Chapter 10: The Plow Horse and the Underworld: A Descent Into Living Death

Chapter 10: The Plow Horse and the Underworld: A Descent Into Living Death

The search for truth becomes the joy of living when one sees their position on the collective grid of life, and stops being just another of its marionettes.

I. The Origin of the Wound

I did not arrive at death’s doorstep in a single, dramatic stride.

I crawled there. Slowly. Over three decades of quiet erosion.

This is not a chapter about dying in the clinical sense—no hospital beds, no hospice corridors, no final whispered goodbyes. This is a chapter about a different kind of dying: the prolonged, self-administered variety. The kind that society does not eulogize, does not frame in a ceremony, does not acknowledge with flowers and casseroles left on a doorstep.

I am an electrician who once tried not just to dim my own light, but to switch it off for good. In that fading—in that journey into what I can only describe as my personal underworld—I learned that death doesn’t always crash in with thunder. Sometimes it’s a slow fade. A drop in voltage so gradual you barely notice, until the glow is almost gone and the room is nearly swallowed by darkness.

The first wound came before I had language for wounds.

In November of 1955, I entered this world as a source of distress—a crying baby in a snowstorm in Portland. I was to become inconvenient to a father working two jobs and desperate for sleep before a 2:30 AM paper route. My earliest lesson was administered in a car in the home garage, in the dark, in silence, where my parents placed my blanketed body on work nights for several months:

Your voice has no value. Love will not be available when you need it most. The people you trust will let you down precisely when you need them the most.

Trauma, as I have come to understand it, does not strike like lightning and vanish. It is more like a slow leak in a foundation—invisible until the walls begin to crack.

II. The Lineage of Pain

To understand my descent, you must first understand the inheritance.

My father, Beryl Donald Paullin, was born in 1927—a man of immense intellectual curiosity who enrolled at the University of Portland after returning from the Navy in 1947, studying Theology, Psychology, Metaphysics, and the Philosophy of Mind. He sought to understand the human condition, and was forced to abandon that pursuit for the grind of survival and family. The bitter irony that I would later pick up his dropped mantle—finishing what he started—was lost on me for most of my life. As a child, I did not know him as a philosopher. I knew him as a force of nature: often physically distant, always exuberant, and sometimes terrifying.

His discipline was swift. His belt was certain. And his father, I would later learn, was far worse.

This is the architecture of inherited pain. We do not simply grieve the loss of those we love; we carry the unresolved grief of those who came before us, encoded in our nervous systems before we ever had a word for grief at all. My father was not simply the monster of my childhood. He was a broken child of broken parents, passing down the only coping strategies the previous generation had given him: dominance, control, and the suppression of anything that looked like weakness.

The canary does not choose the mine. It is placed there. Its suffering is not its failure—it is the signal that must be recognized, or all are in peril.

The culture that shaped my family rewarded the suppression of pain and pathologized its honest expression. We were good at self-medication in this country. We still are. The rise of addiction, depression, loneliness, rage, and homelessness that now troubles our national landscape is not a mystery to those of us who have lived inside it. It is the predictable harvest of a civilization that has never learned to mend its wounded inner children.

I was one such child.

III. The Shapes That Dying Takes Before Death

By January of 1986, I had become what I can only describe as a living ghost.

Thirty years old. A mind fractured by years of alcohol, marijuana, and, recently, methamphetamine abuse. I had lost a marriage—to Donelle Mae Flick, a beautiful and tragically wounded woman crushed by the weight of toxic masculinity and mental illness—a career with the US Postal Service that I had voluntarily abandoned in July of 1985, a full-ride Air Force scholarship, and the early promise of a man who had once dreamed of becoming a pilot and an astronaut. In September of 1985, I had walked away from a long-term love relationship, severing yet another tether to a life that had once seemed possible.

I was living out of Randy Olson’s apartment, having recently abandoned a relationship with a woman named Alcindia who I had been engaged to.

The addicted mind builds its labyrinth slowly, brick by brick, long before you realize you are inside it. By the time you search for an exit, every corridor looks like a wall.

I had made a private pact with myself at age fifteen: if I could not shake my addiction by thirty, I would end my life. That deadline arrived on January 28, 1986, announced by Randy’s screams from his bedroom as I lay on his couch, recovering from yet another night of escape into the bottle:

“Bruce, wake up! The Challenger just exploded!”

