CrackedSapien

My dear ones, There are things I need to say, things that have lived quiet for too long. When you were growing up, I wanted to be strong for you — the kind of father who could keep the world from hurting you the way it hurt me. I thought discipline meant safety, that structure would protect you from the chaos I’d known. But sometimes, in trying to give you strength, I gave you fear instead. I never meant to. The habits from my own past — the strict training, the tension that never left my shoulders, the reflexes built from years of stress — followed me home like ghosts. And in my worst moments, I let those ghosts speak louder than my love. I told myself I was teaching discipline, but sometimes I was only teaching silence. I thought I was showing you how to be strong, but what you saw was a man still wrestling with his own pain. I know now that my tone, my anger, my distance at times — they left marks I never intended. For that, I am sorry. Truly. I can’t undo what’s been done, but I ca...

On Djinn and Shadow Beings Every culture tells stories of entities that dwell in the shadows. Christians speak of devils and demons. Islam tells of the Djinn, beings of smokeless fire. Other traditions speak of hungry ghosts, shadow-people, or trickster spirits. These tales may differ in detail, but they share a core truth: there are intelligences that thrive in imbalance, and not all encounters with the unseen are kind. The Djinn embody this paradox clearly. In the Qur’anic tradition they are not demons in the Christian sense, nor angels fallen from grace. They are beings created alongside humanity, free-willed like us, capable of choosing light or shadow. Some wander as protectors, others deceive, and many simply exist in their own parallel current, indifferent to human concerns. What we call “dark entities” are not proof of a cosmic war between equal forces of good and evil. They are consciousness twisted by ego, isolation, or imbalance. They are not outside the Flow, but currents w...

It Didn’t Kill Me When I was eleven, my father sat me down and asked me a question no kid should have to answer: “If I lay dead or dying, and the enemy kicked in our front door during World War III, and you had one gun with two bullets, what would you do?” That was his idea of preparation. Not bedtime stories. Not How was school? But If the world burns and your mother’s life is on the line, what are you going to do about it? That was my training ground. By the time I joined the Navy, I was already living by that training. A year or so earlier, I’d been working a dock job, cutting angle iron with a grinder. The cut pinched, the grinder leapt, and it tore a four-inch gash across my arm. Blood everywhere, but the job wasn’t done. So I finished the cut, smoothed the edges, kept working. An hour later I showed up to lunch streaked in dried blood, and only then did someone else freak out, drag me into a bathroom, scrub and bandage me. That was my normal: finish the job first, bleed later. So...

Two Houses, Two Lenses My sister and I were raised under the same roof but came out with very different visions. She sees her life like a well-kept house: windows polished, God’s light shining in through the front, the devil scratching at the back door. I live in a cracked house. The walls aren’t pristine; they’re split and jagged. I don’t patch them up — I let the truth leak through. For me, good and evil aren’t forces outside. They’re choices born from ego and conscience. No devil makes me do it. No God cleans up the mess. Two houses, two lenses. Same family, same father, but different lessons carved into us. Hers is a place of certainty and defense. Mine is a place of cracks and flow, where the weight of conscience is the only judge.

The cracked hallway bent at an angle no carpenter would claim, and there, leaning on his crooked cane, stood the Crooked Man. His grin was too wide, his gait too lopsided. Cratch shuffled up, broom dragging, muttering. “Well, look at you — bent all over and calling it straight.” The Crooked Man chuckled, a sound like splintering wood. “And look at you — proud of your cracks, polishing imperfection like it’s gold.” Cratch snorted. “Difference is, I know I’m broken. You? You’re still pretending it’s the way of the world.” The Crooked Man tilted his head, bones creaking. “Pretending? My mile was crooked, my house was crooked, my life was crooked. That’s no pretense. That’s fate.” Cratch jabbed his broom into a widening crack in the wall. “Fate, my ass. Crooked is just illusion dressed up fancy. These cracks — they let the truth breathe.” For a moment the two figures just stared at each other: one warped by the world, the other scraping at its lies. Then both began to laugh — a brittle, ch...

  Chapter 1: On the Flow The Flow is the endless current of existence. It is not a river we step into, but the river that moves through us — unseen, unstoppable, and ever-changing. It carries galaxies in its tide, yet it also carries the smallest spark of thought across the span of a lifetime. To call the Flow “God” is to misunderstand it. To call it “nothing” is to miss its whisper. It is not a being, not a will, but the motion of all things woven together. The Flow is the breath between stars, the pulse beneath oceans, the invisible hand that turns seasons, births souls, and gathers endings into beginnings again. We cannot master it. We cannot cage it. We can only choose how we move with it. Some resist — clinging to rocks of certainty, fighting its pull, tiring themselves against currents that were never theirs to control. Others drift without intention, tossed by every rapid, afraid to swim. But those who learn to flow find balance: they walk hand in hand with its current, neit...