The Eye That Sees Me
Friday, May 9, 2025-1:01am

Tonight during meditation, something strange and sacred happened.

I had barely settled into stillness—breath quiet, body soft—when a warmth bloomed between my brows. It was subtle at first, like a candle being lit somewhere inside the folds of my mind. And then I saw it.

An eye.
Not mine. Not human.
Ancient. Watching. Knowing.

It hovered in the dark behind my closed eyes—neither frightening nor entirely comforting, but true. The kind of truth that doesn’t ask for belief. It just is.

The eye was rimmed with gold light, suspended in an endless void. I felt it look at me, but also through me. Like it saw every version I’ve ever been, every mask I’ve worn, and every wound I tried to make pretty. It didn't judge. It simply witnessed.

I wanted to look away. I couldn’t.

And maybe that was the point.

There’s a kind of quiet accountability in being seen like that. Not for who you’re trying to be—but for who you are when no one’s looking. For who you are in the soft underbelly of your spirit.

I don’t know what the All-Knowing Eye really is.
A guide? A symbol? A mirror?
Maybe all three.
Maybe none.

But I know this:
It didn’t come to show me anything new.
It came to remind me of what I’ve always known but keep forgetting.

And that, I think, is where wisdom lives.