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...

Working Index Preface .................................................. 1 Prologue: What I Have Come to Believe ................... 2 Chapter 1: On the Flow .................................. 3 Chapter 2: On Consciousness and the Soul ................ [to be added] Chapter 3: On Ego ....................................... [to be added] Chapter 4: Oneism: A Manifesto .......................... [to be added] ... Appendix: Glossary ...................................... [end]  Working Glossary The Flow: The endless current of existence — not a god, but the movement of all being. Soul: An eternal spark, ego-less at its core, incarnating through avatars to learn and grow. Ego: The lens of incarnation — a mask that teaches contrast, choice, and growth. Manifestation: Shaping reality through belief and desire. Works in both directions: hope or fear, love or cruelty. Precognition: Glimpses of potential futures, often felt as dreams or déjà vu. Déjà Vu: A precognition fulfilled — the sense of...

Prologue: What I Have Come to Believe There’s a lot I don’t know. Maybe that’s where I need to start — not with what I believe, but with what I’ve learned to admit. Because belief, for me, isn’t a firm wall I lean on. It’s a cracked window I keep open. It shifts with the light, moves with the wind, and lets the stars in when I need them most. I’ve walked with ghosts. I’ve touched fear that spoke without a face. I’ve felt the quiet hand of the cosmos press against my chest — sometimes to push me forward, sometimes to knock me flat. I’ve prayed to gods I wasn’t sure were listening. And I’ve cursed the heavens for staying quiet when I begged for sound. I’ve survived things that should have broken me. And I’ve come out the other side, not divine, not enlightened — but aware. So here’s what I’ve come to believe. I believe that none of us have all the answers. That anyone who claims certainty about the infinite is either lying to you or to themselves. But I also believe that every belief sys...

Preface This is not a religious book. It will not ask you to kneel, obey, or conform. It is a manuscript about the soul — the quiet spark within us — and the ego, its loud companion. It speaks of the Flow, the endless current of existence, which some call God, others call the cosmos, and many cannot name. I do not claim absolute truth. This work is alive, changing with memory, reflection, and discovery. It is a living manuscript, not a final decree. Learning never ends, and so these pages never truly close. Religion has long given people something to hold when life feels unbearable: someone to blame, someone to pray to, someone to hope in. I do not reject that longing. Prayer, to me, is manifestation — desire sent into the Flow, where the currents may or may not answer. The gods we imagine are often mirrors: they show us what we are ready to see, not portraits of ultimate truth. In my own life, I once believed in the Christian God. I even saw Him in vision — not because He had to appea...

When Knowing the Law Still Wasn’t Enough As a teenager, I wore the uniform of a junior Police Explorer. My mother was a cop, so I grew up with the law in my blood. I knew what was right, I knew what was wrong, and I knew what the rules of protection and justice were supposed to be. On paper, I had the tools. But in my own home, with my own father, those tools turned to ash in my hands. I could recite the laws of the land, but I couldn’t enforce them against the man who ruled my childhood with cruelty. Abuse doesn’t bow to knowledge. It twists power, fear, and loyalty until even the strongest truths feel powerless. I wanted to call 911 more than once. My hand hovered near the phone, my mind screamed “this is wrong,” but my body froze. Because when the abuser is your parent, they’re not just a person—you see them as the ground itself. And when the ground shakes beneath you, you don’t fight it. You cling to survival. That’s why kids don’t always speak up, even when they “know better.” It’...

Christians love to preach. Some do it with kindness, some with fire, but almost always with the same assumption: that they hold the only key to truth, salvation, or heaven.But here’s the irony: their own scripture doesn’t back that monopoly.In Romans 2:14–16, Paul writes about the Gentiles — people outside the Jewish or Christian tradition — who “do by nature things required by the law.” He says these people “show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts,” even though they’ve never known the law. Their conscience, their deeds, their very lives become the evidence.What does that mean? It means there’s room for those who live rightly, even if they’ve never read a Bible, said a prayer, or heard a sermon. It means morality and goodness aren’t chained to religion. It means the universe — or God, if you prefer — already inscribed truth within us.And if that’s true, then preaching becomes optional, not compulsory. Preach if you must — share your faith, your story, your con...

  What I Survived Would Break Most Adults There’s no soft way to say this: my father tortured me and my sisters. It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t a mistake in the heat of anger. It was intentional, deliberate, and at times seemed to be his idea of “fun.” That word—fun—still stings, because it twisted something innocent into something cruel. What we endured was the kind of abuse most adults couldn’t handle. Yet we were children. And children don’t get the choice to walk away. We lived it. We bore it. We survived it. I want to be clear: I’m not writing this for pity. I write it because survival matters. Because telling the truth matters. Because too often, people shy away from naming what happened. They soften it. They say “abuse” like it’s a catch-all term. But sometimes you need the harder word: torture. And here’s the part that still amazes me — I survived. Not untouched, not without scars, but I survived. What should have broken me, shaped me instead. It’s why I don’t panic w...

 Son, I’ve been thinking a lot about you, and I want to write this because I love you and because you deserve to hear it from me. I wasn’t a perfect father. I yelled sometimes, I got in your face when I thought you were wrong. Once or twice, I even gave you a light smack on the back of the head when you did something careless. But I never wanted to hurt you — and I hope you know that. You weren’t the easiest kid either. I still remember the rubber bands, and how close you came to taking out your sister’s eye with one. You tested limits, you pushed buttons — but that’s what kids do. And through it all, I tried to guide you the best I could. I grew up in a home where pain was delivered for fun, where abuse was constant. I made a choice not to pass that on. If I ever scared you, I’m sorry — but I hope you can see I was trying to do better than what I was given. What I do know, without doubt, is this: I love you. That has always been true. And no matter what distance or silence may...

