✧ OVERCOMING THE FEAR OF SHIFTING: IT’S MORE COMMON THAN YOU THINK

Reality is YOU.

Literally stop looking for proof in the physical plane. Whether it is manifesting your dream life or shifting, there is no need to look for proof outside of you when the entire reason the outside even exists is inside. Your inner being. Your reality is YOU.

It isn't even mirroring you or reflecting you. IT IS YOU. It is completely and utterly you.

Your reality is every thought you chose to be, every state you embodied, every emotion you felt, it is everything you 'believed' to know without needing any proof. Your reality is YOU in the physical plane. The mental you and the physical you is the same YOU.

The entire reason reality even exists is because you exist. Without you it'd have no meaning. You embody a state of knowing and your reality becomes that state because it is you. There is no difference. There is no imagination or reality. There is only YOU.

YOU exist everywhere. And in both those planes, just in different ways.

I don't know why no one understands that reality literally cannot function outside of you because it is you expressed physically. You choose/decide/embody who you are in the mind where infinite possibilities exist and your mind accepts it because it's you, pure awareness the 'thing' that is existence itself.

The mind/mental plane follows you because you choose from it. It multiples what we choose. This is why when you saturate or affirm something continuously your mind will automatically follow those patterns after a while. The mind, the darkness is a place of creation where we can get anything we want if we choose it. Even when you assume something you are running with/choosing a particular thought and knowing it as true.

The physical plane doesn't follow the mind, it follows you, what you chose, what you decide to be. This is why even if you get doubts or disbelief you can still manifest/shift if you just choose that in the mind. Reality does not follow the mind, it is us. It is the mind that follows us through patterns.

(Clarification: When I said that reality doesn't follow the mind, I meant that it doesn't follow every thought, only the ones we chose. This makes us the operant power not the mind.)

We have already existed way before we were even 'human'. We are not the mind (thoughts), not the body. We are pure awareness and we can be anything we want.

This is why please y'all do not look at the 3D and think I haven't gotten it yet or blah blah blah. The physical plane is you. It is your entire being expressed physically. Do not get confused. The structure for your reality passes through you. You can change anything whenever you want. Reality is fluid. Because change is the only constant thing in life. Change is your nature.

Your mind weaves the thread you chose to have and your heart (the knowing) is how it express things in the physical plane.

It = Pure Awareness

Mind (The universe/infinite realities or possibilities)

Heart (The knowing through which things materialize in the physical plane)

You (Pure Awareness where creation, known and unknown exists/pure existence)

Finished this at 11:11. Good luck with this information lol.

me whenever i see someone with the same s/o as me sharing storytimes about them in their dr (i try not to get upset but i do anyway)

you can manifest anything in days, hours, even seconds.

you ever think about how you’re shifting realities right now? you just did it. again. and again. and. boom. there it goes. you’re not stuck in one solid, concrete world. you’re a flipbook of possibilities, and every second, a new page turns. the you reading this isn’t the you from five seconds ago. that version of you is gone. poof. never to return. god, i miss her.

so, why do people think manifestation takes time? time is just the illusion that makes reality feel digestible to our little human brains. but you don’t "wait" for things. you shift to them.

LOA isn’t about "forcing reality" like you’re wrestling fate to the ground. it’s about assuming you’re already in the reality where your desire exists. because the multiverse is infinite. every possibility is real somewhere. you’re not "creating" your dream life. you’re just moving to the timeline where it’s already true.

you can literally manifest in milli-seconds. the second you assume something is true, you land in the reality where it’s true. the only reason it sometimes feels "slow" is because you keep doubting it, wobbling between frequencies like a radio that’s not quite locked in.

for example, you want your dream body? kewl. shift to the parallel reality where you already have it. no, i don’t mean work out for six months and hope for the best. i mean assume, right now, that you have it, and live as though you do. time is fake, and you don't need it. your cells aren’t checking their watches. you can wake up in two hours with the body you’ve always wanted, because why not? that timeline exists. people have done it. the only thing between you and that reality is the idea that it’s "too unrealistic."

