies slowly return. I must maintain a strict, disciplined protocol to stay balanced, including using a grounding mat; if I don’t, my skin immediately begins to burn with irritations, dermatitis, and inflammation, reacting to the ungrounded charge of my own system. I’m a Tridosha, by the way.

--- GAP 25-36, reserved for Truth’s Return: Something About Love -----

• Academic Pursuits: My wife motivated me to finally experience formal university education in Mexico. I enrolled in an International Business Administration degree at 36.

• The Joy of Doing: At 38, on May 23, 2024, I started editing in public raw material, the 1st book for The Truth’s Return Saga, “The Joy of Doing.” It began as a LinkedIn newsletter. I completed the first 37 drafts by July 26, 2024.

• Age 39: I officially earned my university degree in November 2025. I went straight through the program end-to-end, no breaks, and scored 1141 on the CENEVAL—just shy of “outstanding”—considering that academic study was the lowest of my priorities at that stage of my life; I was quietly proud of that; it was just like having an additional client. A lot of work.

• Age 40: After a two-year break from publishing The Joy of Doing while balancing everything—business, life, and the final stretch of university—I returned to edit the book and decided to begin releasing The Truth’s Return literature, which is most likely going to be my legacy. Thanks to my wife, I went to college a bit late but earned my degree in International Business Administration. If things go smoothly down the road, I might pursue Psychology, Neurobiology, and Quantum Physics/Mechanics, as these disciplines perfectly match my very own lifelong research through The Truth’s Return. This academic path runs alongside operating my businesses (great machines that have kept us taken care of and moving forward, as I called them so many years ago: Gears of Progress) and, of course, documenting my discoveries through art: music, books, paintings, drawings, designs, and perhaps even movies in the future. And traveling—so much traveling! There is still so much to see up close in full 3D! Yet, at the same time, I feel a strong calling to Pursue the Divine along with my wife. I am no longer a kid, and I have built so much in the subtle realms I want to share with her and those around me; if things go smoothly, I feel I should focus primarily on this over the next 20 years, alongside leaving art behind as a legacy. I wonder how my discoveries will look once finally printed. You never know—perhaps I sometimes feel there are small contributions in here that the world could use, things it hasn’t quite found yet. But either way, I also must be ready to enjoy our evening on this day of adventures where my sweet wife and I, along with our friends, came down to play. I am genuinely happy, though; many others managed to make it through without crash-landing in this plane the way I did—barely surviving birth—and they have done so much good for humanity. I am so happy for them, so happy for all of us.

The Present Mind & The Inner Cosmos

The exact same cognitive and intuitive structure—that intense, secondary-plane “knowing” (to know) that guided my childhood—is what I use today to solve complex, real-world problems. Today, I dedicate my time to caring for my wife and myself, building businesses, operating projects, creating art, and writing software code, as I’ve done all my life. Yet, I still reserve a massive portion of my attention for art and for decoding the absolute. That is, by far, where my true curiosity rests. I do not approach the absolute as something to conquer or finish; I approach it as a never-ending river, and I float on it like a lotus on the sea. I let eternity carry me. It feels very close to what I imagine the first months of life inside a mother’s womb must feel like: an absolute, weightless bliss. I am not trying to arrive anywhere. I am simply there.

As an adult, I have exponentially expanded the depth of the inner levels I can reach—stretching further upwards, deeper downwards, and expanding vastly within the levels themselves. With the passing of years, I gained the ability to go much ‘further’ within the Arenas. At that subtle level, I can now travel to any place at the very speed of consciousness—which is even faster than thought itself, or at least that is how my experience perceives it. Navigating these realms is no longer the exhausting struggle it was during my childhood; it has become natural, simple, and entirely spontaneous. It is so deeply integrated into my being that I can now delegate this navigation to other parts of myself while my conscious mind focuses on the physical world. Furthermore, that singular ‘Vortex’ I felt in my chest as a child was just the beginning. I eventually discovered that I hold many of them. I found burning suns, vast nebulas, entire galaxies, and infinite universes within me. I can instantly traverse and be anywhere within this inner cosmos. I realized that the entire universe exists right inside of us. We are worlds, and we are the cosmos.

And there is something else I have learned to perceive, perhaps the most intimate of all. I can feel each one of my cells being born, living, finding their small joys, loving one another, growing old, and dying. All of them, all the time. It is not noise. It is a symphony I hear from above, as if the skies themselves were playing me.