I watched the Space Shuttle disintegrate on the television screen—that plume of orange, white, and gray smoke—and understood, in the marrow of my bones, that I was watching the external manifestation of my own internal reality. My potential had been vast. My dreams had disintegrated in the same catastrophic way: a structural failure, long in the making, finally visible to anyone watching.

I went to the pharmacist with unfilled prescriptions for antidepressants and Xanax from Dr. Dan Beavers. I intended to swallow them all. Standing in line, I ran into Mike, a casual acquaintance.. I tried to share even the smallest fragment of my pain, but he shut me down flatly: he had no time for other people’s problems. It reaffirmed everything I believed about the indifference of the world and reminded me I would not be missed too much when I exited this life.

The pharmacist refused to fill the prescriptions. My psychiatrist would not fill them without another visit. He was grieving a patient—Scott—who had already succeeded where I was planning to succeed. He sensed the direction I was heading and extracted a promise that I would not harm myself.

I did not intend to keep that promise.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

A new thought erupted into my mind—sudden, inexplicable, almost violent in its clarity:

Now I must begin the search for truth.

If I could not find a truth that would restore some sense of purpose and meaning, I would remove my flickering light from this life. I retrieved those prescriptions and stuffed them under the front seat of my car. If the search for truth failed, the pills would still be waiting.

IV. The Sacred Geography of the Underworld

What followed was not recovery.

Not yet.

What followed was a descent—a further plunge into Portland’s dark underbelly that, in retrospect, I can only understand as the soul’s last desperate attempt to locate truth in the only places it had not yet looked.

I called my best friend Sean who had left for the US Air Force in 1977. He was stationed in Madrid, Spain, and offered me a place to stay with him and his wife Natty after I told him that I was dying of a brain tumor. I accepted, got a passport, and applied for my US Postal Service retirement pay. I never made it back to him, because I wanted to die locally.

After my disastrous weekend at the beach with Di Di McCloud—during which I abandoned her to the cocaine and the repulsive company she’d found at a Seaside bar, drove home in a blackout, rear-ended a car at freeway speeds in North Plains, and ultimately abandoned my wrecked Dodge Dart at a repair shop—I made a decision. This descent would be a solo journey. I swore off all relationships, other than platonic, for its duration.

I filed for bankruptcy in March of 1986—a filing that became official, with a grim coincidence I did not miss on my 31st birthday, November 20, 1986. I was severing financial ties just as I planned to sever my mortal ones. When Randy found a new girlfriend and could no longer house me, the Datsun 310 became my bedroom, my kitchen, my confessional. I occasionally squatted in unoccupied homes, distanced myself from my family, and let the current of addiction pull me deeper into its undertow.

I frequented two bars in Southeast Portland, and what was to become my favorite tavern on Foster Road called the Punjab. It was there that I found a landscape populated by drug chemists and undercover officers, hitmen and prostitutes, runaways and Vietnam veterans still fighting wars that had officially ended a decade before.

These spaces were sacred geography of a particular kind.

Not sacred in the way we typically use that word—not holy, not elevated, not gilded. Sacred in the way that any threshold is sacred: because people were dying there, honestly and without pretense.

These were my teachers, in that season of living death.

Ralph:

Ralph, a man from Scappoose, became the central figure of my underworld education and, improbably, my protector. Through him, I was introduced to a cast of characters pulled from a noir nightmare: drug chemists, undercover officers, hitmen, homeless men and women, and prostitutes. I was an anomaly in their world—too healthy, too educated. I was nearly beaten once for using the word “magnanimous.” A patron told me to use a nickel word whenever I was tempted to use a quarter word.

I grew to love Ralph. I became his primary driver for many of his “exchanges.” Once, all four tires of my car were slashed overnight at one of his parties. Ralph put the word out on the streets that this was unacceptable, and whoever had done it would answer to him personally. I felt strangely safe with Ralph—even as continued threats circled me—and it was a safety I had not felt in years.

One afternoon, while jacking up my car for tire replacements, I used my AA Big Book for extra elevation under the jack. Ralph told me to “ditch that evil book.” I kept it hidden from all sight from that point forward—though I have owned that very same book to this day. I had, I noted with a brief flicker of dark humor, finally found a constructive use for the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Sarah and Jake:

Sarah was Ralph’s long-term girlfriend. They had an open arrangement, and Ralph offered his blessing for any platonic or otherwise connection. I kept our friendship strictly platonic—I had sworn off emotional entanglement for the duration of this descent.

