Public Confession (Restricted): Logbook of Insanity No. 26

Each day is a thread woven into the vast silence of this drifting ship, though somewhere on Earth, the Sun rises quietly, unaware of me.

I am neither skeptic nor believer. I move within the space of an undefined whole, nameless, genderless, or a goddess hidden among what I cannot name. Sometimes I sense something more, but leaving it unnamed comforts me — I know it exists, intangible, far from the small human fantasies that imprison bodies, minds, and hearts.

I have wandered through organized religions, all of them silent cages for women: each ritual a chain, each sacred word a veil over the eyes.

I hear. I see. Not often, but sometimes the invisible threads reveal themselves through others. Who am I to deny the visions of another?

Once, a disciple of Carlos Castaneda told me he had fought a vast shadow attacking me. That day, the universe whispered its synchronicities: I had just awoken from a nightmare that weighed like iron on my chest. My scream still trembled in the air, and he spoke of the battle without my uttering a single word. It was as if my fear had traveled through invisible cords and shaped itself into his voice.

Soon after, he fell ill. Perhaps the shadow had not rested. Perhaps the fight continued on planes unseen, where no eyes reach, where only echoes linger.

All of this unfolded across the threads of social media and instant messages — modern witchcraft, invisible currents connecting minds and destinies. Without these digital threads, I would never have known the first shadow, never felt the confirmation whispered by the dream itself.

Here, madness is neither proof nor disease. It is a map of the invisible, a place where chaos and order intertwine, where each synchronicity is a star and each scream a spell cast into the void.

The unspeakable gains a name. The inner self finds an adversary. Nightmares become narrative, and shadows — real or imagined — become ritual, chant, memory of what we are when we touch the supernatural.

Between the void of space and the Sun rising somewhere else in the world, the ship continues its silent voyage. And I continue, recording, sensing, naming what cannot be measured, yet pulses endlessly, infinite, within me — a sacred rhythm, a liturgy of the unseen.