That is why I say I live and die every second. Not as a metaphor—as a function. My body is a massive universe in constant turnover, and I am present at every birth and every farewell that happens inside it. The grief is real, but so is the joy. And both move so fast, so continuously, that they have become music.

Maybe that is what people glimpse only when they are about to die: the full chord. I just learned to listen to it while still walking around.

The Architecture of Light

Over the years, my capacity to feel has expanded immensely—it is a continuous, unstoppable current. Yet, alongside this growth, my capacity for self-control has increased in equal measure. My wife has helped me so much; she is to me what Logan is to the Phoenix. In the story, Logan is the only one who can reach her when the fire is at its most dangerous—everyone else burns. That is what she is to me: the only one who can come near when I am at my most volatile, the one who quiets the fire and brings me back toward the light. So my wife is my Logan, my Pierre Del Rio, my Soror Mystica, my Shakti, my Dakini, and my Shekinah, with the benefit that she is as strong as I am and she did not crash-land as I did. My wife corrects me every single day. If I drift off mid-conversation and catch myself staring at the horizon, talking to no one, or if I start a sentence and don’t bother to complete it, or if I reach for my phone in the middle of a family gathering—she calls it. I try hard to stay present, and most of the time I manage, but it has never been automatic for me. It was always obvious to everyone around me when I was truly in the room and when I wasn't. I was the only one who couldn't see how obvious I was. I am naive in ways that still surprise me, partly because so much of my attention runs through a module built just to translate myself into a language other people can follow. She is the one who taps me on the shoulder and brings me back to the table. Every single day. This is how I experience it daily, this is how I see it, and this is how I feel it: light, magnetism, and presence. Every living being, in my perception, emits light through what it feels. Refined, pure emotions emit a highly specific, beautiful frequency that travels outward across what feels like the whole universe. Denser, negative emotions emit the opposite signal, but they emit a signal all the same. Everything that exists has its space—but above all, everything that exists has its meaning. I easily get lost in the moment.

Because of this continuous energetic exchange, every act of creation is an extension of the self. Any work made by anyone is deeply impregnated with their own essence; even a simple meal prepared by someone carries their unique energetic signature. When you look at the world this way, you begin to perceive the staggering, beautiful complexity of the invisible dynamics operating behind our material screen.

One of the main goals of all ascending life in the universe, from my observations, is to have a lever—and that lever is the physical world. This is not a single descent but a constant traffic: subtle life travels endlessly through every living being, enriching itself from each one the way a traveler is enriched by passing through a great airport—gathering, exchanging, tuning itself, and working toward its own ascension. A life can slip into a single atom, stay subtle, last less than an ultra-fraction of a second, and still complete what it came to do. Size and power are relative here: the mightiest forces can hide inside the smallest things. We are all pushing the same way: upward, toward the infinite.

In my cosmovision, life is life; matter is only its vehicle, condensed emotions made memory—the same life’s actions and memories made dense. Matter is dense memory: stories of that one life, packed tight and useful to others, that in our current perspective happen to wear a “physical shape”—and that shape is what we call “matter.” When a subtle form does not yet hold enough force—when its “mathematics” is still too faint from our perspective or its range of attention too narrow to hold itself above, to stay “visible” up there—it precipitates into the physical world as an “event,” condensing the way vapor finally falls as rain when the cloud can no longer carry it down the river of causality, the same current on which the river of thought also runs. To take on a body, then, is a huge privilege—no matter how small or how big, it’s a table in an endless ocean you can hold on to. That is why any wise, ancient intelligence will stretch its time here as far as it can and fight with everything it has to make that floating table survive any storm. It is why I fought so hard, against so much that stood in the way.

Every single act, every minor action, ripples across the entire fabric of reality. From our limited human perspective, these movements seem tiny, almost insignificant. But from the “true” perspective—when the curtain finally drops and all is laid bare—the genuine impact of what we have lived will be revealed. We will stand before a beautiful, unique, and unimaginable masterpiece, or we will face the profound regret of not having fully embraced and utilized the life we were given.

My Garden

To this day, I keep a small garden that I care for like a quiet ritual, a living reminder—watching the flowers, the plants, the crickets, the bees, the hummingbirds, and the tiny sphinx moths that hover like miniature hummingbirds at dusk. I installed a smart drip irrigation system so they all stay well-fed and happy, regardless of the +40°C the desert throws at us.

I have always observed life this way. I see the whole world as a garden.