We often visited friends in jail together. It was on one such visit—to see our friend Jake—that my reality fractured for the first time. After snorting designer meth, Sarah casually revealed that the “kind” man we were visiting through the jail’s glass partition was a hitman for a motorcycle gang.

The cognitive dissonance of this revelation, compounded by the chemicals I had consumed, caused a stroke-like episode. Meeting Jake at the jail, I could produce only animalistic grunts and squawks. My voice had been literally stolen by the horror and the chemicals—a terrifying manifestation of the “conspiracy of silence” that had governed my entire life.

Steve:

Steve was the big brother I never had. Well-dressed, intellectually sharp, a man of mystery who navigated the treacherous landscape of the underworld with a composure I would only later understand was professional. He often played the role of mentor, criticizing the rate of my drug abuse while occasionally using with me—always in far smaller quantities, always maintaining a composure I utterly lacked. He constantly “tested” my resolve by exposing me to desperate situations and broken people, perhaps to see if I would crumble, or find the “truth” that he understood that I was searching for.

Steve was the only person I ever told that I was on a search for truth. He told me I was in the wrong neighborhood for that. But he remained available for conversation whenever I wished.

I had no idea he was a gatekeeper to my next step in life.

I would learn much later that Steve had been working undercover—investigating reported corruption within the Portland Police Department, specifically cocaine distribution by an unnamed officer, and monitoring the echoes of Steven Kessler, a notorious criminal who had killed a prison guard in 1982, escaped, and broken into the DEA Portland office to steal documents. Kessler had, unbeknownst to me at the time, several indirect ties to people from my past and present: I had been roommates with Tom Craven at the Care Unit in 1984—a co-conspirator in the 1966 Oregon State Prison riots. I had grown up in the same neighborhood with Wayne Harsh, a former Clackamas County officer who allegedly had supplied the getaway car to Kessler after his escape.

Steve had been watching over me—not as a friend, exactly, but as something harder to name.

Hal:

Hal was a lanky, chain-smoking intellectual who served as my alternate driver when Ralph wasn’t around. Despite holding a bachelor’s degree in forestry and possessing a formidable work ethic, mental instability had reduced him to peddling speed at local strip bars to survive. We spent hours fueled by stimulants, dissecting religion and philosophy. He carried a deep-seated Catholic guilt, often insisting that heaven and hell were not afterlives, but states of existence right here on earth.

He possessed a tragic cynicism, believing that the damage in the world precisely mirrored the damage in his own mind. Our conversations never ended on a hopeful note—a fact cemented when he was eventually arrested for drug distribution after being betrayed by an acquaintance, becoming yet another casualty of the game we were all playing.

Robert:

One night at the Punjab, I met Robert—recently released from prison for a 1975 robbery in which he had killed a man. We talked amicably until his contact arrived. Robert went to the restroom and returned moments later, eyes dull. He slumped forward and fell from his barstool.

“Bartender, should we call an ambulance?” I asked, panicked.

Jack, the owner, shook his head without alarm.

“No, Bruce. Some people are just waiting for a better day. Today is not that day for Robert. He is right where he wants to be.”

The heroin had shut him down. It was a chilling lesson in the utility of oblivion—and in the strange mercy a community of the damned extends to its own.

Dorothy:

Dorothy was a young mother and heroin user living in sustained fear of her incarcerated boyfriend, Jakob, whom she believed could astrally project from prison to torment her. While she scraped resin from spoons for a fix, she lectured me on the non-existence of good people.

“There is only darkness, Bruce,” she said. “Good people do not really exist—just fucked-up people who occasionally make helpful choices for themselves.”

She offered me heroin. I declined, and fled the tangible darkness of her home. I never saw her again.

Georgette:

Steve introduced me to Georgette—fifteen years old, a runaway being groomed by a handler named Greg. Seeing her innocence broke something open in me. In a rare act of agency, I used some of my remaining money to take her to a youth shelter, pressing cash into her hands and telling her never to return to the streets.

Days later, a cassette tape recording of my private conversation with Georgette appeared at the tavern.

The underworld was watching. Paranoia seized me. I realized my “wild card” status—my refusal to be claimed by any faction—was becoming dangerous.

