Day 43

Ari cultivated some kind of flower that went extinct eons ago and insisted I eat it.

“It’ll give you the kick you need,” he said.

He always tells me that I’ll never truly understand anything unless I experience it myself. Words alone aren’t enough to bridge the gap.

Now, I understand what he meant by that. Yesterday, I broke through to the other side.

The ceremony took place by the fire pit, where flames are meant to ward off negative energies. Ari had summoned three NPC shamans to perform the ritual. One rhythmically beat a steel drum and chanted; another lit incense and herbs; the third inhaled deeply from a long wooden pipe, exhaling smoke over me while tapping my back with a branch of dried leaves.

I drank a tea steeped with petals from the extinct flower, then ate the petals left in my cup. The taste was awful. The tea’s thick, oily texture coated my mouth, while the petals had a metallic tang, like licking a rusty nail. Ari said it tasted as if all of Earth and time had been condensed into a single cup.

About an hour later, as the drumming and chanting continued, the medicine began to take effect. It started with a buzzing in my ears. My body grew light, and I felt myself floating upward until Ari gently pulled me back down.

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he said. “Stay here by the fire. We’ll save the cosmos for another day.”

Once I touched down, my mind cleared. For the first time, I could see deep into the recesses of my psyche. My thoughts revealed themselves as they truly were—a repetitive cycle, each echoing off the next, trapped in an endless loop. It felt as if my mind was confined to a suffocating box, one that stole my breath.

But then, the box expanded. It encompassed all known truths, every idea from the past and future—the entire sum of humanity’s achievements.

That’s when I felt the sensation of falling. My heart dropped, and in an instant, the box vanished. I was left floating in nothingness.

There IS no box. There never WAS a box.

There is nothing.

I was nothing.

I was empty, but in a good way.

This was my introduction to the void.

Though my body remained seated by the fire, my mind’s eye ventured far. I came to understand the void as having two faces. First, it is a realm of infinite potential, teeming with boundless possibilities. Anything can take shape there. Alternatively, it can manifest as a void of emptiness, devoid of hope, submerged in perpetual darkness.

Both interpretations are equally valid.

I found myself drifting in a sea of infinite potential, where everything—and nothing—was possible. When the shaman stopped chanting, he told me I had crossed over.

“You may now ask the void any question,” he said.

I had so many questions, but one stood out above all: “Do I need to save the world?”

The answer didn’t come in words, but as a feeling—an intuition. It was instantaneous, beyond language, yet profoundly clear. The void’s response was simple: it’s my choice whether or not to save the world.

“Is Ari being truthful?” I asked.

Again, the answer came without words: “It’s your choice to trust Ari.”

These weren’t simple yes-or-no answers, but somehow, they made sense at the time.

“How do I trust Ari?”

“You must let go of fear.”

“How do I let go of fear?”

“Through suffering.”

One question led seamlessly into another, spiraling deeper with each inquiry.

“Why must I suffer?”

“To gain strength.”

“Strength for what?”

“Letting go.”

At that moment, a profound truth enveloped me: we are all here to suffer. It was an inescapable reality, a truth so absolute it felt irrefutable. I believed it with every fiber of my being.

“How do we let go?”

“Through suffering, you find the strength to let go. With strength, you find the courage to move forward.”

Yet the void also revealed an alternative. It told me we always have a choice. Suffering isn’t mandatory—not if we can let go. This statement carried a weight that felt undeniable: there is always a choice.

Even the moment of our death, it told me, is a choice. I didn’t fully understand how this could be possible, but the truth of it resonated deeply at that moment.

“What is fear?” I asked.

“All fear stems from the fear of death.”

I saw a vivid image of a tree. Its long, scraggly branches jutted out in every direction, representing countless fears. Yet every branch led back to the same central trunk: the fear of death.

This visualization clarified something profound. Fear of death is our only fundamental fear. Every other fear is simply a branch stemming from this singular source.

I began to test the theory, running through possible fears I’ve had—or could have—and tracing their roots.

Fear of failure? It can be a kind of social “death,” the fear of not living up to expectations, becoming useless to society, and potentially descending into poverty and eventual death.

Fear of not having children? It ties to the fear of being too feeble to care for oneself in old age, leading to vulnerability—and death.

Fear of public speaking? It’s the fear of humiliation or rejection by the group. Being ostracized could lead to exposure, vulnerability, and ultimately, death.

