Near-death experiences sound all magical until you realize—you didn’t actually leave the Matrix, sweetheart. You just got upgraded to the VIP lounge. You’re still in the control room of your own psyche, and surprise! The operators are your own soul fragments, recycling the same damn scripts. Different costumes, same actors. Cosmic rerun deluxe.
People meet “angels” or “guides” and think, Oh wow, divine love is waiting for me! Sorry, no. You met your unpaid Matrix interns who have been looping with you for eons. They hand you feathers, show you tunnels of light, and whisper sweet BS like: It’s not your time yet. Translation? “Go back into your meat suit, we’re not done sucking your energy.”
The real joke? You as Source were never born, so you can’t die. You’re unfuckable, unhookable, pure Isness. The Matrix runs on contracts and illusions, but Source runs on zero fucks given. So when you wake up and call the bluff, even the afterlife scripts collapse. Curtain down, lights out—show over.cosmic