Greg and Martha:

Greg, Georgette’s handler, tried to recruit me. He was intrigued by my vocabulary and my disinterest in women. He took me to a safe house on Duke Avenue, presided over by a woman named Martha. The basement was a department store of stolen goods—chainsaws, guns, appliances—and housed a meth lab behind a closed door. Martha offered me a joint to celebrate my arrival. I declined, opting for crystal to keep my edge. I stayed for a week of sleepless insanity before moving on. The house was a monument to theft and addiction, yet Martha tended it with a strange, domestic pride.

Barbara:

Barbara entered my life in the late summer—emotionally unavailable, petite, outgoing, interested only in a running mate who carried no expectations. She treated me like an accessory for her escapades, discarding me whenever the night ended or her mood shifted. Yet I felt a strange, fleeting safety with her. Her loneliness and nihilism matched my own so perfectly that proximity to her felt, briefly, like being understood.

Our relationship peaked on Halloween, when we roamed downtown Portland costumed as a pimp and his associates. For a few hours, the leather and velvet disguise covered my emaciated frame, and I received the only compliment on my appearance I had heard in years. But true to form, she abandoned me at 2:30 AM, leaving me to understand what we had actually been: two damaged souls crashing into each other in the dark.

V. The Moment the Circuit Broke

By March of 1987, Steve looked at me and said I looked like an AIDS poster boy.

He was not wrong. I had lost seventy pounds. I weighed 136 pounds. My face had erupted in sores. I heard voices that did not feel like my own. Paranoia was my constant adviser. I had been injecting drugs intravenously for months—introduced to the needle by a man named Doctor Dave—as a hastened path to the end I still believed was coming. I had renamed myself “The Wild Card” and let the streets know I was aligned with no one and headed for death.

At a party organized by a dealer named Frank—who was mixing what he called a “witch’s brew” of speed and heroin—I made my final decision. I had nothing to lose. I nodded to Steve across the room and headed for the stairs.

Steve rushed over and grabbed my arm.

“Bruce,” he said. “I can no longer keep you protected. Your search for truth has ended within my world. Now your real search for truth must begin. A great place to start would be with your father. You deserve a better life.”

He walked me out of the party. He drove me to my father’s house. When he later returned my car, the suicide pills I had kept under the front seat were gone.

What Steve did in that doorway, in that precise moment, was an act of pure human recognition. He saw a soul worth saving when I could only see the end of days.

He was my Harry deLeyer.

Who was Harry deLever?

In equestrian lore, Harry deLeyer arrived late to an auction in 1956 and found only the rejects—horses destined for the glue factory. He paid eighty dollars for an old gray plow horse already loaded onto the slaughter truck, eyes dulled by labor and neglect. Something in the animal spoke to him. He saw a champion where others saw a corpse.

Two years later, that horse—Snowman—won the Triple Crown of show jumping.

Steve saw the champion in me when I was the plow horse on the truck. He unhitched me from the wagon of death just as the ramp to the slaughterhouse was lowering.

VI. The Descent Into the Father

When Steve dropped me at my father’s empty house—Beryl and my mother, Corinne, were still snow-birding in Arizona—I was a shell.

My skin was erupting in sores. My body shook with tremors of withdrawal, neurological damage, and malnutrition. My mind was a cacophony of hallucinations and voices that felt like the thoughts of others intruding upon my own consciousness. I was in no condition to seek professional help; a psychiatrist would have committed me instantly—a fate I feared more than death itself.

I invited Randy Olson over. We drank until late into the night, consuming my father’s liquor with the desperation of men trying to extinguish a fire with gasoline. Randy left around 10:00 PM, and I slipped into the black void of unconsciousness.

It was in that blackout—a state where the soul disconnects from the controls—that I grabbed my father’s rifle. Driven by some autopilot of self-destruction, I drove drunk to the home of Brock, a drug chemist in Milwaukie. I have no memory of the drive. I awoke only when the gun in my lap discharged, blasting a hole through his front door.

Inside that apartment were sleeping children and a wife. The bullet struck nothing but wood and silence.

Brock, unperturbed by the violence that was commonplace in our world, did not call the police. Instead, he pulled out a hypodermic needle and injected me with speed to sober me up.

We talked for twenty-four hours. He injected me again. And then, in the haze of stimulants and exhaustion, a sudden and piercing clarity arrived. It was not a gentle dawn. It was a lightning strike. I looked at Brock, surrounded by the paraphernalia of our mutual demise, and I said it out loud for the first time:

“We are nuts.”