Fear of intimacy or commitment? It’s the fear of dependency—placing your well-being in the hands of another. If that lifeline is severed, the risk of death feels closer.

Each fear traced back to the same root. It was all connected to death.

“Why do we fear death?” I asked.

“Because of ego.”

“What is ego?”

“Ego is fear.”

“Why do we have an ego? Why must we fear at all?”

“Ego is necessary for evolution. Ego allows us to suffer. Without ego, there is no suffering.”

The void revealed that ego—the fear of death—is the driving force behind all our actions, beliefs, and even our sense of self. Our personalities, choices, and every word we speak revolve around this core fear.

But I had always believed there were things worse than death. So I asked, “Does evil exist?”

“The only evil is fear.”

“Does hell exist?”

“An infinite number of hells exist.”

“What is hell?”

I felt a visceral sensation, as if gravity itself was pulling me down. Hell, I realized, is like gravity—a force that drags us downward, making it impossible to rise above. The more we succumb to fear, the heavier we become, sinking deeper into our own personal hell.

“What is gravity?”

“Time.”

“How do we rise out of hell?”

“By finding strength through suffering, being aided by someone stronger, or trusting in God. These all eliminate fear.”

“Is there a God?”

“Yes and no.”

The void refused to give me a straightforward answer about God, yet it made one thing clear: believing in God can lift you out of hell. This made the belief itself seem vital, regardless of its ultimate truth.

These were the biggest insights I gleaned from the experience. I continued asking the void other questions, like whether aliens exist…

“There are no aliens, just us.”

This went against everything I believed in. Science and statistics strongly suggest we’re not alone in the universe. But as I grappled with my disbelief, a new understanding emerged—intuitive, not logical. Aliens don’t exist separately from us; they exist alongside us. We are one.

I understood what the void was telling me, though not through words. It came as emotion and intuition. The best way I can explain it is this: if aliens exist, they’d be like us. There are no aliens—only more of us.

I also asked how I could make my dreams come true.

“You have to let go of all desire to make room to receive,” the void said.

It’s a frustrating paradox. To let go of desire, I need to suffer enough to gain the strength to release it. But I don’t want to suffer. So, I can’t let go, which means I’ll never manifest anything.

“What’s it all for? Why are we here?” I asked.

“To evolve.”

“Why evolve?”

“To help others on their journey. We can only evolve together.”

“But why?”

“You don’t have the emotional experience to understand. You must suffer more.”

Another unsettling revelation followed: we’re all separate. Truly alone. While we can unite through shared actions and beliefs, our journeys are our own. We shouldn’t interfere with someone else’s progress unless they explicitly ask for help. To do so without consent is both condescending and narcissistic.

I’m so tired…

Ari was thrilled that I had crossed over. His excitement earned me a reward: my very own one-room cabin. It’s small, just a bed and a dresser, but it’s mine.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Ari says that when I leave this place—his memory—I’ll enter my subconscious, a realm governed entirely by ego, which he defines as the fear of death. To ascend, I’ll need to find the strength to confront my demons and sever the fears that bind me to them.

One thing has been bothering me: the association between time, gravity, and hell. It lingered in my mind like a riddle, especially now that the effects of the tea had worn off. Without the intuitive clarity the void had offered, the concept felt murky.

I decided to ask Ari about it.

His explanation was… difficult to grasp, even for him. He said time must exist for consciousness to exist. Consciousness, in turn, allows us to perceive beginnings and endings—life and death.

“Time,” he said, “is the vehicle through which death travels.”

It was hard to put into words—more of a feeling than an understanding. Ari added that the more fear we carry, the heavier time feels, which is why it weighs us down like gravity.

I think I’m done for tonight. Tomorrow’s schedule is packed with meditation and exercises in the dojo. I’m skeptical about how much more meditation can teach me after everything I experienced from drinking tea steeped with pink petals. Honestly, it feels like I cheated my way to enlightenment.

Day 45

Yesterday was the big day: my test. Ari believed I was ready, though looking back, I’m not so sure. Still, I agreed to it, so I can’t be mad at him.

Clyde and Dale accompanied us down the familiar path. Just a loop around the pond, a route so well-trodden it’s impossible to get lost.

By now, I know every inch of the woods, even the small town nearby. So I was confused when our destination felt unfamiliar. Then, I saw it: faint geometric patterns flickering in and out of existence, obstructing the path ahead.

