I’m currently fighting what I believe is a dental infection—though access to care is presently zero. The fever comes and goes like memory. And oddly, the pain hasn’t just been physical—it’s cracked something open. So if this post reads a little more etheric, chalk it up to the body knowing things before the consciousness does
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Lately, I’ve felt like I’m not quite inside myself. But not in a way that scares me. More like I’m standing slightly beside myself, observing. Witnessing. And thinking, none of this feels real.
And maybe it’s not...
What if this isn’t reality at all, but a dense, chaotic simulation—a shared hallucination we’ve agreed to inhabit for a while? Because when we sleep, we remember. We move without gravity. We teleport. We revisit the past and glimpse futures. We don’t question why the ocean is in the ceiling. We just are.
And in that space—in the dreamscape—we are lucid. We know we’re dreaming, so we start to rewrite the story.
Here’s mine: first a painfully strained hand so I couldn’t grip for days, now the jaw. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence. What better way for the universe to say: you’re holding too much?
The flare-ups began as I revisited my asylum statement—trying to articulate, again, why the UK’s current trajectory and the gutting of the Equality Act isn’t just politics—it’s existential. It’s about what happens when truth becomes inconvenient. When trauma becomes a box you’re forced to keep ticking. When survival is reduced to policy.
And after 49 years of enduring this so-called “reality,” it’s no surprise that my body started shouting. Because trauma doesn’t just echo in memory—it’s stored in muscle, in joints, in nerves. When we re-enter and focus into rooms where we were once erased, the body remembers. It pulses. It protests.
And yes, this post isn’t medical advice. It’s just a record of one human nervous system trying to alchemize systemic neglect into something livable.
Because maybe not all pain shows up on X-rays. Not all inflammation is physical. And not all healing comes in the form of pills.
Here in the waking world, especially in the LGBTQ+ community, we’re handed a script. We’re told that visibility must come with pain. That joy must be justified. That identity needs to be explained, defended, branded.
But I’m not in denial—I’m in discernment. I don’t believe that what we see is all there is.
Because what we’re seeing now isn’t reality. It’s distortion. Fear dressed up as legislation. Performance art masquerading as morality. Systemic control cloaked in rainbow packaging.
This isn’t a critique of queer expression—it’s a call to step beyond the cartoonish version we’ve been handed. I deserve better. You deserve better. We deserve better. The whole planet deserves better.
Why should we have to explain or justify what or why we are? We exist. That’s enough. Energy doesn’t need to perform to be real.
So no, this isn’t about costumes or pride photo ops. It’s about truth that simply is. The kind that doesn’t seek permission. The kind that hums underground like roots—quiet and unstoppable.
We create our own reality—not by shouting louder, but by staying focused on visualizing the reality we do wish to inhabit; staying rooted yet flexible even when the wind tries to scatter us.
I won’t pretend I’ve transcended the game. Sometimes I still get sucked in. It’s hard not to, especially when the world demands that you file, declare, tick, explain. Repeat. It’s exhausting. And it isn’t just.
But maybe there’s another option. Maybe we don’t have to do or be what’s demanded. Maybe we can step sideways. Watch. Witness. Redirect . Revise…Reclaim our eternal divinity
Start to pay attention to what we focus on—what shows up in its wake. Start to notice the script. Then start to rewrite it.
Because maybe awakening doesn’t happen when we open our eyes. Maybe it happens when we stop believing everything we see.
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Writing out statements. Revisiting ghosts I thought I’d laid to rest. Walking back into rooms that never really saw me - I honestly believe it all helped trigger the flare-up in my body. But I also believe this: If I could create that response—consciously or not— then I can uncreate it. Or at the very least, recreate something kinder.
That’s the strange beauty of this dream we call waking life—once we notice the patterns, we can begin to trace new ones.
So I’ll keep listening. Keep tuning the frequency. And I’ll let you know how I get on.
Let’s see what kind of reality I can make next.
Let’s lucid dream out loud. Let’s unlearn the hallucination.
Who wants to come with me?
With love, with feverish clarity, and a touch of surreal optimism, Coach Adam 😎🙏⭐
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