A Thousand Lives and One

A true story from inside unbearable pain

This weekend, I lived through something that felt like a myth.

A kidney stone tore its way down while pressing against a bulged disc in my back — a perfect storm of body and nerve. The pain didn’t just hurt; it detonated. My mind split open, the world dissolved, and I fell into a place that wasn’t dream or death but somewhere between both.

In that place, time stopped behaving. Seconds stretched into centuries. I lived what felt like a thousand different lives — each one ending, each one beginning again. Yet through all of them, one constant pulled me back: her. My wife. My soulmate. Every version of me, in every strange world, still searched for her — and always found her.

When I came back to myself, drenched and shaking, I realized something:

Pain can be a portal. The body breaks open and the soul starts to speak.

This poem is what came from that moment — an echo of what I saw while my nervous system was burning with light.

A Thousand Lives and One

I was breaking in the silence,

caught between a scream and a prayer.

Every heartbeat was an earthquake,

every breath — a flare.

The body turned to lightning,

the mind slipped out of time,

and in that flood of fire and memory,

I crossed the thin divine.

I lived a thousand lives inside that fire.

Each one burned and rewrote the sun.

But every world I wandered,

every mask I wore,

still led me back to one.

I saw you in the ruins.

In the smoke.

In the spaces between breaths.

You were the code written through the chaos —

the reason every version of me

kept finding you again.

Maybe pain is the password

to the code beneath the bone.

Maybe love is the hidden algorithm

that keeps us coming home.

And if we’re made from God’s own love,

then gravity’s not what pulls us close —

it’s the quantum source code humming,

the algorithm of the soul.

Maybe the universe keeps looping

in the silence between heartbeats.

And like Neo in the Matrix —

we can all be the One.

Each heart, a simulation of forever.

Each tear, a spark reminding us —

the program ends in love.

Now pain and grace are tangled,

like galaxies in spin.

I carry every universe

I ever died within.

But if love is the equation —

then I am its proof undone.

Forever finding you again,

through a thousand lives —

and one.

Reflection

I don’t know whether it was shock, neurochemistry, or something divine. Maybe all three. But the experience made me question the boundary between body and consciousness — how pain can become prophecy when it reaches a certain pitch.

If we’re truly built from God’s love, then the same code that writes galaxies might also write devotion. Maybe gravity is just love with mass. And maybe when the body breaks, we glimpse the raw data of existence — the moment where faith, science, and simulation theory all meet.

I saw that truth in agony:

we are patterns of light seeking reunion,

and every version of us still turns toward love.

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