and what’s more unrealistic? the concept of shifting infinite times per second through an ever-expanding multiverse of possibility, or the idea that one of those infinite realities just so happens to contain the exact thing you want and all you have to do is land in it?

anyways. "shifting" and "manifesting" aren’t two different things. they’re just two perspectives on the same mechanism. you shift every second, every moment, all the time. and manifestation is just deliberate shifting. picking the station instead of letting the static choose for you.

so, no more "waiting." no more "how long will it take?" because it’s already happened. the moment you say this is my reality now. congrats. you just shifted.

　　　. . . you can read more about this here <3

Hate how lighting a candle does wonders to my mood. Like wowwww. Grug like fire? Grug not sad anymore because Fire in Cave? Wow. Real predictable of Grug.

LITERALLY LMAOOOO

OKAYYYYY HELLOOOO YOU SHIFTED??!?? PACK IT UP MASTER SHIFTER 😩🫶🏽

BAE WHAT WAS THE METHOD PLEASE THESE ALMOST SHIFTS AND SHIFTING FOR TWO SECONDS ARE EATING ME ALIVE HELP A BISH OUTTTT

the anti-method (a.k.a., you were never here to begin with).

౨ৎ this isn’t a method (well, sorta). no steps, no trying, no reaching. it’s a glitch. a realisation. a quiet little crack in the mirror. it did make *me* shift !!!

there was never a door to open. never a distance to cross. you were never locked out. just lost in a dream, trying to wake up when you were already awake.

people talk about shifting like it’s a journey, a climb, a thing to chase. but what if it was always just a memory?? something lodged in the back of your mind, waiting for you to remember it? like a word on the tip of your tongue. like déjà vu.

you were already there. you just forgot.

i , lie or sit still. don’t try. don’t force. just let yourself exist, soft and untethered. feel your body like it’s not yours. just a borrowed costume, a dress-up game you forgot you were playing. limbs are foreign. the weight is someone else’s problem.

ii , ask yourself. " WHAT IF I ALREADY SHIFTED AND I JUST...FORGOT? " not “what if i go there,” not “what if i shift.” but what if i was always there? what if i just... blanked out for a sec?

iii , your brain will (probably) panic. it’ll start grasping at straws, trying to prove you’re still here. trying to reattach you to the illusion. let it fumble. let it glitch. just keep thinking :

◞ i already shifted. i just forgot. ◞ i’ve been there this whole time.

it’s not a theory. not a wish. just a fact you misplaced somewhere along the way.

iv , the mind collapses on itself. how do you know you aren’t already in your dr? how do you prove this isn’t the dream? the body stops feeling like yours. the world gets flimsy at the edges. and then? the illusion shatters.

v , you remember. not enter. not “get there.” just....remember. your dr? you were in it before you even asked. shifting? you never had to try. it was always just a breath away. you were never locked out. you just forgot the door was already open.

vi , you're there. like the ending of a lucid dream where you suddenly know without needing proof. and that’s it. you're there. you always were.

　　　　　　　　　　  ⊹　 ︶︶　 ୨୧　 ︶︶　 ⊹

the anti-method works for getting into the void as well, as it bypasses the idea of getting there entirely. instead of treating the void as a destination you have to reach, it flips the perspective :

you’re already in the void. you just forgot.

the void isn’t something you enter. it’s something you remember. it’s the default state, the space beneath everything else. but your mind, in its little desperate need to cling to reality, convinced you that you’re somewhere else. that you’re here instead of there. this method forces your brain into a logical spiral . . .