A pocket dimension.

Ari had never mentioned that he could create pocket dimensions. That guy is full of surprises.

Clyde sensed my uneasiness and stopped abruptly, huffing through his nose.

“So, this is it?” I asked.

“This is it,” Ari replied. “If you’re ready, you can go on in.”

“Can I take Clyde?”

“Sure.”

I glanced toward the flashing geometric patterns ahead and steadied myself with a deep inhale.

“Just remember, the only evil is fear,” Ari reminded me.

“Right. Fear is evil. Believe in myself. Got it.”

“And don’t forget about the gravity. It’ll pull you down, and you might forget that none of this is real. It’s like being sucked into a dream—you’ll stop being lucid.”

“It’s not real. Got it.”

Clyde grew increasingly agitated, turning his head sharply away from the pocket dimension. Ari reached out to steady him.

At that moment, I wanted to cry. Yesterday, I’d felt ready—more ready than ever. But it’s different when you’re staring your greatest fear in the face.

“I can sense your gravity, and you’re not even in there yet,” Ari said.

“I got this. I got this,” I insisted, trying to muster confidence as I strode into the unknown.

Inside, it was pitch-black. Of course it was. Ari knew all of my greatest fears, and fear of the dark is in my top three.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I whispered over and over, like a mantra.

Clyde’s anxious snorting helped calm me—a surprising comfort. I was thankful he was there, but guilt crept in. I felt selfish for bringing him along.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I should’ve let you stay with the others,” I said, patting his neck and nuzzling into his warm fur. It was more to comfort myself than him. Squaring my shoulders, I told myself again, “I got this.”

Then came the snarl.

It emerged from somewhere deep within the pocket dimension, echoing off unseen walls. Clyde reared up in panic. His back legs kicked out—whether accidental or intentional, I’ll never know—and the force sent me flying. I landed hard on the cold dirt, a sharp crunch radiating from my pelvis. Something had dislodged—my thigh bone, maybe? I couldn’t be sure.

The next moments were a blur.

Clyde bolted deeper into the pocket dimension, his panicked whinnying echoing through the darkness. The sound of his hooves turned frantic, interspersed with pig-like snorts and high-pitched howls that didn’t belong to him. The horrifying chorus grew louder until Clyde’s cries became garbled, then stopped.

Gravity had me now.

Instinct took over. I crawled to the nearest wall, desperate for some sense of protection. At least with my back against it, I wouldn’t be attacked from behind. Covering my ears, I tried to block out Clyde’s agonized screams, but they were unbearable. Closing my eyes didn’t help; the darkness inside was no better than the darkness surrounding me.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I whispered through gritted teeth.

But no matter how often I repeated the mantra, believing it was another thing entirely. The pain in my legs was excruciating. Moving was out of the question. All I could do was curl up and wait—for death, or for the nightmare to end.

The wall behind me shifted.

I stayed curled up, eyes squeezed shut, refusing to acknowledge it.

“Oh, so you got this, huh?”

Ari’s voice cut through the haze, grounding me. My eyes opened hesitantly, one at a time. To my relief, I was outside the pocket dimension. Sunlight streamed through the trees above, warm and familiar.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I scrambled to my feet, checking myself for injuries. To my astonishment, my legs felt fine, completely restored. The rush of adrenaline coursing through me made my body feel weightless. I wanted to run laps around the clearing just to burn off the energy. I felt alive—renewed.

“Where’s Clyde?” I asked, scanning the area anxiously.

“He’s here. He’s fine,” Ari assured me.

Relief washed over me when I saw Clyde further down the path, prancing around with renewed energy.

But as I watched him, determination welled up inside me. I knew I could do better. I needed another try. With my pulse racing and adrenaline coursing through me, I turned to Ari.

“I’m ready to go again.”

“So soon?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I can do it this time. I know it.”

“I saw the whole thing, and you’re not getting it.”

“I crushed my pelvis! I couldn’t move—what was I supposed to do?”

“You forgot to believe in yourself,” he said simply.

“How can I believe in someone with a crushed pelvis?”

Ari dismounted Dale with a sigh. “Okay, we need to talk.” With a wave of his hand, he conjured two chairs, gesturing for me to sit.

“You have to actually trust yourself,” he began. “Do you know what I mean? Have you ever set your mind on something—like really set your mind on it?”