  Oneism: A Manifesto I believe in the cosmos as God — not a being to worship, but the totality of all existence. Every star, every galaxy, every particle and thought is part of this endless flow. Souls are not created; they arise from the same source as the cosmos itself. Pure and ego-less, they experience existence by stepping into realities like avatars playing a game — the “pieces” are us. Ego is a lens, a tool of this reality, a temporary distortion that allows souls to explore contrast, choice, and growth. It is not who we truly are . Evil, likewise, is not a force outside ourselves; it is a reflection of the ego in motion , the shadow cast when beings forget their connection. Galaxies are vast, ego-less collectives, coexisting in harmony. They may merge or interact, but they do not compete — a cosmic web of consciousness without rivalry. In Oneism, truth is personal . Spiritual growth is evolutionary, achieved through reflection, awareness, and conscious action. Dream...

  What I Have Come to Believe There’s a lot I don’t know. Maybe that’s where I need to start — not with what I believe , but with what I’ve learned to admit . Because belief, for me, isn’t a firm wall I lean on. It’s a cracked window I keep open. It shifts with the light, moves with the wind, and lets the stars in when I need them most. I’ve walked with ghosts. I’ve touched fear that spoke without a face. I’ve felt the quiet hand of the cosmos press against my chest — sometimes to push me forward, sometimes to knock me flat. I’ve prayed to gods I wasn’t sure were listening. And I’ve cursed the heavens for staying quiet when I begged for sound. I’ve survived things that should have broken me. And I’ve come out the other side, not divine, not enlightened — but aware. So here’s what I’ve come to believe. I believe that none of us have all the answers. That anyone who claims certainty about the infinite is either lying to you or to themselves. But I also believe that every belie...

  The Man We Crucified Twice —a cracked reflection on the myth, the man, and the mess we made— We nailed him to a cross. Then we buried his humanity beneath centuries of gold leaf and guilt. He spoke in parables, not proclamations. He touched the untouchables, walked with the outcasts, and dared to whisper love where law had choked it out. Jesus, the rebel. Jesus, the heretic. Jesus, the man. But that was not enough for us. We needed more than a mirror. We needed a god to excuse our inaction. So we raised him too high to follow. We carved him into stained glass and stopped listening to what he actually said. And in doing so— We crucified him a second time. Not with nails, but with dogma. Not with whips, but with worship twisted into control. We crowned the myth and silenced the man. But he never asked to be worshipped. He asked us to wake up . To feed the hungry. To heal the sick. To love the ones we call “other.” Not to build cathedrals in his name, ...

  Title: UFOs, UAPs, and the Questions That Won’t Stay Quiet I’ve never seen a UFO with my own eyes — not one I could say with certainty was the real thing. But I believe. Maybe not in little green men, maybe not in every blinking light in the sky. But in something . Something beyond us. Something unexplained. And maybe something waiting. I’m not here to push theories or wear a tinfoil hat. I’m here to ask questions, to share thoughts, and to listen. Maybe you’ve seen something strange. Maybe you haven’t. Maybe, like me, you’ve just got that itch in the back of your mind — the kind that wonders, what if? This space is open. Judgment-free. Whether your story is cosmic or curious, simple or strange — I’d love to hear it. Let’s talk sightings, possibilities, coverups, ancient mysteries, government footage, and the kind of wonder that keeps you looking up. Welcome to my cracked house — where belief and doubt sit side by side, and wonder still has a place to live.

  🎲 In the Beginning, There Were Dice I don’t remember the first time I held a D20, but I remember the feeling. Like fate had been broken into numbers — and for once, I had a say in how the story went. Dungeons & Dragons wasn’t just a game. It was a portal. A lifeline. A chance to escape, explore, and — strange as it sounds — become more me than I ever could in the real world. In the game, I could hunt in silence, speak with beasts, walk the wilds, or hold the line between light and shadow. Ranger, rogue, bard — I’ve played them all. But always, at the core, I was searching. For something honest. Something cracked. Something real beneath all the fantasy. People once told me D&D was evil. Witchcraft. Corruption. But I knew better. I grew up around real darkness. The kind that doesn’t hide in monsters or magic, but in people. In silence. In trauma. And D&D wasn’t darkness — it was a light . A healing place. I came back to the game later in life, older, maybe wiser,...

  What My Friend Saw Still Haunts Me The Barn That Shouldn’t Be I was maybe eighteen, maybe a little older. Late one night, my friend and I were walking back from visiting a couple of girls in the countryside. We had no car, just our feet and the fading warmth of the evening. Around midnight, the rain started — soft at first, then relentless. The girls had darted back inside. We were alone, soaked, and too far from home to make the walk bearable. That’s when we saw it: a barn. Rough, weathered, silent. It looked about 300 feet from the road. We didn’t think twice. Shelter is shelter. We climbed into the hayloft, laid back in the straw, and tried to let the sound of rain settle us. I did what I often did back then — meditated. Slipped into that quiet space where mind and body start to separate. I’d done it a hundred times. But this time... was different. I felt like I was sinking — or like something was pulling me. Not sleep. Not peace. Something... other. Then I saw it: a w...

 This website contains personal stories and opinions. I am not a licensed therapist, lawyer, financial advisor, or medical professional. Any advice or reflections shared here are based on my lived experience and are not meant to replace professional consultation. This blog may contain sensitive content, emotional topics, or adult language. I write honestly, and sometimes rawly. If you're affected by trauma, addiction, or grief, please take care of yourself while reading. Any references to people or events are from my personal memory and perception, and I respect the privacy of others involved.