The Weight of Shadows and Light: Breaking Free from Illusions and Embracing Truth

Nov 24, 2024

The night stretches long, as it always does when my mind refuses to settle. I fight sleep, knowing I need it, yet the idea of surrendering to morning feels suffocating. Something about waking up, about facing the rigid structure of a new day, makes me resistant. The night is fluid, open—a space where thoughts can move freely. In the morning, reality solidifies again, and I am once more expected to conform, to fit into a life that never quite belonged to me.

I sit outside, feeling the air wrap around me, needing the openness of the sky rather than the walls of a house that feels strangely hollow. I think about everything—about religion, about autonomy, about the burdens I’ve carried, the sacrifices I’ve made, and the quiet rage that simmers beneath my skin.

There was a time when I didn’t feel so disconnected, when I believed in structure, in rules, in doing things the “right way.” But yesterday’s Bible study reminded me of how much I’ve changed, how much I’ve outgrown the expectations placed upon me. I sat there, listening to the woman speak with absolute certainty about God, about heaven, about the way things are meant to be, and I realized that she looked at me the same way I looked at her—pitying. She pitied me for not having found God, for not accepting His word as truth, and I pitied her for never having questioned it, for never allowing herself to see beyond the rigid walls of her faith.

I thought about the Tower of Babel—the way language was divided, people scattered. What if that was never a punishment, but an opportunity? What if all religious texts were once whole, one singular truth, before they were fractured and spread across the world, forcing humanity to work together to find the pieces? What if enlightenment isn’t something handed to us but something we must piece together, learning to communicate beyond the barriers we’ve created?

I believe in something greater than myself—I have felt it. I have known Oneness. I have touched something vast and eternal, something no single book could ever define. Yet, I struggle with the externalization of God, with the way people hand over their burdens to a force outside of themselves, praying instead of acting. Maybe God isn’t an external being but a tool within us, a subconscious resource to help us navigate life. Maybe the Kingdom of Heaven has never been above or beyond us, but within us.

I wonder if this is the revelation we were always meant to have—that the shadow of death we walk through is the illusion, and transcendence is simply breaking free from it. Dylan understood that before he passed. He feared for the souls of the people he loved, convinced they would be left in hell, but I think I finally understand what he meant. He transcended. We were the ones left behind, left to figure it out on our own.

Even as I explore these bigger questions of existence, I find myself anchored by the weight of my own reality. There’s the life I’ve built, the relationships I maintain, and the obligations I still carry.

And then, there’s my husband. A man I once adored and who adored me, a man who once saw me as a partner, and now—what am I? A presence? A weight? An obligation? I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t need him. I don’t need his money, his stability, or his approval. I stay, but not because I cannot leave. I stay because something inside me believes it is universal.

Maybe it’s guilt that keeps me. Maybe it’s the remnants of love. Maybe it’s just the familiarity of what we once were. I don't know but I do know this—we both are committed to fighting to make this relationship work because we believe.

Yet, despite all my clarity, I still feel anger. Anger at the years I gave up, at the rhythm I lost trying to live in a world of expectations. Anger at the truth that has been suppressed.

I don’t know what’s next. I have my work. I have my vision. I have the Midnight Pickle Podcast and Forever 23. I have the book I am writing, the world I am building, the foundation I am slowly constructing. And I know that if I had to, I could complete my vision -- for Dylan. But I am tired. So, so tired.

I wonder if that is why I fight sleep—not because I fear rest, but because I fear waking up to a world that still hasn’t caught up to what I now know. If I sleep, I have to wake up. And if I wake up, I have to live in a place that is still tangled in shadows.

But maybe, just maybe, I am stepping into the light.

Liz