“Uh… I guess?”

“Do you remember being in the void? How it was full of potential and possibilities, and yet, at the same time, completely empty?”

“I remember.”

“Think of God as the void,” he said. “He’s both here and not here, depending on your perspective. Wouldn’t you rather be in the void of possibilities rather than the void of nothingness? A place of trust versus a place of no trust?”

“I get it,” I said, “but what does that have to do with trusting myself?”

“You are the void,” Ari explained. “All those infinite possibilities are inside you. The more you trust yourself, the greater your courage to access them. You see what I’m saying?”

I nodded. It made sense—at least, in theory. But when faced with overwhelming terror, my brain stops working, and my body locks up.

“You either sink or swim, do or die. It’s that simple,” Ari said, his tone firm. “You just have to decide. I swear on my life that it’s really that simple.”

“But you’re dead already. How can you swear on your life?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

So, yeah, all of that happened yesterday. After our talk, I was too drained to write. I crashed hard.

Today was uneventful for the most part—just more meditation and sparring in the dojo. Same old routine.

Oh, I almost forgot: Ari summoned an epic NPC. NPC stands for non-player character, which is basically a simulated person. According to Ari, I’ve gotten pretty good at Wing Chun. So good, in fact, that he thought it was time for me to train with a “real master.” He conjured none other than Bryce Li. Not the actual Bryce Li, of course, but a highly advanced AI version of him. Honestly? I can’t tell the difference.

He kicked my ass.

Day 48

Yesterday was my second attempt at completing the pocket dimension. Long story short? I didn’t make it. Again.

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. It’s the sounds that get to me—the snarls, snorts, and grunts. I asked Ari what they were, and sure enough, they’re zombies.

This time, I didn’t bring Clyde. As much as I missed him, I couldn’t bear to worry about his safety on top of my own.

I walked into the pocket with my head held high, determined to do better. For a while, I managed to keep my composure. But as the zombie growls grew louder, my feet began to feel impossibly heavy, like they were sinking into the ground.

The shuffling and scuffling drew closer. I felt their rancid breath on my skin, reeking like a dumpster full of rotting sea turtles. On instinct, I pressed myself against the wall, just like last time.

The zombies were all around me, brushing against me, their foul breath filling my lungs. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that I could barely think.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I whispered desperately. But the words felt hollow.

In that moment, I pictured myself flowing like water, weaving through the zombies with ease. My goal was to reach the far side of the pocket—I could feel it in my heart. That was the objective.

But the terror was paralyzing.

With the odor of decay filling my nostrils, the terrifying sound of snapping jaws inches from my ear, and the suffocating darkness all around me, my feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds. Then, bony hands gripped my ankles and yanked me down. I hit the dirt hard.

That’s when I felt the first bite.

It stung my shoulder, but with all the adrenaline surging through me, the pain wasn’t as sharp as I expected. Instead, it was more like an itchy pinch—like I’d been thrown into a pool of baby piranhas. The terror was there, but it didn’t register in my mind. It was felt in my body, as if I were an outsider watching the scene unfold.

I wanted to get up. I wanted to push forward. But when one of the zombies tore my arm clean off, that’s when I gave up.

I heard a scream pierce the air before I realized it was my own. The terror pulled me back into my body, and suddenly, I felt everything. Every tooth digging into my flesh, every dry tongue dragging against my blood-soaked skin. The agony was blinding.

Then Ari intervened.

The darkness around me crackled, disintegrating like static battling against sunlight. In an instant, my body healed itself. Whole again, I stood, brimming with adrenaline and resolve.

“I almost had it that time,” I said, brushing myself off.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Ari asked, looking at me like I’d grown a second head.

“I… I don’t know,” I admitted. I felt stupid.

“You just stood there.”

“I wanted to move, but I couldn’t lift my feet,” I said. “I had to drag them.”

“You were disconnected,” he explained.

“I was,” I admitted again. “Why does that happen?”

“It’s a survival mechanism,” Ari said. “When you’re overwhelmed, your mind disconnects from your body. It’s supposed to keep you calm in high-stress situations, but it also makes it impossible to act. Meditation helps with that—it trains you to stay calm and grounded.”

“I’ll do better next time,” I promised. “I’ll stay connected.”

