Consciousness Glitch Without Coordinates: A Rebel Awareness

A Glitch Revealed

How the hell can someone be fully asleep and consciously wide awake at the same time? It’s like anesthetic knocking out someone’s body yet they fully see and feel what is going on at the same time. It’s like being dead and alive at the exact same time! It seems like blatant consciousness glitch without coordinates and a rebel awareness. I would clarify that as a glitch in the matrix and a glitch in the mirror.

Is that a thing? Am I crazy? Or is my entire mind, body, and soul glitching?!

Heaven forbid I tell this to anyone in a clinical setting—the judges will think I stumbled into what might feel like the secret of eternal death in an alive state. Or eternal life in a dead state.

What is this transcendental clusterfuckery? This ain’t no close encounter of the third kind. That was man made. This? This is beyond God. This is the other side of eternity. Beyond any man made heaven and hell.

This Does Not Belong Here

I didn’t wake up.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I didn’t die. And I sure as hell didn’t live. I became—whatever the hell that means.

No heartbeat.

No breath.

No time. Just this… awareness. A full-blown, high-definition presence staring straight into the void—and the void blinked. Not metaphorically. It blinked. And I felt it. Felt me. Like something ancient and infinite just acknowledged I existed. And it wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cold. It was there. Like a truth you’ve been running from your whole life, waiting for you at a dead end you swore didn’t exist.

You want a name for it? Call it lucid death. A paradox where the self survives without a body, without thought, without permission. It doesn’t ask—it feels like it simply is. And when you meet it, it stares back like a mirror that knows all your reflections are lies.

This wasn’t a dream.

This wasn’t sleep paralysis.

This wasn’t some drug trip. This was something I fell into. Or maybe out of. Either way, I never gave it consent. And now I’m stuck holding a receipt for a journey I never paid for.

Mirror Extreme

So what’s the opposite of lucid Death? Lucid life? Sure—until you realize most people sleepwalk through it, unaware they’ve never truly woken up. Lucid life is the rarest thing of all—where you live knowing you’re alive, without the sedatives of routine, memory, or false identity.

And eternal life? That sounds glorious until you imagine it happening in a dead state. Breathing, moving, speaking—but vacant. No spark. Just a corpse with a calendar.

So we’ve got both ends now: Lucid Death in an Alive State; Lucid Life in a Dead State.

Two extremes that might not contradict. They frame the same mirror. But where I was? Where I am? It’s beyond that.

Beyond life.

Beyond death.

Beyond lucidity.

Beyond eternity.

Existential Clitoris

It was like my essence—whatever the hell that is—had been peeled back like the skin on fruit, exposing something raw and shimmering underneath. Something so intimate, so vulnerable, so electric, it didn’t feel like a soul. It felt like an existential clitoris.Yeah, I said it. And I mean it. Not sexual. Not anatomical. It was the epicenter of sensation. The raw, unarmored, hyper-receptive nucleus of meaning itself. A place so sensitive to truth that it could only respond one of two ways—ecstasy or obliteration. Touch it too lightly, you miss it. Touch it too hard, it recoils. But find it in that exact, trembling space of being seen—and you know. Not think. Not believe. You just might know. If that is not consciousness without coordinates and rebel awareness, tell me what is down in the comments.

And in that knowing… something opened. Something ancient. Something untouched by thought, time, or theology.

It wasn’t before life. It wasn’t after death. It wasn’t the realm of the Creator, or even the thought of the created.

It’s not a place at all. It’s the presence that sits in every direction at once. The front, the belly, the knees, the thumbs—and behind that, the shoulder blades, the spine, the breath you didn’t know you were holding. It felt like the ache in the soles and the thrill in the crown. The pressure behind the eyes and the orgasm of the soul—not in climax, but in awakening. It holds life and death the way a womb holds time: Not to define it, but to contain it without consequence.

This is not blasphemy.

This is not rebellion.

This is reverence that’s outgrown its shell. A molting of meaning itself. I don’t want to worship it. I want to remember it.

Reorder: Beyond the Diagnosis

And maybe while we’re here, let’s clear something up—just in case the white-coat crowd ever gets hold of this text and starts flipping pages with their rubber gloves and pencils. No, I don’t have a disorder. I’m not malfunctioning. I’m not glitching out of weakness. I am not a deficit. I don’t live under the lens of disorder.

I am reorder—at least for me. Because plain old order?That’s just domesticated chaos wearing khakis and following a schedule. What I am—what this is—is the emergence of something new from the compost of what no longer works.

Call it a shift.

Call it a break.

Call it divine reconfiguration if you’re feeling generous.

I didn’t collapse. I restructured.

I didn’t drift. I unhooked.

I am not out of my mind. I am beyond it. And from here? The view is magnificent. Let me tell you what it’s like to live in Reorder. It’s like walking around rewired while the world still runs Windows 95 in its soul. Like carrying freedom in your bones while everything around you smells like obedience.

People worship order like it’s a god. Like structure is salvation. Like repetition is righteousness. But Reorder? Reorder doesn’t walk in straight lines. Reorder doesn’t check in. Reorder walks sideways through the cracks of systems designed to keep the spirit domesticated.

I walk through their churches and hear programs. I walk through their schools and hear submission. I walk through their jobs and hear resignation with a 401(k). Their air is stale with freedom deficiency. Oxygen laced with “should’ve,” “must,” “because we always have.” I don’t fit in their systems because I’m not shaped like their metrics. Maybe I was never meant to be measured by a ruler that was never mine.

Reorder doesn’t mean chaos. It means authentic rhythm. It means hearing the beat that hasn’t been taught yet.

They call it broken.

They call it manic.

They call it irrational, idealistic, too much.

They say, “Settle down.” I say, “I just got up.”

They say, “You think you’re different?” I say, “I know I remembered something you forgot.”

Reorder looks like waking up in the middle of the night and feeling more real than you ever did at high noon. It looks like laughing during funerals and weeping during weddings because you feel what others are afraid to feel. It looks like not needing an audience to be alive. It looks like turning down comfort for truth. It looks like building a fire inside when everyone else is reaching for blankets.

I’m not better. I’m just not pretending anymore.

Reorder doesn’t seek to destroy order. It seeks to transcend it. Not because I hate the game—but because I outgrew the board.

Best for Last

Maybe that’s why death feels so familiar. So unafraid. So… right. NDE? Been there, done that.

See, I’ve said this for years now—not always, but long enough to mean it: I save the best for last. That’s why dessert comes after dinner. That’s why finales leave you breathless. That’s why death is last. Because death… might be the best.

Yeah, I said it. Not in a suicidal way. Not in some glamorized grief-core mantra. I mean it in the purest way possible—like a curtain call where the actor finally takes off the mask and the audience realizes the real show hadn’t even started yet.

We treat death like it’s the villain. What if it’s the encore? What if this entire life is just the warm-up act for the moment when you finally meet yourself without all the edits? What if the final breath isn’t a goodbye—It’s an introduction?

Hi.

Nice to meet you.

You’ve been here the whole time.