CrackedSapien

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...