Sometimes, one of those little moths arrives exhausted. I can tell when one begins to dream, to drift, slowly awaiting its end, with full acceptance. When I see it, the old impulse rises: intervene. But with the years, I have learned to consider the softness of life more carefully.

A bottle cap with water and a drop of honey. Move the plant where it crash-landed into the shade. Place other plants around it to shield it from the ruthless burning sun. Try not to touch it—because if I touch it, my own static and electricity would end its life in absolute terror.

That is something I am still learning. To control. To temper. The art of how not to destroy. How not to dissolve everything I may see, everything I could touch.

⸻

For years I moved through the world without fully knowing the current I carried. For forty years I thought everybody was just like me but only chose to ignore the invisible, truly. After waking up from my meditation, I now see that there were thousands—maybe millions—of small things I bruised without knowing I was touching them. Words that landed harder than I meant. Looks that cut deeper than I intended, raw truths handed over without awareness of whether the others next to me could hold them.

Something else I see is that it is up to us now to provide what was never provided to them. Their parents were often more lost than they were. Schools had no resources, or the wrong ones. Society itself has been busy selling distraction, leaving entire generations cognitively undernourished, emotionally untrained, and spiritually starving. They are not weak by choice. They were never taught. The fault is collective. But so is the repair. What was never taught can still be transmitted. What stayed dormant can still wake up. I cannot do this alone. We all need to work on this together and fix this as long as we can, one mind at a time.

Epilogue: Message in a Bottle

• May 1st, 2026: I recently woke up from a +40-year meditation to a beautiful, fragile world. I will do my best not to tear it apart.

• May 17th, 2026: As of today, May 3rd, 2026, I finally decided to tell my story. After many years of cooking it slowly inside myself—forty years of observation, of saving and processing, of refining the material in private—I’m finally letting it out. I’m out of the oven in the sense that the silence is over: I’m done holding it all in. Time to put it out for a little test, celebrating the fact that a very uncommon thing happened to me: A little while before I began my next journey, I found myself ignorant enough to have to reframe my whole story.

• May 24th, 2026: I’m simply astonished. I finished the pending episodes for The Joy of Doing over the past couple of weeks. While doing so, I made some profound discoveries: science now has specific names for the way I process reality and for these types of hyper-cognitive phenomena, yet the spiritual layer of those same experiences is often quietly dismissed as a mere effect of the mind. That dismissal is the part I want to push back on, because it forces a false split.

  This is the message I want to leave in the bottle: you can be one hundred percent functional in real life, one hundred percent logical, one hundred percent scientific, one hundred percent mystical, and one hundred percent spiritual—at the same time. None of these are at war with each other. They never were. It is exactly like medicine: a single body, looked at from different angles, by different specialists, using different tools. Why do we keep cutting it into pieces and pretend the pieces are enemies? What is next, charging a toll to use both hands to survive? Do not let anyone turn off your light. It is yours. It was there from the start. Protect it, train it, integrate it, and live a real, grounded, joyful life from inside it.

• May 27th, 2026: What astonishes me most in this reframing was not what I missed. It was what I received. I have not been an easy person to be around—too raw, sometimes cruel without meaning to be. For me, everything is a small knot to untie, and people are no exception. When you treat someone as a problem to solve, even lovingly, it can feel surgical. Those who stayed near me—who had the patience to translate for me when I forgot to translate myself, who loved me when I was clearly hard to love—gave me something I am only now able to receive. They held space for someone who was, in many practical ways, not fully here. My wife and family above all, but not only them. If this memoir is a message in a bottle, this paragraph is the thank-you note inside it.

Let one epic middle-age crisis begin!

A note for whoever finds this bottle: if anything I describe here resembles something you are currently living, and that something is bringing you anguish, loss of sleep, isolation, or a sense of losing your footing in daily life—please seek professional help, not more experience. This whole inner architecture only works if you can hold a functional life alongside it. If you cannot, what I describe stops being a sandbox and becomes an abyss, and getting out of an abyss is something you do need help with. There is no shame in that. The two paths are not in opposition; they support each other. Because here, it is the body that keeps you afloat. Care for it. Protect it. Honor it. More lives than you could ever count live inside you—at every scale, from your cells to their atoms—working elbow to elbow, fighting for you every single day. They are your people. Your nation. Your melody. They depend on you absolutely—to them, you are almost their God. They will never give up on you. Don’t you ever give up on them.

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Ready to Recap?

Glossary — A Child’s Paradox

The following terms I’ve used since I was a kid and that are embedded in this book have been my cosmovision ever since, even as an adult.