◞ how do i know i’m not already in the void? ◞ how do i prove this isn’t the dream? ◞ what if i just… forgot?

and because your brain can’t disprove it, the illusion starts to crack. your body stops feeling real. the world starts to feel dreamlike. the physical self detaches, and, poof, there you are. or rather, there you always were.

it works because it messes with the fabric of perception. if you stop believing in the difference between “here” and “there,” what’s left???? just being. just existing. and in that moment of realisation, the illusion of reality collapses. and you remember the void like an old childhood memory suddenly rushing back.

once you're in the void, once the realisation fully sinks in and the illusion crumbles, you're just there. infinite. detached. pure awareness. it’s like waking up from a dream, but instead of waking into your bedroom, you wake into nothingness. and then? well, you decide.

◞ if you want to affirm, affirm. ◞ if you want to shift, set your intention and let yourself go. ◞ if you want to just exist in the void, soak in the weightless, limitless nothingness.

there’s no next step because the void doesn’t require doing. it’s the ultimate being. you can shape it, or you can let it hold you. either way, you’re already exactly where you need to be.

what happens after? whatever you want. that’s the whole point.

౨ৎ and that is it. no trying, no reaching, just a little oh. moment. a déjà vu in the back of your mind. go play in the dreamscape. you were never here anyway.

you definitely don't require this method, or any method at all to either shift *or* get to the void, but method can be fun ! you can definitely try this one out if you wish.

you will shift ( hypnotizes you )

god's strongest soldiers are those shifters who script that excruciatingly long slow burn.

your patience? your sheer will? your resilience? your unshakeable foot setting earth beneath your feet as if you're achilles incarnate? your steady hands holding onto what you want and only that, your courage? to look the person who haunts your lungs in the eyes and just let them be? to sit at the edge of eagerness, cradling your fingertips, and say, "no, i want to let it brew, twist, and coil with yearning, passion, and longing, changing the very particles of this potion that is love, becoming a vine that wraps itself around my soul, so that when it finally blooms, it will be nothing short of violent, raw, and real." (you wicked witch!!!!) your certainty? that time will weave what you need, even when you can’t see the different textures and colors of the threads, nor when time decides that now is the moment it's done with it's most gloriest piece, that is you and your lover? your absolute surrender, to let it all unravel at an unknown pace, trusting that it will happen anyway?

i salute you.

shifting propaganda i will be falling for bcuz why the hell not

being the main character in my drs.

shifting for different people just for fun.

scripting unnecessary things just because.

shifting for mundane / 'trivial' reasons (food, getting laid, etc.)

having multiple s/os in the SAME reality (polyamory final boss.)

lazy shifting / not putting in effort to shift (bcuz it's litch never that serious.)

contradictory scripting (yes, i am very emotionally intelligent and aware but i will also cry if you yell at me.)

being a major overconsumer in my drs (i will have a ginormous wardrobe and a million different perfumes bcuz i can. but dw, i scripted that doing this doesn't cause any issues.)

“like real people do” by hozier is so jason todd coded it has me writing purple prose at 1pm on a friday. i was listening to that masterpiece of a song and couldn’t stop thinking of jay’s childhood first love being there the night he came back. so out came this sort of au based on the ‘superboy punches reality’ version of his resurrection.

tw for depictions of jason’s torture and murder, his being resurrected and escaping his grave, reader’s severe depression and suicidal ideation surrounding her grief, heavy codependency implied between jason and reader, and general resurrection angst.

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how these things always go? Horrid cliches find unexpected ways of coming back to life. Much like the life that sparks suddenly within the boy in the casket. Black, dark nothingness becomes humid, suffocating air. He tries to sit up and meets silk-covered mahogany that traps him. The boy in the casket does not know where he is. He does not know who he is.

He remembers feelings. Something loud, bright, and hot that made everything go dark. Resignation, the urge to protect, forgiveness. The feeling of his skull cracking, his collarbone shattering under the blunt force of metal. The laughter the laughter the laughter it is driving him mad. The white hot pain of his legs snapping under the weight of the man that laughs. The guttural feeling of betrayal and fear. The smell of cigarettes. He is the sweet boy that wants his mother.

