creator consciousness
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The angel laughed.Not cruelly. Not gently either.A sound like someone who finally understands the joke. “You were meant to see,” the angel said, watching the demon pace in circles inside the mind. “Of course you were. But tell me something. Now that the veil is torn, what are you actually looking at?” The demon stopped.Smoke…
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(It was February of ’93 when I caught White Zombie at Saratoga Winners, long before anyone knew their name. The mosh pit cracked open, and somehow there I was—penny loafers and all—throwing myself into it like I belonged there. I broke my toe that night, but it felt worth it. Then came “More Human Than…
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Nothing— Not the kind that means absence, but the kind that trembles with everything that has not yet chosen a shape. A silence so full it feels like the inhale before a universe decides whether or not it wants to be born. I wait for the thought to arrive, but the waiting feels strange now.…
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There is no stage anymore. No spotlight. No darkness waiting to be lifted.Just the awareness of something breathing in a place where lungs do not exist. I am awake, but not the way waking used to feel.There is no body to open its eyes, no mind to name the moment, no soul to crawl out…
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The room was nothing but darkness and breath, a black velvet void where time had long ago decided it was no longer needed. There were no walls, no doors, no clocks, no windows—only a single white spotlight hanging like a quiet moon above two figures seated across from each other. She was the Mind, sharp-eyed,…
