I’ve stared at the sky in wonder.
And I’ve curled up on the floor of the shower.
I’ve tasted insight in dreams,
and I’ve scraped it from the bottom of my own mistakes.
If there’s a secret to the universe, it doesn’t whisper.
It echoes.
And the echo still sounds like this:
That which is below is like that which is above,
and that which is above is like that which is below,
to achieve the wonders of the one thing.
It’s all a mirror.
Inner reflects outer.
Micro reflects macro.
The soul and the solar system
aren’t twins—but they rhyme.
Everything we know, we learn through reflection.
Not just the shiny kind, but the kind that wounds,
that distorts,
that throws back your image in strange proportions
until you recognize something truer than symmetry.
All things are fashioned from the One, by the One.
Call it God.
Call it math.
Call it nothing.
I call it recursion.
Its father is the Sun. Its mother, the Moon.
Which means the source is fire.
But the container is rhythm.
Day gives it spark.
Night gives it form.
This is how transformation works.
Its force is entire if it be turned into earth.
Which is to say:
It doesn’t matter what you know—
until you live it.
Until it walks through your bones,
sleeps in your bed,
grows tired and wakes up anyway.
Your insight means nothing
until it can survive gravity.
As above, so below. With all its glory.
Thus is the world created.
This isn’t just metaphor.
It’s instruction.
It’s not a puzzle to solve—
it’s a rhythm to move with.
I didn’t need the tablet to tell me that.
But it did help me remember.
Because sometimes the truth doesn’t show up
in a revelation.
Sometimes it’s an engraving.
Sometimes it’s a tattoo you got at twenty
that’s been speaking for decades
before you learned how to listen.
And if you’re still lost?
You’re not off the path.
You’re just looking in the wrong mirror.