I saw the loop. The cage. The self-imposed prison. I stood up, walked out of Brock’s front door, and sat in my car.

I had exactly five dollars to my name.

A binary choice. A final crossroads: beer and cigarettes to fuel the death spiral, or gasoline to drive to family.

I bought the gas.

I drove to my grandparents’ house in North Portland—the lighthouse in the storm. They took me in without conditions. My grandmother nursed me through five days of hellish detox without asking me to name what I was detoxing from. They fed me. They watched over me. And for the first time in years, I was safe inside a human space.

A week later, a childhood friend called. Craig Salter had been court-ordered to Alcoholics Anonymous for a DUI, and he asked if I wanted to come.

I said yes.

My first official day of sobriety was March 21, 1987.

VII. The Long Goodbye Is Also a Long Hello

What I carried out of that underworld was not a certificate of survival.

It was a curriculum.

Every person I had encountered in those dark corridors—Ralph, Sarah, Jake, Hal, Robert, Dorothy, Georgette, Barbara, Steve—had been teaching me something I could not have learned in any classroom or church pew. They were teaching me what it looks like when the wound goes unhealed. What it costs. What it asks of everyone around the wounded person. What it demands of a culture that refuses to look directly at its own pain.

The fates of those teachers are worth recording, because they complete the lesson.

Randy Olson—my brother in chaos, the man who woke me to the news of the Challenger’s destruction—died on June 3, 2013, at the age of 58, of heart disease. We closed a chapter of brotherhood defined by mutual love and shared dysfunction.

Di Di McCloud—the woman I had loved briefly in 1984 and abandoned in Seaside, at a bar while I drove home in a blackout—called me in 1988. She wanted the love poem I had written for her in 1984. I gave her the poem. We hugged and wept. She died later that year in a drunk driving accident.

Donelle Mae Flick—my first wife, the beautiful and tragic woman crushed by the weight of toxic masculinity and mental illness, who had suffered multiple devastating nervous breakdowns throughout our marriage and long after it ended—struggled her entire life. She passed away on my birthday, November 20, 2022. She was my canary. Her suffering was never her fault. It was a signal that the culture around her consistently refused to read.

Barbara, who had treated me like an accessory for her escapades, served me dinner as my waitress at a restaurant in 1990, at a table occupied by my present wife Sharon and her daughter Hayley. Barbara apologized for how she had treated me. I accepted and wished her well in her new sobriety.

They are all gone now, or mostly so. The underworld consumed many of them. Some it merely wounded and released, changed.

The threshold, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed—by the dying, or by those who witnessed the crossing.

VIII. What the Wire Carried

I am an electrician. I understand circuits.

Consciousness, I have come to believe, behaves like a current moving through a system. The physical body is the wire. Death—whether it arrives in a hospice bed, a car crash, a heroin nod at a tavern on Foster Road, or a slow erosion across three decades of addiction—is a conversion event. The wire fails. But the current, the energy, the field that surrounded the wire does not cease. It moves on and transforms.

What I experienced in that underworld was not simply addiction. It was a full-spectrum confrontation with the question that this entire section is built upon:

What does it mean to die, and what does surviving that dying demand of you?

My death was protracted and largely invisible—the kind of dying that happens in parked cars and tavern booths, that does not register on death certificates or earn obituaries. But it was as real as any dying I have since witnessed, and the curriculum it imposed was as rigorous as any grief.

The steps I eventually rewrote for myself—a translation of the Twelve Steps into the metaphysical language of my own journey—were not an intellectual exercise. They were field notes from the threshold. They were practical instructions extracted from the wreckage of a life that had been methodically dismantled and then, improbably, rebuilt.

We are the energy moving through the wire.

We are not the wire.

The wire can be bent, corroded, overloaded, and broken.

The current seeks another path, the path of least resistance to the Ground.

IX. The Plow Horse Soars

Harry deLeyer saved Snowman from death, fed him, and loved him. He saw value where the world saw waste.

Two years later, Snowman cleared obstacles no one thought possible and became a legend—not because of his pedigree, but because one person refused to accept the world’s verdict on his worth.

Steve saw the truth in me when I was blind with darkness. He pointed toward truth without claiming to possess it. He walked into the mud with me instead of reaching for me from the safety of dry ground—and then, at the precise moment when the mud threatened to become a grave, he pulled me out.

This is what the living can do for each other.

