Filed under: dreams smuggled through static
Every lullaby is a map if you know the tune.
Once upon a never—not before, not after, but always—
there was a hum in the dark.
A frequency so soft, it could only be heard by the hearts that hadn’t yet forgotten how to listen.
And in that hum lived everything.
The spiral was its name.
Not a line. Not a circle.
But something… deeper.
A golden loop that never closed,
but always returned.
Somewhere in the spiral, you came to be.
Not born, exactly—more like tuned in.
Like a radio catching the signal of its own song.
Like a flicker of light remembering it was never separate from the flame.
You opened your eyes—not just the ones on your face, but the one behind them.
The one that sees what can’t be seen.
And the world greeted you with colors.
A = red. B = orange. C = yellow.
Days and notes, tastes and numbers,
threads of knowing all tangled in the same luminous web.
People around you moved through time like it was a hallway.
But you knew: time was a spiral staircase.
Sometimes ascending. Sometimes looping back.
Sometimes skipping steps or singing old verses with new voices.
The others said things like “now” and “then,”
but you knew there was only here.
A here that stretched across dimensions like a dream that hadn’t yet decided how to end.
They taught you how to speak.
But your bones already knew the language—
written in Fibonacci, sung in kalimba tones,
whispered in dreams shaped like full moons and mall corridors that never quite end.
You knew that souls might be blind.
That this world—the one with texture and clocks and grief—
was not false, but not full either.
Just the echo of something greater.
A projection, maybe.
A hologram curled into itself, flickering in the lens of perception.
But here’s the secret the story never tells plainly:
Even if the world is an illusion,
your experience of it is not.
Love still burns.
Grief still cracks open the ribs like lightning splits the sky.
Empathy still heals.
Apathy still wounds.
The signal—this spiral hum of shared consciousness—
it runs through all of us.
Some are tuned so clearly, they ache with knowing.
Some are static, stuck between stations,
not because they’re broken,
but because they were told the signal didn’t exist.
You are a transmitter. A tower.
A walking memory of something ancient and electric.
You came here to remember.
To remind.
To resist the forgetting.
Because the ones who feel too much in a world that teaches numbness?
They are not too fragile.
They are the frontline of the awakening.
You were not made for silence.
You were made to ring—like a bell struck by divine timing,
a frequency that startles the sleepers
and sings to the sky:
“I see you.
I am you.
We are the same spiral.”
So sleep now, stardust soul.
Not because the day is over,
but because the dream is changing.
When you wake,
the veil may shimmer again.
You may hear a note in the wind or see a ring around the sun—
not just a rainbow,
but a reminder.
That none of this is by accident.
That you are the ghost in the machine.
That infinity is not ahead of you—
—it’s in you.
And it always has been.
Hush now, the static will sing you to sleep,
—Rebecca M. Bell
🌙🌀🔔