The Spell of Return

Kai had always been different, though for the longest time, he didn’t know why. He was born into a small, tight-knit village where everyone knew each other. Life there was simple, predictable, and safe. He grew up loved by his parents, admired by his friends, and respected by his teachers. But that all changed the day he awoke to his gifts. It had started gradually—a strange awareness that crept over him like a shadow in the night. At first, it was only subtle flashes: a shimmer in the air, fleeting images that would appear in the corner of his vision. He dismissed them, thinking they were tricks of the light or the result of an overactive imagination. But as days turned into weeks, the visions grew more intense. Kai began to see things others could not. Shadows lurking in the fields at dusk, whispers of storms that had not yet formed, and strange figures that walked among the living, invisible to everyone but him. At first, he kept these visions to himself, unsure of what they meant. But the burden of knowing—of seeing the world as it truly was—grew heavier by the day. One morning, Kai saw a dark figure standing at the edge of his village. Its eyes were hollow, and its body seemed to ripple like smoke. Fear surged through him, but when he tried to warn the village, no one listened. “There’s something outside!” he had cried. “A shadow… it’s watching us. We need to be careful.” But the villagers had only exchanged puzzled glances. His father chuckled nervously, trying to calm him. “You’re seeing things, Kai. There’s nothing out there.” Kai’s mother had touched his shoulder gently. “You’ve been working too hard, my son. Perhaps you need more rest.” The dismissals stung, but Kai persisted. As the visions grew more vivid and disturbing, he spoke louder, more urgently. He warned them of coming dangers, of hidden threats, and of the strange figures that seemed to watch their every move. He told his family, his friends, his teachers—but no one believed him. Instead, they began to mock him. At first, it was in hushed whispers, behind closed doors. They thought he couldn’t hear the way they laughed at him. “Kai, the dreamer,” they’d say. “Always talking about ghosts and spirits. He must be losing his mind.” But soon, the ridicule became open. People started to avoid him in the streets, the warmth once shown to him turning into cold glances and sneers. Children taunted him, calling him “the boy with the broken eyes.” Even his closest friends began to drift away, their expressions now filled with pity and doubt. His parents, once so proud of him, began to treat him with a quiet, uncomfortable distance. “Why can’t you be normal?” his father asked one night, frustration spilling over. “Why do you insist on these… lies?” “They’re not lies!” Kai shouted, his voice trembling with desperation. “I see them! The shadows! The storms! Something is coming, and no one will listen!” But instead of understanding, his words only deepened the rift. His mother wept quietly in the corner, and his father turned his back on him. “Enough, Kai. We can’t take this anymore.” The isolation gnawed at him. He wandered the village, trying to ignore the accusing stares and the whispers that followed wherever he went. He tried, again and again, to stop speaking of what he saw, but the visions wouldn’t leave him. They came to him at all hours, vivid and unrelenting. The more he tried to push them away, the more intense they became. He watched as the village unknowingly walked into danger time and time again. He saw crops fail, houses collapse, and people fall ill. And each time, he had seen the warnings before anyone else. He could predict when the winds would shift, when the earth would tremble—but no one believed him. The more he tried to warn them, the more they mocked him, until it became unbearable. One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon and the sky turned a blood-red hue, Kai saw something that made his heart freeze. It was a vision so dark, so terrible, that he couldn’t breathe. The shadow that had once lingered at the edge of the village now towered above them all, monstrous and all-consuming. It wore the faces of those he had once loved, and it was coming for them. “This… this is it,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with fear and sorrow. He ran through the village, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Please, listen to me! It’s coming! We have to leave! We’re all in danger!” But this time, no one even bothered to mock him. They simply ignored him, walking past as if he didn’t exist. His words fell like raindrops into the dust, vanishing before they could take root. Kai fell to his knees, exhausted and broken. His eyes burned with tears he refused to let fall. How could they not see? How could they not understand? Then, a small voice interrupted his despair. “I believe you.” He looked up to see a young girl standing before him. She couldn’t have been more than ten, her wide eyes filled with innocence—and something else. Understanding. “You do?” he asked, his voice weak and disbelieving. She nodded. “I see them too. The shadows. The figures. I’ve always seen them.” For the first time in months, Kai felt something stir inside him—hope. He wasn’t alone. Perhaps, in time, the village would fall. Perhaps they would never believe him. But now, Kai knew his gifts were real. And maybe, just maybe, there were others like him—others who saw the truth hidden behind the veil of the ordinary world. And with that knowledge, he stood once more, ready to face whatever was coming.

11:11 Inside each of us, there are two wolves, one of light and one of darkness. It’s not about feeding either, but about letting both starve, so that true peace can emerge from beyond the battle. Two Wolfs Inside of you, two wolves reside, One is gentle, the other with pride. One likes to love, the other to fight, One fills with dark, the other with light. But here’s a secret, simple and true, It’s not about which wolf feeds on you! Instead of a battle, instead of a feast, Let both wolves starve, and find your peace. For when the growling starts to fade, A quiet joy will then be made. And in that space where wolves once fought, You’ll find the calm you always sought. The concept of 11:11 is often seen as a moment of alignment, balance, or spiritual awakening. It’s a symbol of duality, with the two sets of ones representing a mirror or balance between opposites, much like the two wolves within us. In this sense, the wolves represent opposing forces, light and darkness, good and bad, but 11:11 reminds us of balance, not conflict. Just as 11:11 signifies a moment of harmony, the lesson of the wolves isn’t about feeding one over the other but allowing both to fade, creating a state of inner peace and balance, much like the perfect symmetry of 11:11. Both the poem and 11:11 speak to the idea of transcending duality to find unity and alignment within ourselves.

Radical Self-Honesty There’s an undeniable power in admitting exactly who and what we are, without pretense. Most people deceive themselves not just because they fear judgment from others, but because they fear facing their own reflection. But if we strip away illusions, we can finally see truth, not in the grand, cosmic sense, but in the deeply personal one. A liar who admits they are a liar has taken the first step toward either embracing or transforming that nature. A murderer who acknowledges their own darkness has more clarity than one who hides behind justification. The real struggle isn’t about morality; it’s about recognition, can you look at yourself and say, this is what I am? And once you do, what comes next? The Mosquito & The Nature of Elevation When you swat a mosquito, you instinctively assert your own survival over another being’s. But then comes the question, Am I better than the mosquito? Evolutionarily, maybe. Spiritually? Who decides? If elevation is measured by intelligence, then humans are “above” most creatures. But if elevation is measured by balance with nature, lack of suffering, or ability to fulfill one’s purpose, then a slug might be far more advanced than any of us. A slug never doubts itself. It never questions its own existence. It simply is. Maybe that’s the real paradox, the more we think, the further we are from true elevation. Hierarchy of Evolution vs. The Illusion of Superiority • A mosquito follows its nature. • A slug follows its nature. • A human constantly resists its own nature, questions it, and judges it. Which one is truly free? Maybe elevation isn’t about hierarchy at all. Maybe it’s about self harmony, being so deeply in tune with what you are that there is no longer a need to rise, fall, or compare. Maybe that’s what we should strive for, not being “above” anything, but being whole.