Through Fire and Vision:
A Reflective Essay on the Path of Awakening
There is a path that is not chosen but revealed. It does not unfold in straight lines or familiar patterns, but in spirals, implosions, and ruptures. Mine was such a path. It did not begin with seeking, but with burning.
At twenty-five, without warning or preparation, something ancient and unnameable erupted within me. A column of violet fire rose through my body, cracking open the crown and pouring through my being like a thousand suns. Time folded. Identity disappeared. There was no self, no world, no boundary—only the raw, infinite presence of what had always been. I remembered not something new, but something eternal: I am. Still, I had resistance. Fear had overwhelmed me, so something in me said no. Not so fast—an unconscious refusal to fully receive this overwhelming truth. The experience passed. I was still the same in many ways, but changed by it.
With this came visions. Not dreams or fantasies, but living displays of light—what Dzogchen calls Thögal: spontaneous, radiant expressions of primordial awareness. At first, they overwhelmed me. Bright, chaotic, in constant motion. There was no training, no guide, no one to speak to about what was happening. It was beauty, but it was also too much. Yet somewhere deep inside, I recognized them—not as something new, but as something remembered from childhood, from a time before forgetting.
Years passed in integration. The fire receded but never left. And then, another rupture came.
I encountered a spiritual practice I could not accept—a falseness that pierced me with such force it tore something open. And with that tearing, my heart awakened. It was not a gentle unfolding, but a detonation—sparked by an energetic descent from above. For three days, I was altered: clear, luminous, unfiltered. No substance invoked this. It was pure, unmediated presence. My body could hardly contain it. But then came another wound, and the light withdrew. Still, the heart had changed. And the mind had changed. The chaos that had ruled there before had been laid aside. The visions—still present—began to stabilize. Sometimes they interacted with me. Once, I saw through their eyes.
This descent into embodiment brought with it a new companion: rage. A deep undercurrent, personal and collective, long buried. The lies of the world, the sickness of the Matrix, were now felt in my bones. And then came the global rupture: the plandemic. The rage surfaced fully. It was not abstract. It was cellular. The world mirrored the sickness I had felt.
To meet it, the Earth offered its own mirror: Bufo. The toad. The sacrament of ego death.
In that space, I died. More than once. I dissolved into pure light, then fell deeper. Rage was not released, but understood. It was not madness, but the soul’s refusal to betray truth. Emotions, once feared, became keys. Mastery emerged not from suppression, but from a process of surrender.
And in that surrender, a presence emerged—unbidden, unspoken, but undeniable. It did not come to soothe, but to strip away. In ancient echoes, such forces were feared and misunderstood, cast as destroyers or demons. But I saw clearly: this was not malevolent. It was the gatekeeper of truth, the purifier of the false. It arose not to punish, but to complete what was unfinished. It appears only when one is truly ready to die to illusion. When that moment comes, you do not fight—it fights for you.
By then, Thögal had stabilized. The visions were no longer alien. They were familiar. The fire still burned, but in a new way. The heart was open. The ego no longer captain, but servant. And what remained was clarity. Simplicity. Sovereignty. The visions and I are slowly merging into one.
This is not a story of linear unfolding, but of sacred disintegration. Of dying into truth, again and again. It is the Scorpio path—death and rebirth not once, but perpetually. And it is collective. My rage is not just mine. My surrender is not just mine. I am one among many.
What remains, I offer. Not comfort, but clarity. Not healing as escape, but as initiation.
What burns is not you. What remains is.
Hare Om Tat Sat