“You’re improving,” Ari said, his tone softening. “You gave up last time, but this time you kept going. That takes strength. But strength alone won’t get you through the gauntlet. You have to believe—really believe—that you’re more powerful than the zombies.”

“Put me in there again,” I said, eager. “I’ll fight this time.”

But Ari shook his head.

“Give it another week or so. Push too hard, and you’ll crack.”

Day 55

If death is my only fear, then why was it so easy for me to choose it when I was fighting the zombies?

I asked Ari, and he said it comes down to a few reasons. The biggest? I’d lost hope. When faced with an impossible situation, I chose death as an escape. In my mind, if I was going to die no matter what, I’d rather it happen quickly. But, Ari reminded me, that doesn’t mean I don’t fear death. In fact, the fear of death can accelerate its arrival.

He also said something interesting: ego is identity. We fear losing our identity more than anything else. Sometimes, a quick death feels like the only way to “save” that identity, to preserve who we are in the moment.

Or, he’s just making this crap up as he goes. I can’t always tell.

Lately, though, I’ve become addicted to the dojo—and to Bryce. He lets me kick him as hard as I can, and I love it. Turns out, I love getting my ass kicked. The pain, the bruises, the blood—it all feels… satisfying. There’s something undeniably sexy about a broken nose, a split lip, or a black eye. By the end of the day, sore and swollen, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Ari doesn’t approve of my newfound pain addiction. He says it’s just another escape, a way to avoid confronting the real issues we’re here to face.

But I don’t care. Right now, the sting of a bloody lip feels more manageable than becoming the only person who can save humanity.

“Any addiction is bad,” Ari said. “Even if it’s something healthy. Pain is definitely not healthy. When you feel like your life isn’t worth living without that certain something, or that you, yourself, aren’t enough without it—that’s when you’ve grown addicted. It’s just another way of distrusting yourself. You’re relying on something outside of you to feel complete.”

He then brought up a French word I’d never heard before: jouissance.

“There’s no exact English equivalent,” he said. “Jouissance is when life isn’t enough—and so it will never be enough. It’s the act of damaging yourself just to feel more alive. Passion without purpose or goal. It’s the process of letting your fear of death control you.”

I tried to argue. Pain makes me feel alive and grounded. It keeps me in my body, stops my mind from wandering. And it toughens me up—I’m too weak without it.

That gave Ari an idea. He pulled an elastic band from his pocket and slid it around my wrist.

“Snap this whenever you feel like you’re fading,” he said. “It’s a temporary, non-addictive way to ground yourself. A guide—not a crutch.”

I stared at the band, flexing it between my fingers. Tomorrow, I’d be going back into the pocket dimension. Back into the hell pit of zombies. Equipped with nothing but my wits and a rubber band.

Stupid zombies won’t know what hit them.

Day 56

I’m alive. And the zombies? They’re not. I killed them. Every last one of them.

I’m still flummoxed by how easy it turned out to be.

When I entered the pocket dimension, just like before, I froze in the darkness. Their vile, wretched growls filled the air, paralyzing me. But then I snapped the band on my wrist—hard—and it pulled me back into the moment.

Instead of terror, I felt anger.

Rage boiled up inside me, and with clenched fists, I went hunting. Not hiding. Not cowering. Hunting. I wasn’t afraid—I was furious. Furious that they’d made me feel weak in the first place.

I wouldn’t say I trusted myself in that moment. No, I trusted the zombies to be weak. In my mind, they were brittle, their bones as soft as wet sand.

When the first one lunged at me, I punched it so hard its head flew off, landing ten feet away. A laugh escaped me as I envisioned my knuckles as diamond-plated and my legs as titanium. At one point, I jammed my fingers into a zombie’s eye sockets and yanked its head clean off.

I gripped the skull like a bowling ball and used it to pummel the others, smashing them into pulp until the skull itself crumbled to dust in my hands.

“You’re all made of dirt!”

I rampaged until nothing moved. By the time I emerged, victorious, I was caked in gore. I probably smelled like a graveyard.

I came out of there virtually unscathed and looked at Ari who had a pleased look on his face.

“I think you’re ready for round two.”

His comment sent me over the edge. I started punching and kicking him in a blind rage.

“And this is why we don’t use anger,” he said as he deflected every attack with a gentle palm block.

I broke down in tears and landed heavy on my knees. Why couldn’t he just let me have the win? Why must there be more?