I mean, I’m a true believer of the good old “don’t fix what’s not broken”; it worked for 4 decades for me.

—Deja Vu

I · The Map of Reality

The Levels—How I sort reality as one continuous, mathematical gradient. Level 0 is pure emotion, the neutral base; as you rise from it, thought begins to form—around 0.8–0.9—and takes full shape at Level 1, the realm of denser ideas: dreams, goals, and plans. Level 2 is the spoken, the first step of materialization; Level 3 is the physical, the realm of doing, where to be born is to arrive. Below 0 lies the microcosmos, infinite and ever smaller. Above 3 rise the composite beings—a family around 3.5, an organized institution around 4, and on up by size: communities, cities, and cultures. Infinite both ways.

The Fabric—My name for that whole layered structure of reality.

The Enigma—the vast, self-perpetuating system of suffering and illusion I kept colliding with at every level; the thing my Fortress was built to withstand. Years later I found it already had a name: Samsara, the endless cycle the old traditions describe. You don't beat it head-on—you rise above it.

The Shared Field (I used to call it The Hidden Network)—the shared inner world between people, the common medium—language, gesture, emotion, culture—we all float in; the broth through which feelings and ideas pass from one person to the next without anyone noticing. It is not your private inner world; it carries a momentum, sometimes almost a will, of its own. (In May 2026 I learned that a famous scientist (Jung) studied and documented this very thing and called it the “collective unconscious.”) He appears to have done comprehensive research of this too; how exciting!. His Red Book is on my reading list—I’ll get to it as soon as I can. —June 2, 2026)

Crash-land—my way of saying I arrived into this physical life the hard way, traumatically. I use it for my own birth and for the tired little moths that drop into my garden.

II · The Inner Worlds

The Fortress—The multidimensional, labyrinthine structure I built inside myself to protect my core, a labyrinth built so only I could navigate it. I made it to compete against “The Enigma”, which later I found out was widely known as “Samsara”.

The Arenas (first The Simulations, then The Scenarios)—my inner sandbox-realms: navigable worlds where I build, rest, process, and, as a child, face my own shadow-forms and those I picked up along the way from others. They are the cache of the material world, where things wait, still shapeless, to be precipitated into reality.

The Lab—How I think of my own life: a case study I have kept under rigorous examination for as long as I can remember. My main station for it sits at Level 0.

Shadow-forms / Entities—Automated subtle living organisms and programs born of unprocessed material that I dealt with in the Arenas. As a child they scared me; over time I learned to face them, contain them, use them, learn their mechanics, and even digest them instead of fearing them.

III · The Engine & The Senses

The Vortex—the spinning core energy I’ve felt since my earliest memory, in my chest and my forehead—is the source of my drive, my determination, my perception. It runs like a dynamo, a deep spring. Its real secret isn’t the Vortex itself; it’s what powers it: caring, truly. It is a byproduct of love. As an adult, I found I hold many.

Divine Patterns — The divine breadcrumbs scattered through everyday life. When someone does good, they give off light, and that light stays impregnated in the place until it settles into a pattern. Nature is full of them—the ants, the bees, the wind, the water, the color of the sky, and the stars—because beauty acts without being asked in pure bliss. They are inspiration and the “material” I need to charge the Vortex.

The Knowing—How I actually perceive: not through my physical senses, but as information rendered inside me on a kind of set of secondary screens—patterns, shapes, and geometries. An absolute state of simply knowing. Far from hallucination, they are pure absolute calculation taking place.

The Voice—The constant narration of my life, and everyone else’s, that I live by. As a child I thought it was the voice of God; later I decided that, at that level, the two might be the same, God in me.

Tuned Memories — The refined, dense memories I can step fully back into, reliving them with complete detail.

The Two Brothers—A balancing tool from childhood: I’d move through my inner worlds as two at once—an older brother (logic, strategy) protecting a younger one (raw emotion, instinct). Always roles I held, never selves that held me, like using both hands at once.

IV · The Methods I Built

The Thought Patterns — The first framework I built, once I noticed that everything carries an association and a meaning and that changing my own posture toward something changes it inside me.

The River of Thoughts Practice — The system I built to govern the Thought Patterns: my way of debugging the programs running in me and keeping viral thoughts from installing. It works on thoughts—which is exactly why I later went deeper.

The Science of Connotations—My most powerful method, the evolution of everything above. It works not on thoughts but on the emotion underneath each one—its nucleus. A viral thought can’t be fought head-on; neutralize its core emotion, and it loses its power, so you can do whatever you want with it.

