What is it like?
It’s like nothing you’ll ever read on any page.
It’s like thinking Atlantis was a fairy tale, and then you find its gates more real than the painted drywall box you’d been in just a moment ago. Ocean spray, stone shining, clean blue water throwing light up the walls — you taste the salt on the cool breeze rushing past.
It’s like you wake, and everything before was the dream, and the dream fades, and you forget there was ever a dream at all. It’s just always been this.
It’s like the world breaks, and so do you— the world was you. What remains sees without eyes and is without becoming, as close to the seat of God as seeing can come.
And then it comes back.
The senses begin condensing back into the dream you forgot, the one you were living. The body returns as the shape of the you. And you feel like someone you once knew well but left for years on a journey that left you fundamentally changed. The familiarity is the heaviness, the being contained, the fixed space where things stay what they are and you remain where you are and what you are.
The part of you that names comes back last.
It struggles to draw a map where no land exists and no body walks; the page asks for a name, and all it finds is vision. It sets Atlantis back among the fairy tales, and the room agrees — the walls stay drywall, the light stays lamplight, everything holds.
Except now you know.
