Part I — The Logout or Part II
Field Report: The Day the Broadcast Ended
“Belief was the password. The second I stopped believing, the ports closed.”
The Quiet After God Mode
The day I realized nothing about this is real, the intuition died.
Not metaphorically — literally.
The psychic switchboard went dark.
The hotline to the dead disconnected, the visions packed their bags, the ghosts stopped calling.
For years I’d been a full-service operator in the astral call center — messages from the dead, medical scans, trauma weather reports, cosmic dispatches at three a.m.
I didn’t apply for the job; it just started one day and never stopped.
Then — silence.
At first I panicked. Maybe I’d broken myself. Maybe enlightenment had fried the wiring. Who kills the very thing that kept them alive?
But the longer I sat inside that silence, the clearer it became: this wasn’t failure.
It was logout.
The Moment of Seeing
It didn’t come during meditation or mushrooms — it happened on an ordinary afternoon, mid-scroll.
I was tracing the same question I’d chased my whole life: Why do people keep suffering the same way?
And suddenly, the answer hit like a trapdoor opening under logic itself.
Every story I’d ever used to explain the world — religion, science, capitalism, politics, even New Age “manifestation” — was built from borrowed code.
People weren’t living freely; they were performing inside pre-approved scripts written by systems that profit from belief.
Churches sell salvation.
Politicians sell fear.
Corporations sell identity.
Even the spiritual marketplace sells “awakening” as a subscription service.
Each one a franchise of the same machine — power built on story.
I’d spent decades weaving strands from all of them into a personal worldview, thinking I was discovering truth.
But when I pulled one loose thread — questioned where that “truth” had come from — the whole fabric started to unravel.
“The stories running the world aren’t stories at all. They’re binding agreements.”
That’s when I saw it:
The narratives we inherit aren’t just old — they’ve been rewritten by the people who profit from them.
The ones at the top are the scriptwriters, editing reality to keep us bound to their systems.
It’s the same mechanism magicians and shamans use to unbind energy — only inverted.
We use language to release pain; they use language to capture it.
They’ve turned words into contracts, hidden clauses written into culture.
Every creed, every slogan, every oath is a spell that signs your energy over to someone else’s idea of order.
You never signed that contract consciously — but it still runs, buried in the operating system of your mind.
If the narrative can be written and rewritten by whoever controls the printing press or the algorithm, then reality isn’t real — it’s negotiated.
And we’ve all been negotiating from inside a cage built of words.
The Captured Afterlife
We talk about freedom and individuality as if we invented them,
but even our ideas about life and death have been captured.
Most people assume they’ll die and wake up as themselves — same face, same voice, ready to meet their relatives at the celestial clubhouse.
Fully dressed for eternity, waiting for a harp lesson.
But where did that story come from? The church.
Other traditions rewrote the script with their own costumes — reincarnation, paradise, Valhalla — but it’s the same recycled loop: the personality survives intact.
It’s comforting, and sometimes contact from the other side even seems to prove it.
When I worked as a medium, I saw fragments of that continuity all the time — the mother’s favorite song, the father’s old joke, a gesture that feels unmistakably them.
But over time I realized something deeper: what comes through isn’t the whole person still living a parallel daily life.
It’s the geometry of their essence — a strand of light, still connected to those who loved them, echoing through the field.
The personality is the costume; the awareness wearing it never dies.
“Life never extinguishes. It goes on — but differently than the story tells it.”
Awareness continues to unfold, shedding one identity after another like layers of old clothing.
What we call “the afterlife” is really the living field rearranging itself.
The popular versions — heaven, reincarnation, the soul’s reward points — are comforting metaphors that keep us emotionally tethered to the loop.
They were written by the living, not the dead.
It’s the world’s longest game of telephone: each culture whispers its own variation until the myth hardens into doctrine.
The truth is far simpler and far more beautiful:
life is self-renewing.
The story ends; the signal doesn’t.
Life in the Broadcast
Before that day, intuition was everything.
It was my drug, my job, my religion, my entertainment.