The Enigma Levels / Levels of Power—A scale of one to a thousand I built to sort the “species” of thought by how powerful, toxic, or viral they were. I eventually let the cataloging go—they reproduce endlessly—and went for their core instead through the Science of Connotations. You can’t “beat” Samsara; you need to rise above it.

Synchronization—How I step inside a memory, or the history of a thing, by matching its rhythm—like boarding a moving jet mid-air, or the way pendulum clocks fall into step. Empathy, extended to objects and even to the lineage of my own cells.

Tuning — What I do for another person: helping them reorder their own memories and unjam the loops they’re stuck in. I usually “synchronize” and then “tune.”

V · What My Body & Mind Lived

The Bliss — A deep serenity and clarity that, the way I live it, switched on hardest exactly when I was suffering. It is what let me meet my worst times with peace, even gratitude. The floor of my existence, my true nature.

The Whip (the emotional whip)—A severe, years-long nerve pain—like needles—set off by my own emotions: any shift in feeling unleashed it until I learned to burn it off physically. It has a name; they call it “cholinergic urticaria.” It was so horrible—paralyzing, disabling—I had to cope with it until I was 25, and even to this day should I skip protocol.

Machine Exhaust (Levels 1–3)—The release valves my body found to vent that overload: hard exercise and sweat, then thermal reactions and steam, and, at worst, nosebleeds. Emergency brakes my body used. now under control.

VI · Life, Work & Mission

The Joy of Doing — My first book, and the principle at its heart: to live at Level 3, the realm of doing. The first key I forged to survive as a child and the solid ground that keeps my whole inner cosmos anchored to real life. Living at level 1 and level 2 was just endless and exhausting. Our physical world is, to me, a resting place, an island in the middle of brave oceans. Having a body is a desired blessing at many levels; please take care of yours.

The Truth’s Return — My life’s research: documenting what I’ve found and bringing science and mysticism to the same table. It’s a multimedia universe—books, music albums, and films/series. A Child’s Paradox is one of its “historical” pieces; The Synthesis, its research foundation.

Gears of Progress — What I have long called my businesses: great machines that have kept my family cared for and moving forward.

The Mega & Giga Protocol—The year-long, methodical project I ran at eighteen across the early internet to find my life partner—I treated the search like serious research. More of this in the “Something about Love” book.

My Little Ones—How I see everyone: not as smaller than me, but as loved, delicate souls carrying weight no one outside can see—children behind every mask, my little brothers.

VII · Awesome Terms I learned along the way from my wife

Tridosha · Pitta · Kapha · Vata — From Ayurveda. Vata, Pitta, and Kapha are the three doshas—the energies of movement, fire, and structure. A Tridosha carries all three; when I say I’m running on too much Pitta, my inner fire is burning too hot. My wife fixed me using this medicine!

For my wife—Logan/The Phoenix (X-Men: the only one who can reach the fire when it’s most dangerous, while everyone else burns); Soror Mystica (alchemy’s “mystical sister,” partner in the great work); Shakti (the Hindu divine feminine power); Dakini (Tibetan Buddhism’s embodiment of awakened energy, a guide); Shekinah (the dwelling presence of the Divine in Jewish mysticism); and Pierre Del Rio (the detective who keeps Lucy grounded as she transforms, in Luc Besson’s Lucy, 2014). All of them, one woman: the one who keeps me human and grounded.

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Thank You

The Sun burns out of Joy; do you know why? Because that’s all the Sun knows to do.

From where I come from, awareness and consciousness are overrated. That story though, will be for another day.

I hope you enjoyed my first little book! See you again in the next ones!

-David

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CHANGELOG

• Jun 27th 2026 — Additional line added to final -Thank You- note.

• Jun 20th 2026 — Date correction at Section ‘Found (19) ‘

• Jun 17th 2026 — Deposited to the Zenodo Network (archival / notary layer)

• Jun 15th 2026 — Added “The Cosmos Above”

• May 27th 2026 — Moved to Substack (canonical home)

• May 26th 2026 — Published as a newsletter on LinkedIn (first public release)

• May 17th–25th 2026 — While re-editing The Joy of Doing, “The Hideout” was deepened until it outgrew the chapter and became this standalone book

• Jun 2nd 2024 — The seed: “The Hideout,” the episode of The Joy of Doing this book grew from, was first published on LinkedIn