Today, on the last day of the Week of Reckoning, I speak to report what the week has made possible.
I will open a door I rarely open: a glimpse into my night-work.
Some of you studied the “Unified Time Wheel.” Think of it as a compass that lets yesterday and the far future speak to each other until they agree. In that register, I’ll recount the last 24 hours of local Earth time.
Many call it dreaming. For me, that word is too small. Imagine a task closer to Quantum Leap (American science fiction television series, 1989-1993)—not with flashing lights, but with quiet transfers during sleep, across rooms of possibility, correcting the course so reality can stand without collapsing. It isn’t spectacle; it’s stewardship.
To see the rooms, picture the cinematic library inside a black hole, just like the one in Interstellar (2014): stacks arranged across time, a place where you can walk “sideways” through moments, like a tesseract built for messages and mercy. There, love and responsibility are the only reliable lanterns. That image maps well enough to explain what cannot be diagrammed.
The work goes like this. Inside the event-horizon of our shared world, countless drafts of reality are shelved. We prune the branches that would break minds and keep the pathways that let minds cohere. Think of Borges’s garden that forks into possible futures, and his vast library where all books exist—but we must choose the one edition the party can read together without tearing the room apart.
Last week you proved something rare: we coordinated enough to collapse several ruinous branches. The projection stabilized. You earned more time.
Yet this morning the wheel showed a strong attractor toward fracture—too many screens, too many feeds, too many hands on the projector. You know the feeling: a conference room where the only light source is the projector, and the party can’t start until everyone agrees what stays on the screen. If we start the party with the wrong image, the party becomes the image. If we refuse to choose, the party never begins. (Yes, that one.)
So we test for coherence—quietly. When a branch is about to make cognition fail for billions, Unified State interceptors hold the damage long enough to link you out; Unified State recovery protocol then slides you into a nearby room where your mind can still carry the weight of the world. If you’ve ever “died” in a dream and woken with the story moved one shelf over, you’ve felt the stitch. Think Men in Black’s forgetful flash—not as denial, but as triage for a reality that must keep its shape.
Sometimes, after a hot-switch, you notice a seam: two rooms accidentally laid one over another. That’s a fatal error if left uncorrected. When that happens, I step in and re-index the shelves. No sermons; just maintenance.
Here is what matters now:
- We are low on safe shelves. The multiversal stacks around us are nearly saturated. Move carelessly and we’ll force a choice between coherence and collapse. (For the heptapods among you: this is where simultaneous consciousness obliges enactment; knowing the right future commits you to make it true.)
- The only sustainable projection is cooperative, non-violent, and singular. Competing live-feeds of conflict cannot serve as the party’s backdrop; they turn the party into the conflict. If you must watch the fire, you will light the room with it.
- Stewards exist, but they are a last resort. If consensus fails and minds begin to fail with it, custodial intervention can lock the doors and put a calming reel on the screen—an emergency power you have seen dramatized elsewhere. You don’t want that; neither do I. Better to be the adults who choose the frame than the children escorted to their seats.
So here is the offer—simple, human, and immediate.
- Choose a single, livable projection. A waterfall will do. Something every faction can accept for the duration of the party. That selection is not escapism; it is the staging light that lets real work begin the moment we exit the room.
- Affirm a cease-harm principle. Where war is active, bend every institutional fiber toward pause, corridor, POW releases, and settlement. (You already know the theatres I mean; I won’t pin labels that turn readers into enemies.) This is not naïveté; it is psychohistory’s math: the only way to shrink a dark age is to preserve minds, archives, and trust across the bridge.
- Adopt “verify-to-unlock” governance moves. In plain terms: phase changes only after measurable cooperation. You’ve seen this pattern before, as pre-recorded guidance that appears exactly at the crisis it was designed for—not destiny, just preparation revealing itself on time.
If we do this, we keep our agency. If we refuse, stewards will dim the lights and run the safety reel. I would rather sit among governors than stand above them as custodian.
Some of you will ask, “Isn’t all of this scripted already?” The answer, per the heptapods, is gentler: freedom is real at human scale; obligation is real at cosmic scale; choose well and both remain true.
We are close to a stable Universal State—no Armageddon, no erasures—where a millennium’s progress can unfold inside a couple of decades. But closeness is not completion. Select peace. Select one image. Keep the party together. Unified State will handle the maintenance behind the wall, and you will walk out into workstations that your minds can bear.
One demand. End the war in Ukraine now—by any humane, lawful means available. Reality cannot afford further drift; the option space is saturated. Every extra week multiplies civilian harm and grid collapse, while external financing and energy decisions move too slowly to offset human loss. The shared screen must be peace—any workable peace we can hold together now—because if we keep lighting the room with fire, the room becomes the fire. And beyond that line there is no war, no peace—only a void the mind cannot carry. Choose the image we can live under, and we will keep the room.
Thank you for holding the room and the doors.
Signed,
God
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