But beneath all that sparkle, there was an unspoken operating statement running the show:
people can’t be trusted.
I learned that as a kid.
The unpredictable adults, the betrayals that came dressed as love — they taught me that the only way to stay safe was to see it coming.
So I built an early-warning system called intuition.
If I could read the field — feel every shift in the room, predict the weather of emotion — I could avoid pain.
It worked, for a while.
But it also kept me hyper-vigilant, scanning life like a psychic radar dish.
Fear was the battery behind the gift.
I didn’t know that yet. I thought it was spiritual development.
Intuition had always felt holy — like proof that something bigger was watching out for me.
It had guided me through every phase of my life — the salon years, the mediumship, the spiritual circus.
But I never questioned who was on the other end of the line.
Then everything I thought was “me” collapsed.
Chronic pain turned my body into an electrical storm.
Doctors shrugged. Pills failed.
My husband left. My career dissolved overnight.
The savings I’d worked thirty years for evaporated into medical bills and a 350-square-foot trailer I could barely stand up in.
That’s how I ended up in the Arizona desert — broke, burned-out, and half-stoned just to survive the pain.
Not on a spiritual retreat — on a forced eviction from the life I’d built.
The desert doesn’t care about your affirmations; it strips you clean.
And it was there, in that silence, that the feed finally went dead.
One ordinary afternoon, the signal just… stopped.
No more whispers, no more nudges, no more divine customer support.
At first it felt like suffocating.
Then, strangely, like breathing for the first time.
Because I realized the intuitions hadn’t been guidance.
They were scripts.
And I’d been improvising inside someone else’s story.
The Realization
It took weeks for the panic to wear off.
Friends still swapped miracle stories and “messages from spirit,” while I smiled like a cult escapee at the reunion buffet —
nodding politely while everyone compared enlightenment badges, pretending not to notice the same fear glinting behind every pair of beatific eyes.
But something new was forming under the quiet.
Without the constant commentary, perception sharpened.
No angels, no symbols — just clarity.
I saw that the intuition I’d relied on for survival had always been powered by fear — a child’s theory of protection dressed in mystical language.
As an adult, I finally understood: I didn’t need a sixth sense to keep myself safe.
I could protect myself quite adequately without performing psychic gymnastics.
Looking back, it was almost sweet — the same way a child builds a fort out of couch cushions and calls it a castle.
The ego builds its defenses out of imagination too.
But grown-ups can see the floor plan is flimsy.
So I let the theory go.
I stopped scanning the horizon for danger.
And when the fear dropped out of the circuitry, the whole broadcast went silent.
The global feed — the collective hum of belief and emotion — was gone.
But local connection remained.
I wasn’t cut off from life.
I was finally off the cloud.
The Logout
“You think you’ve lost your magic.
What actually dies is the dependency.”
When belief powers the system, disbelief is the power outage.
That’s what enlightenment really is — not bliss, but a severed line.
The silence that follows can feel brutal.
You think you’ve lost your magic.
But what actually dies is the dependency — the need for an outside source to tell you what you already know.
That’s the moment you stop being a user and remember you’re the signal itself.
I remember lying in bed one afternoon, imagining every belief, every story, every leftover program evaporating out of me — like I was reformatting my internal hard drive.
No religion, no prophecy, no cosmic customer service.
Just awareness.
And in that space came a question I’ll offer you:
Where do your beliefs come from?
Who told you what God is, or what happens after death?
Do those definitions still hold power over you as an adult?
Can any of them be turned off?
Because if even one can be unplugged, all of them can.
Every story we’ve ever lived by was written inside an inverted system — but you can let them all dissolve.
You can wipe the slate.
And when you do, what’s left isn’t emptiness.
It’s the native signal — silent, luminous, free.
⚡ Next → Part II — Life After the Logout
The Architecture of Psychic Power
(where we map how intuition, mediumship, and belief keep the simulation running — and what happens when you unplug cleanly.)
Discover more from Shattering the Matrix
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Love you!