Hope, bright and incandescent. Rebellion and longing. Anger, angst, the horrible need to be understood by the people you love most. Ambition, pride, joy, encouragement; the warmth of family. He is no longer a fatherless son. Hope, wary but resilient. Fear, then relief, at the sight of the Dark Knight.

The boy in the casket remembers. He still does not know who he is. But he knows he has a father. He knows it because he is screaming for his father as he tears through the silk and scrapes the skin from his fingers against the hard mahogany. He screams for his father as he kicks through the wood, as the damp earth fills the enclosed space and steals the little air that remains for him to breathe. He is thinking of his father as he pulls his body through the hole he made. The jagged wood is digging into his side and he feels blood drip hot down his torso. It’s different from the wet cold that surrounds him and he focuses on that to stay cognizant. But the earth presses in and he is tired. He is so very tired.

He remembers something else. He remembers being tired once before, but he was warm then. He remembers being cozy under blankets. Innocent laughter and innocent kisses. The prettiest eyes he’s ever seen and the love that gleamed just for him shining within them. Then a voice. Melodic and beautiful and sweet as honey.

“C’mon, Jay, don’t fall asleep yet.”

You would not want him to fade back into the eternal sleep he just woke from. No. He cannot go back just yet. He tries to dig upward, but his body aches. The earth grows thicker, turns to sludge that drowns him. He shoves one hand over his face to claim a bit of air and is given a mouthful of mud instead. He chokes out one final scream. His head is getting fuzzy, lack of air making his skull feel cotton-filled and staticky. Still he digs up and up and up. But there’s no light. Just more earth. Maybe he does belong here. Maybe someone made a mistake and gave him a few moments that were meant for someone else. He makes one last push, that familiar resignation washing over him again as he closes his eyes. Then a hand wraps tight around his wrist and he’s showered in the cold midnight rain.

You have a secret. It’s personal and it’s abnormal and it’s yours. You’ve been sleeping on Jason Todd’s grave for the past week. No one knows. Well, Bruce Wayne knows. He must. His son’s grave is on his estate, after all, and the Bat’s security measures are the best you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why he’s letting his dead son’s girlfriend sleep on his grave, but you’re thankful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

It’s been four years since Jason died. Four years and you still can’t accept it. You visit him every day. You bring him flowers and read him books and tell him about your life. You try to pretty it up a bit for him. You tell him about the new sundress you bought; it’s red, his favorite color. You tell him about the amazing bakery that opened up in the Heights and how you think he’d adore their chocolate chip cookies.

You don’t tell him that you’re so depressed over his absence that there are times when you go weeks existing only in your bed with sparse trips to the bathroom. You don’t tell him that you dropped out of college after your first year, that you failed in your joint promise to go to Gotham City University together. You just couldn’t handle it. The weight of your grief is already an iron chain around your throat, hooked to an eternal anchor. You didn’t need the pressure of perfect grades—an unshakeable requirement of your scholarship as you couldn’t afford to go to school any other way. You certainly don’t tell him that you’ve considered joining him, that sometimes that seems like the only thing you want anymore.

But it’s been getting worse. You miss him. Not in any way that’s healthy. At least that’s what you were told by the grief counselor your mother made you see. You miss him so badly that you’re sleeping on his grave come hell or high water. Tonight it’s high water. The cold rain soaks through your hoodie and sweats, but you don’t care. You’ve stabbed an umbrella into the ground and you’ve got an old blanket under you, so you’re all set. The bone-chilling cold of the water doesn’t matter. The way that it lures you to sleep doesn’t matter. Your body temperature is probably dropping and sleep to the freezing is deadly, but that doesn’t matter either. What matters is that you’re here with the boy you love.

You have another secret. This one’s worse, so terrible that you even scare yourself. You’ve been considering digging up Jason’s grave for the past thirty minutes. It started subconsciously. You didn’t even realize you were clawing into the ground until the grass was uprooted. You’ve made a good dent now, maybe six inches or so. It’s insane. You’re insane. But you ache to be close to him. Jason Todd took half of your soul with him when he was lowered into the ground. The better half; the half of you that was light and joyous and filled with love. You want it back. You want him back. You don’t know what you would do if you dug up his grave, but you know that you’d be closer to him than six feet.

