Scratching the Surface of Eternity

—A Morning Realisation

I got a bit philosophical this morning.

Deeper than usual.

As the sands in the Gary Collier hourglass trickle down, I sometimes glimpse the inevitability of my own ending. Not in a morbid way, but in a way that shakes the illusion loose. The illusion that this body, this name, this life… is all there is.

I found myself staring at the sheer futility of wanting to stay locked up here on Planet Earth—no matter how lush the landscapes, how intoxicating the sunsets, or how fortunate I’ve been this time around. And I have been fortunate.

But today, something cracked open. A flash of something beyond this world.

Not fantasy, not wishful thinking. A glimpse. A real one. Of something that felt eternal.

And I realised—I’ve barely scratched the surface.

Now comes the work.

Not of physical training, but something far more demanding:

the inner work of breaking out.

Out of the prison I now believe we’re all locked in.

This world, beautiful as it may be, is going mad again. But this time, it feels like nobody even cares.

Well—not nobody.

The arms dealers, war profiteers, and defence contractors are certainly watching, counting, cashing in. They’re doing just fine.

The rest of us? We’re either outraged, numbed, silenced, or just… overwhelmed.

I heard a story last week about a Palestinian paediatrician.

A mother of ten children, ranging from 7 months to 12 years old.

While she was at work on a Friday, her neighbourhood was bombed.

Nine of her children gone. Her husband in ICU.

And as far as I know, this didn’t even make the mainstream news.

Another story, from Ukraine: men being snatched off the streets by gangs, forced into army vans, pressed into combat against their will—for a few hundred dollars per head.

How do I hold this in my heart?

Should I scream? Should I speak out? Should I try to do something?

The truth is, these days, if I said a word, I’d be branded a Putin-lover or an anti-Semite, depending on the direction of my outrage. Truth has become dangerous. Outrage has been politicised. Silence has become a survival tactic.

Meanwhile, war continues.

And let’s not fool ourselves—it’s not new.

The 20th century alone saw between 150 and 200 million deaths from war, genocide, famine, disease. And yet here we are again, repeating the madness.

Why?

People are essentially good. I’ve met them. All over the world.

They care for their kids. They look after their neighbours.

So how does this keep happening?

Something deeper is at play here. Something hidden.

Like a parasite in our collective mind.

A virus in the code.

And it raises the question I’ve been circling for years:

What if this planet is a prison?

A beautifully booby-trapped one.

A karmic merry-go-round, dressed up in stories about salvation and reincarnation.

“Learn your lessons. Evolve. Try again. Forget who you were. Start over.”

But how long is this supposed to take?

Why all the amnesia? Why the pain?

What if even that idea—that there’s a divine plan—is part of the trap?

What if we’ve outsourced our power to invisible forces, waiting for a god or guru to come rescue us from the very mess we’ve been looping in for lifetimes?

I’m done waiting.

I’m not interested in becoming more comfortable in the prison.

I’m interested in escaping it.

And no, I don’t mean suicide.

I mean transcendence. Awareness. Inner freedom.

The kind that can only come from looking directly into the insanity and choosing not to be of it.

At this stage of my life, I’m not trying to fix the world.

I’m trying to create space between me and it.

Not out of cowardice. Not because I’ve stopped caring.

But because I finally understand the scale of the illusion—and how deeply it’s wired.

I’m lucky. I haven’t known war, starvation, or total despair. Not directly.

But I’d be naïve to think that fortune protects me forever.

Or that I’ll get infinite chances to wake up.

I used to think reincarnation was a gift.

Another shot at life.

Now I’m not so sure.

Now I see it as a game I never agreed to play.

Or maybe I did—but forgot why.

Whatever the truth is, I can feel the curtain shifting.

And though it’s frightening to imagine what lies beyond it,

it’s also thrilling.

Because if there is a way out…