God is but everything and everyone at once, and time, the forever fragmented unfolding of our identity crisis. In the horrific heat of my true worst nightmare, I heard a disembodied voice whisper these reassuring words. And although traditional Western logic cannot begin to explain how this strangely soothing declaration triggered the curious occurrences of my ensuing evening, it most certainly did.

Just as I had every Friday at 5PM for more than four years, I departed my temporary job as a corrections officer at Folsom State Prison and, with immense relief, commenced my three-mile commute home. And although this short distance only took around six minutes to drive, I always ensured loud music accompanied me for its entire duration. On this day, I kicked the familiar journey off with my favorite song, “I Saw the Light” by Hank Williams. But for whatever reason, no matter how high I turned up the volume, I could not feel anything even resembling the warm transcendent sensation it had always given me before. Frankly, my abrupt indifference to something I knew to be beautiful disturbed me to such a degree that it essentially decimated my usual self-assured composure, and I began scrolling anxiously through a personalized playlist on my phone for another song to make me feel better. It was maybe ten seconds later when I remembered I was behind the wheel of the moving vehicle and, quickly looking up from my phone, discovered I had drifted into oncoming traffic and was on the verge of colliding head-on with a semi.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the imminent and likely fatal impact that somehow never came. Then, after opening my eyes and noticing the semi in my review mirror, I swerved back into the proper lane and was overcome with rapturous gratitude for the miracle God had unquestionably worked on my behalf. A little while later, I turned into the parking lot of an apartment complex that, for some reason, had never felt much like home to me.

While, for several years, I had been trying to summon the courage to break up with my roommate and girlfriend, Johanna, I was still tremendously eager to tell her the incredible story of what I had just survived. So, after bursting through the front door of our shared one-bedroom apartment, I shouted, “Hey, Johanna!” However, it was soon apparent that I would be receiving no timely response, and I turned my head and was surprised to see her a couple of feet away, sitting on the couch and scrolling around on her phone. “Johanna!” I shouted again. But still, nevertheless, my supposed significant other continued staring at her phone as if I no longer mattered enough to exist in her world.

Pivoting to another less assertive approach, I sat beside Johanna on the couch. And as softly as I could, I said, “Baby, I didn’t do anything to upset you, did I?” This, also, was met with no response or reaction. So, intending at least to establish some connection, I reached a well-meaning hand over to rest on her nearest thigh. My hand, however, quite inconceivably passed through the thickest part of Johanna’s leg and hit the couch with no more resistance than empty air, like she was simply some untouchable and imaginary projection. This so severely disturbed me that I stood up and started pacing about the apartment in a sweaty panic, simultaneously struggling to catch my breath and collect my thoughts.

I had yet to slow my breathing or ponder anything approaching a rational thought when I noticed something peculiar about every one of the dozen or so framed photos of Johanna and me—in numerous allegedly loving poses—she convinced me to pay a professional to take and then demanded I hang precisely the way she wanted around the apartment. Although Johanna’s appearance remained unchanged, my face was blurred beyond recognition, as though gratuitous nudity on network television.

This was when, sensing frighteningly few potential paths forward besides those arriving at the nearest mental institution, I promptly concluded I was dreaming. The idea of this excited me initially, as I had done extensive reading on the phenomena of lucid dreaming. And from what I understood, once one becomes consciously aware they are in a dream, what they can deeply experience on a whim is limited only by the inventiveness of their imagination. To my profound dismay, however, no matter how hard I tried to manifest my half-dressed and recently showered celebrity crush with lustful eyes for me, she remained a faraway fantasy. Finally, feeling so suddenly exhausted I could scarcely keep my eyes open, I went into the bedroom to lay down.

Soon after sunset, I stirred awake to the sound of distant voices and came out of the bedroom to find Johanna having dinner with someone almost identical to me in every way. The only noticeable difference was that his real face was blurred like mine was in pictures. Neither of them looked up from their plates or appeared to notice my presence, and I started feeling more and more like a guest in the one home I had.

It was not long before I could no longer stand it inside my apartment. And although still shaken from my near-death experience, I felt the sudden urge to drive aimlessly around with the windows down and hastened out the door. I was nearly halfway to my vehicle when my feet stopped hitting the pavement, and I floated up without warning. I reached out desperately, grasping for anything that might hold me to the ground, but it was all for naught.

There’s no knowing how long has passed since my fateful ascent high up here among the wispy clouds. My near-incomprehensible life now approaches infinite reflection, to be sure. But only at such impossible heights can any illusion so intent on existing and having existed as the human individual even begin to appreciate the amusing paradox of self-awareness.