The Unraveling

From the Descent onwards during our final trip, my actions were not driven by thought, but dictated by revelations—urgent, precise, and absolute. The moral choices were my own, yet the divine engineering felt subconscious, almost instinctual. There was no time for the Why or the How; I had access to all the knowledge in the universe, but the moment one problem was solved, another was already demanding my attention. What remains from those hours is not a linear memory, but a scattershot of intensely vivid fragments: something about a cosmic fix, a terrible decree, a silent, speaking mask.

The day after, my mind was a frantic storm of unanswerable questions. The central one, raw and persistent, was: What the fuck happened? I knew the impossible facts—I became God, I was tasked with fixing the universe, and as a result, I could no longer truly see Yaşar—but the causal chain was lost to me. I remembered implementing some kind of fallback protocol, but the ‘damn Mesh’—just writing the word still sends a chill through me—how and why did that terrible thing end up on Yaşar’s face?

I couldn’t talk to Yaşar about it; for him, the wound was still too fresh, the trauma too immediate. I scoured the internet for similar experiences, for any precedent at all, and found nothing. The trip felt singular, profound, and unique. I sensed a powerful, hidden narrative connecting all three journeys, but the loose ends were maddening.

For the first time in my life, I decided to write a trip report. I thought a few pages would suffice, but as I began to chronicle the third trip, I realized my folly. This was going to be massive. The sheer detail buried within my fragmented memories was staggering; this was not just a trip, but an entire, epic story. A desperate need grew within me to solve the puzzle.

After painstaking months of reliving each agonizing and sublime moment, I had a forty-page manuscript. But finishing the report was not the end of the journey; it was the beginning of the excavation. While the story was on the page, a thicket of loose ends remained. To begin the unraveling, I turned to the tools of my trade. I fed my manuscript to an AI, treating it as a Socratic partner to help me connect the threads.

Throughout this process, I made a solemn vow to leave one thing untouched: the trip report itself. It stands as an unaltered testament to my perception at the time, a pure record with nothing changed retroactively to fit a neater conclusion.

Even with the AI’s help, the interpretive lock remained in place, until a shattering eureka moment: I finally understood the direct, causal link between Yaşar’s epiphany during the first trip and the ever-collapsing loop. Suddenly, everything made sense. The dissonant fragments clicked into a coherent, causal chain. I laughed and I cried, overwhelmed with the joy of crystalline clarity. And then, another realization struck with equal force: I remembered the hidden knowledge from my own epiphany during that first trip.

Yaşar was exactly right: This changes everything.

What follows is that final explanation—my attempt to merge the scattered memories of these trips into a new hypothesis about the nature of reality. While I believe it succeeds, I also accept that it may not be the definitive explanation, and I warmly invite any reader to offer their own.