I have spent my whole life asking questions. It started young, before I had the words for it—before I understood that the world wasn’t as simple as colorful children's Bible stories. Even as a child, I sensed there was more, that the truth wasn’t neatly packaged in parables meant to keep minds quiet rather than open. Fairy tales never felt real, and the world I lived in didn’t reflect the lessons I was supposed to absorb. Evil wasn’t some horned figure in the shadows—it was systemic, woven into the fabric of society, hiding behind smiles and authority. And Heaven… Heaven never made sense to me.
When Dylan died, all of those unanswered questions rushed back. But this time, I couldn’t just set them aside as hypothetical. I couldn’t laugh with him anymore about who would die first and bring back the answers. It wasn’t just a thought experiment anymore—it was real. It happened. He left first. And I was left with the unbearable silence of not knowing.
Where did he go?
And more than that—what are we?
Dylan and I had spent years exploring those questions, peeling back the layers of spirituality, psychology, science, philosophy—trying to find the pattern, the meaning, the purpose. We looked at Carl Jung, at Stoicism, at Buddhism. We dissected human nature, personality theory, consciousness, and the unseen forces shaping reality. It was our thing. Our minds were hungry for truth in a world that didn’t want us to ask too many questions.
And now, the one person who truly understood that hunger is gone.
But I can’t stop looking.
After Dylan died, I realized I had to go back further—before religion, before philosophy, before civilization itself. What did the first people know? The ones who lived before the written word, before control systems wrapped spirituality in chains? What knowledge did they have that we’ve lost?
That search led me deeper into the concept of consciousness—not just human consciousness, but something bigger. Something expanding.
I’ve started to believe that consciousness is not a single thing, but an evolving force. It began as pure energy, then condensed into matter, then became life, and eventually became self-aware. It’s a ripple expanding outward, growing more connected, more intelligent, more… something.
Dylan’s death forced me to ask: Where does that consciousness go when the body is gone?
If energy cannot be destroyed, then is consciousness energy? Does it dissolve into the whole? Or does it retain something of itself, like an imprint in the fabric of reality? Maybe that’s why we sense things—signs, feelings, memories that don’t belong to us but still exist inside us. Maybe that’s why soul families exist—not as reincarnated bodies, but as energy signatures that find each other again and again.
I think about magnetism, about how energy and frequencies draw things together. Maybe soul families aren’t just metaphors, but literal energy clusters that return to each other again and again, life after life, through unseen forces. That would explain the instant connections we feel with certain people, the déjà vu, the unspoken knowing. It would explain the signs, the dreams, the symbols that have been with me ever since Dylan left—moments that can’t be rationalized but feel undeniably real.
Ancient tribes knew this. They lived in a world where awareness of these energies was a skill, not a mystery. They didn’t need books, doctrines, or tools to understand connection—they felt it. They knew how to listen to the Earth, how to see patterns in nature, how to interpret reality beyond the physical senses. I wonder how much we’ve lost. How much of this deep knowing has been buried under the noise of civilization, under the distractions designed to keep us too busy to question, too numb to feel.
And yet, maybe we are circling back.
There’s a story I once read about an elder from an indigenous tribe who spoke of how humanity once had the ability to communicate with the Earth. But as we built tools, we let them do the work for us. As we created science, we lost the need to feel. Now that we have technology that can analyze everything for us, we are at a crossroads—we can either continue down this path, becoming completely disconnected from our inner knowledge, or we can use what we’ve built to return to what we lost.
I don’t believe that means disappearing into virtual reality, locking ourselves into a world of artificial intelligence and digital existence. I don’t believe that’s the future.
I believe the future is something much deeper.
We don’t need headsets or machines to connect to each other—we just need to remember how. The ability to communicate beyond words, to feel beyond touch, to recognize the interwoven nature of reality is already within us. We’ve just been conditioned to forget. And I think… I think the way back is through love. Through awareness. Through vibration.
If we, as a species, raise our consciousness through love, maybe we will begin to unlock the answers we’ve been searching for. Maybe we’ll finally be able to see what physics and quantum theory are hinting at—a reality beyond what we currently perceive. Maybe we are meant to reconnect at a level we can’t even comprehend yet.
And wherever Dylan is, I believe he’s part of that journey. Maybe he will have to be reincarnated many more times before we, as a collective, reach that threshold. Maybe I will too. Maybe this isn’t the last time we’ll meet, but the next time, we’ll recognize each other sooner. Maybe in our next lives, we won’t have to ask these questions—we’ll already know.
That brings me hope.
And that hope keeps me searching.
Because the more aware I become, the more I open myself to understanding, the closer I get—not just to Dylan, but to the truth we spent so much of our time trying to find.
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