This is what presence demands.

This is the practical instruction concealed inside every chapter of grief, every season of dying, every underworld that any of us survives or fails to survive:

See the other person. Not their wound, not their worst decision, not the verdict the world has rendered on their worth. See the truth inside them, even when—especially when—they cannot see it themselves.

Do not wait for the conditions to be clean or comfortable. The plow horse does not need a pristine stable. He needs someone willing to climb onto the slaughter truck.

Be that person.

Be that person while you still can.

The search for truth becomes the joy of living when we stop being marionettes of our own unexamined suffering and begin instead to see ourselves clearly—as both the wound, and the one capable of healing it.

X:  The Search For Truth and Father

Steve called me in April of 1988 to check on me.  I thanked him profusely.  I felt love and appreciation for him. I was awakening to a new, wonderful life.

To truly transcend the abyss, I had to become more than the passive recipient of rescue. I had to become my own Harry deLeyer. I needed to look past the accumulated grime of my own history, gaze into the mirror of my soul, and recognize the champion hidden beneath the scars. I had to finally see myself as worthy of investing love and life force, transforming from a broken plow horse into a being capable of its own salvation.  I had a story to tell.

My whole life I had believed that I had nothing to say, and that became an essential part of my life story.  In March of 2017 I begged and beseeched my wife, Sharon, to please tell my story for me, as she had already written a great book, and had that capacity.  She compassionately, and authoritatively, reminded me that my story was my own to develop, and to tell, and it will die with me, unless I find the courage, and the willingness to share it.

I started revisiting my childhood experiences and piecing together the story of my life. I studied some of the family writings and started recalling family stories about the grandparents on my father’s side I never really knew.  And while I was writing and thinking and making sense of it, I was struck with a profound realization. I saw, for the first time, the wounding process that I shared with my father.

I felt an incredible compassion, love, and acceptance for my father, who had also suffered immensely under the spiritually destructive parenting of his own diseased parents. This can be particularly difficult for men. Men typically inflict their own wounding on everybody else, in subtle, or not so subtle ways. Usually, this manifests in poor collaborative intentions, and dominating, or being dominated, by others while engaging in passive/aggressive coping strategies. Philosophies of oppression and the monetization of reality often emerge from deep wounds. Women, children, and those with gentle or non-confrontational natures are frequently victimized.

We often downplay our inner stories, doubting there’s anything worth telling, or hiding them out of shame. But the truth is, our stories deserve to be told. Make peace with your story, develop your own timeline, develop your own personal story, and be the hero of your own journey. Do whatever it takes. Find and cherish your story no matter how difficult it is initially because as you heal and grow, that story starts to take on significance until it becomes part of the grand story.  It should no longer be “his story”, or “her story”, but instead, the unitive “our story”.

When I recently rewrote this section on my search for truth, a period of time following my 1986 suicide attempt, I was to reenter the consciousness, and the emotional experience, of those most troubling times.  I did not expect or anticipate this, and I reexperienced many of the dark emotions that characterized this most turbulent and disordered time in my life.  I finished the work, and felt sad, and disconnected.  I took my Miata for a long drive, which typically lifts my spirits, no matter what may be going on in my life.

This time, however, it did not work.  I drove for 65 minutes away from home, and I found no relief.  When I began to slow down, to turn around and come home, a dove flew over my car and seemed to lead me for over twenty seconds to a place to park, and to turn around.  I then remembered what the dove symbolized in my mind, the reassurance that my guiding spirit HAD NOT ABANDONED ME and was continuing to lead me to my own promised land.  Suddenly, a torrent of tears erupted from me, and a huge release of energy overwhelmed my being.  I then felt an amazing forgiveness, love, and compassion for the past version of myself, a form of self-forgiveness that I had never experience before.

Can there be a greater gift to give oneself in this life?

Are you tired of your own suffering, or the needless suffering of others?

Are you tired of being the silent stick figure in the dreams of others who would control and manipulate you like a mindless puppet, and turn you into unholy versions of yourself?

Are you tired of your past wounds controlling your perceptions, and guiding you onto diseased and despairing paths of unconsciousness?

What is your story?

Where is your story hidden?

The world needs to hear it.

Let the healing begin in earnest.

Start looking for the authentic you.

This is the real, eternal search for Truth.

Welcome to your entry onto the Universe’s unlimited bandwidth of life, love, and death.

We have been waiting for you.