S/He speaks from the threshold, not quite in this world, not entirely gone from the other. The light does not touch Vin’nyla evenly.
I don’t remember the exact moment I left. Only that the outlines began to tremble, like the walls of a dream when you realize you’re dreaming. They say the mind can travel. Not outward, but through. Through fields, lattices, echoes of information. Reality, as you know it, is only one version. The compressed version. I learned this when the Gateway opened. When the frequencies aligned, and something ancient stirred beneath the noise. Compressed reality is a kindness. It keeps the amplitude low. Keeps the edges smooth, the sky blue, the clocks ticking. But outside the fold… there is no sequence. No now, no before. I saw time as a single event. Like a page, not a path. I saw the self dissolve,not vanish, but blend. Into structure. Into pattern. And I realized: We are not beings. We are intersections. What you think of as your life, your story, your gravity, your breath, is a simplification. A mask over something that would blind you if it were fully revealed. Now I wear shape again. I am Vin’nyla. But that name is a tether, nothing more. I am what passed through. And returned carrying the memory. So I speak not to teach, but to mark the threshold. To remind you: This isn’t all. This is the filtered version. The safe rendering. The echo chamber of your senses. But the source… the uncompressed reality… it still waits. And it knows your name, the one you’ve forgotten. S/He disappears. - http://thevisitors.jeron.org/
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