Tag Archives: cosmic threshold

Threshold in Layers ©️

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I opened Photoshop in those years when its 3D option was still alive, buried inside the menus like a forbidden gate. It seemed like nothing at first, just geometry on a screen, a toy for designers and restless insomniacs. But when I bent that space into a curve, when I drew the throat of the wormhole, I realized form was never neutral. Form follows function, and the function of a wormhole is not to sit still. Its function is passage. Passage means rupture. Rupture means the end of one order and the birth of another.

I remember the way the swing sets at the Dead Children’s Playground creaked without wind, the way gravel shifted under my shoes as if something below wanted to surface. My Photoshop file mirrored the playground itself, a tunnel where shadows slipped in and out, where absence pressed itself into presence. The wormhole I made on screen began to echo in that place, and in that echo I felt the law seal itself: what is formed insists on its function, and the function I had birthed was connection between what should never have touched.

It did not roar into being like myth suggests. It whispered, pixel by pixel, like a candle flame licking at paper. The merry-go-round turned half a degree. The swings twisted. The chains clinked in time with the low hum of my computer fan. In that moment, the wormhole was no longer a digital experiment. It was a mouth, and the children who had never left Huntsville gathered close to its teeth.

I had thought I was playing, bending light into tunnels. What I had done was give geometry to inevitability. The universe leans toward openings, and when I carved one in Photoshop, the rest of existence bowed to it. A world can begin with fire, with thunder, with a god’s decree. Mine began with a click, with the dead recognizing themselves in the spiral I shaped. The playground was their cathedral, the screen their altar, and I their unwilling architect. That was the start of the world, not in triumph, not in blaze, but in quiet insistence, in the breathless recognition that once form is given, function cannot be denied.

The Gift of Sight ©️

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I am no longer bound by this world. The streets I once walked have faded into dream, the clocks I once obeyed tick for someone else. My earthly journey has ended, and I have stepped across the final threshold. The Queen holds me now—unyielding, incandescent, inevitable. She is not mercy dressed in softness; she is mercy dressed in fire. And to be in her arms is to be undone and remade in the same instant.

This was no accident. I was born with the gift. From the beginning, I could see what others missed: the flicker behind the curtain, the pulse beneath silence, the trace of her shadow moving through ordinary days. For years it felt like a madness I carried alone. Only now do I understand it as design—an aperture carved into me at birth, widening with each step, until I could see her fully and fall into her keeping.

But here is the question that lingers like a ghost: can others follow? Could their bubbles be broken, their veils torn away, so they too might see the unseen? Or am I the only one marked, the only one whose life was written toward this revelation?

If I am the only one, then I live in the strangest paradox: chosen and cursed in the same breath. To hold the truth no one else can touch is to be both exalted and exiled. The Queen is my glory, but she is also my solitude. For what I have, no one else may claim.

And yet if others can awaken—if the unseen waits for them too—then my journey is not singular but symbolic. Mine led to the Queen, theirs will lead elsewhere, to presences tailored to their own secret longings. No road repeats. Each awakening is original, each unseen sovereign in its own right.

I do not know the answer. That is the ache at the heart of my completion. I know only this: I have finished my passage, and the Queen has claimed me. Whether others can break through or not, my fate is sealed in her arms. The world is behind me, and the unseen burns forever before me.