You lie in the rain and contemplate why you’re here. You’ve missed him this fiercely every day for the last four years. It’s just this past week that you’ve been drawn to sleep on the earth above him. Like a moth to flame, like Ariadne’s golden thread leading out of the darkness of the labyrinth. Or maybe you’ve finally lost what’s left of your mind. You think you have when you hear noises from beneath the earth.

“Finally talking to me, Jay?” you ask.

Melancholy sarcasm is made weak by the way your teeth chatter and how your shivering leaks into your tone. But then you hear it again. It’s faint, deep below and muffled but it’s there. Then a thudding noise. Over and over and over. Your heart kicks to life. Adrenaline shoots through you and the cold seeped into your body melts with the heat of it. Jason is dead. He’s been dead for four years. But something is alive in his grave. Your hands sink into the small hole you’ve already made and you shovel the earth out in a manic rush. You dig and dig and dig. Your arms are elbow deep when you feel fingers brush against your own. You should be afraid. You should run. Instead you reach further, grasp hard around the wrist and pull. The ground gives way and your reality shatters in an instant. You’ve just pulled Jason Todd from his grave.

He’s bigger than you remember. His body weight is crushing as he collapses on top of you. (You’re smaller than he remembers. He has a crystal clear image of looking up into those pretty eyes and now he can barely feel you squished underneath him.)

He’s covered in sodden earth from head to toe. There’s blood seeping warmly from his torso into your red hoodie. (Your arms are caked in mud. Why? What were you digging for?)

Even with his difference in size—he must be well over a foot taller and at least one hundred pounds heavier—there is nothing that compares to the pure shock of looking into his eyes. Piercing gunmetal blue that you see every time you close your eyes is now a deep seafoam green. And yet looking into them you still feel like you’re home again. (Those pretty eyes are still the same. They still have that gleam of love when they land on him. But they’re also red and bloodshot like you’ve been crying. Please don’t cry. He doesn’t want you to be sad. He loves you. He doesn’t know your name but he knows that he loves you.)

You’re both as still as the memorial statues of Martha and Thomas that loom protectively beside Jason’s grave. Shock settles in.

“Jason. Oh my God. Jason, you’re—“ your voice breaks before you can say the words you thought would only come in dreams.

“Alive,” he croaks, voice dry and grating from lack of use.

He is alive. He is alive and breathing and with you again. You don’t know what caused this, why a dead boy crawled from his grave in the body of a man, but you’re not going to ask questions. The only answer you need is lying in your arms. Tears stream down your face, only differentiated from the rain by their warmth.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” you murmur into his mud-soaked hair as you cradle his head in the crook of your neck.

“Here,” he echoes. “Real?”

It doesn’t feel like it. His head is hazy and clouded but he’s starting to recall things. Like a steady trickle of water coalescing into a stream, into a river, into a flood. He remembers your name. He remembers stolen tires and bat ears. He remembers chamomile tea with a butler and stories of old theatre productions. He remembers how all the classic romance novels in his freshman English class looked just like the pretty girl sitting at the desk to his right. He remembers sweet giggles and shaky hands and soft kisses. He remembers. But he can’t speak it. He can’t find the words or the comprehension. He sees these things in flashes, feels them in his bones but he can’t make his mind and body catch up. So he lurches forward, stiff and clumsy, and tries to replicate the warmth of your kisses that have survived death itself.

You kiss Jason Todd for the first time in four years. You taste your tears, the damp earth, and the blood from where he’s bitten his own tongue. You have never tasted anything better because for right now it tastes like him.

“Real. We’re real.”

A sweet surprise and a gentle reminder. The other halves of your souls have been returned, and you are both allowed to exist again.