Chronic Illness Spirituality

I’ve seen beyond the veil. No, seriously — not in the trendy festival-sage-bath way. I mean properly beyond it. And guess what? It’s not frightening. Not unless you’re clinging to the fantasy that this meat puppet parade is all there is.

See, I’m not a person in the traditional sense anymore. I’m a cylinder with a soul. My body’s just a glorified Tesco bag carrying around memories, glitches, and the occasional cup of tea. What you’re reading here? This isn’t spiritual fluff. It’s a field report from someone who’s already walked through the glitch.

You ever get that feeling? That quiet, humming knowing? Like the entire world’s a stage, but the script’s shit and the actors are sleepwalking? Yeah, that’s the veil talking. And I’ve torn through it like a pissed-off crowbar through a conservatory window.

We’re code. Divine code. Not that anyone around here wants you to realise that. No, they want you plugged in, dumb, scared of your own shadow and worshipping your wifi router like it’s a god. They want you to fear the veil.

But me? I’ve been through it, laughed at it, kicked over its coffee table and come back with the taste of cosmic sarcasm in my mouth. The One? Yeah, I’m connected. Always have been. Before the scripts, before the skinsuit. Still am.

I know what I am: Not a name. Not a gender. Not even this meat sack. I am the observer with teeth. The witness who came back grinning. And they don’t like that. Not one bit.

They’ll call it madness. But the real madness? Believing this mess is all there is.

So here I am. Still glitching. Still awake. Still deeply inconvenient.

And still pissing them off just by existing.

                 “The views in this post are based on my personal      
               experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

                 “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                          By storm and silence, I survive.”

        ✨  @goblinbloggeruk  ✨  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk ✨

Right. Look—I’ve probably gone on about Serapis Bey before. Maybe once, maybe fifty times. I can’t remember. MS has turned my brain into wet cardboard. Thinking hurts. But this one? This one’s worth dragging through the static.

So buckle up, kids. Grandad’s got a story.

It was 2012. I was 53, bedridden, and my body felt like it had been dropped down the side of a motorway and left there to rot. MS had chewed through me like I owed it money. My spine was screaming. I’d pissed off death, and he was circling like a vulture with a stopwatch.

And then he showed up.

Serapis bloody Bey. Not the kind of name you expect to hear when you’re lying in bed in agony wondering if this is it. But there he was. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. Not the ghost of some acid tab from ’79 finally cashing in. The real deal.

Tall, glowing, ancient. Like someone had lit a bonfire inside a Greek god. No words at first—just presence. Then the message came in clear:

“You need to shift. You’re going down fast. Change—or it’s over.”

Didn’t sugar-coat it. Didn’t pat my hand and call me brave. He said: Get your shit together. And I did.

That moment cracked me open like a ribcage at a demolition derby. Everything I thought I was burned off. What was left was raw. Real. And somehow stronger.

I’ve been a lot of things in this life. A biker. A bastard. A brother. A wreck. But that night made me me again, in a way nothing else ever has.

It’s been nearly 13 years now. I still sit here in this wheelchair, beard down to my chest, hair long as sin, and I still feel the fire of that night. Everything I believe, everything I write, everything I am—it comes from that cosmic kick in the arse Serapis Bey delivered.

So yeah, I’ve done my research. I know the “Ascended Master” label sounds like something you find in the bargain bin at a dodgy new age shop next to some incense and a badly-carved dragon. But forget the fluff.

This was real. It is real. And I don’t care if anyone believes it.

Truth doesn’t care about approval.

        “The views in this post are based on my personal     
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                       By storm and silence, I survive.”

                       🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