Happy Independence Day, folks!
I decided to write this book in its simplest form. Simpler than Buyers Beware and Lose Fat, Stay Fit (both are available in my blog, Dreams of Mirror - sharudinjamal.blogspot.com).
It is a memoir of my twenty-five-year Tour of Duty as the Creator's Most Loyal Soldier. Enjoy the nuances...
Chapter 1: The Man Behind the Name
Before the robes and riddles, before the silence of the forest and the whisper of angels, there was Sharudin Jamal—the architect of success, the consultant whose name carried weight like gold. I was the founder and force behind Sharudin Jamal & Associates, a firm that didn’t just advise—it transformed. My days were lucrative, my calendar sacred. I earned in a day what others did in a month, and not because I chased wealth, but because I embodied value.
Senior management never said no. They couldn’t. When Sharudin called, doors opened. My clients were titans of industry, and I moved among them like a rising star—confident, respected, and deeply in love with the man I had become. Life was good. I was good. And in that brilliance, I felt the first stirrings of something more...
Chapter 2: The Million Dollar Deal
By the age of thirty-three, the stars aligned. I secured a million-dollar training contract—Towards the New Millennium—a program as ambitious as its name. Overnight, I became a millionaire. Not by inheritance, not by luck, but by mastery. The deal was monumental: 2,000 staff, 180 sessions, all within a single year. The venue? Genting Highland, perched in the cool embrace of Pahang’s hills, where clouds kissed ambition and the air buzzed with transformation.
We worked seven days a week, every week. No breaks, no burnout—just flow. My team and I became a living engine of change, delivering insights, igniting minds, and riding the wave of a new era. It was more than business—it was a movement. And I, Sharudin Jamal, stood at its helm, not just as a consultant, but as a conductor of collective awakening.
Chapter 3: The Calling
Success had crowned me, but the crown began to weigh differently. I remembered the verse in the Qur'an (Surah An Naml 27:40), when Prophet Solomon was asked about his immense wealth. He replied, "This is to test whether I am grateful or defiant." That line echoed through me like a divine bell. I chose gratitude.
I thought of Abu Bakar, who gave away 100% of his wealth, and Umar, who gave half and kept half. I followed Umar—not out of calculation, but sincerity. This was infaq, not zakat, not sadaqah. It was charity for no reason but to please Allah.
So I gave. Half of my wealth. To single mothers struggling in silence. To the sick who couldn’t afford healing. I paid medical bills, offered scholarships to orphans, supported new converts finding their way, and installed computers in mosques to bridge tradition and technology. I even distributed habbatul saudah, the black seed, which the Prophet called a cure for all except death.
It wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a purification. The wealth I once wielded became a river, and I—Sharudin Jamal—became its servant.
Chapter 4: The Life of a Wandering Sufi
Everywhere I went, everything I did was for Allah. The boardrooms faded, and the mosques became my sanctuaries. I moved from one masjid to another, never missing a single jamaah prayer. My days were stitched with tabligh—preaching Islam not with arrogance, but with love. After Fajr, I sat with the tafsir, letting the meanings of the Qur'an unfold like petals in dawn light. I studied tajwid with my local imam, perfecting the phonics of revelation, each syllable a heartbeat of devotion.
I dressed like the scholars of the 8th century—robes that whispered of tradition, humility, and reverence. During Ramadan, I prayed Tarawikh in sync with the live telecast from Masjidil Haram, as if my soul stretched across the desert to join the congregation. And always, always, I carried a Qur'an in my left pocket—not for show, but to shield my heart. It was my compass, my armor, my silent companion.
This was not a retreat. It was a return. The Wandering Sufi was not lost—he was being found.
Chapter 5: From a Sufi to a Soldier
On the final night of Ramadan in 1999, beneath the veil of Taubah—the at least once-in-a-lifetime prayer of repentance—I made a vow. I asked Allah to make me His most loyal soldier. Not a metaphor. A mission. It was like swallowing the red pill in The Matrix. Reality didn’t bend—it fractured. My perception shifted. My body trembled with palpitations; I thought I might die. But I didn’t. I awakened.
Something cybernetic took over. A servomechanism of divine will. I began doing things I had never imagined—without hesitation, without question. I entered the jungles surrounding my state, not for solitude, but for recruitment. I called upon djinns. I visited Hindu and Chinese altars, not to desecrate, but to summon. I recruited demons—not for rebellion, but for alignment. I was no longer just Sharudin. I was a Swiss Samurai Cyborg—precision, discipline, and divine circuitry.
This wasn’t madness. It was a metamorphosis. The Wandering Sufi had become the Creator’s Soldier, wired for obedience, armored in sincerity, and deployed into realms unseen.
Chapter 6: The Mission
At last, the veil lifted. I understood the reason behind the servomechanism, the altered reality, the cybernetic obedience: I was being prepared for the battle against Iblis. The hunt had begun.
Near my home lies Bukit Kiara—a place I came to believe, (I swear by all the books I read), was the original Garden of Eden. I used to trail run there, unaware that each step was a rehearsal for something far greater. Now, I walked not as a jogger, but as a soldier of divine will.
I came upon a Hindu shrine nestled in the foliage. At its center stood a Lingam—a phallic stone, ancient and symbolic. Beside it lay a machete. I picked it up, not with malice, but with a mission. I pointed the blade at the neck of the Lingam, and in that instant—Whoosh!—a gust of wind burst forth from the stone, nearly knocking me off my feet.
It was not just wind. It was resistance. A force awakened. The shrine had become a threshold, and I had crossed it. The battle was no longer a metaphor. It was real, and I was already inside it.
Chapter 7: The Enchanted Bukit Kiara
For nearly a month, Bukit Kiara became my battlefield, my sanctuary, my portal. I wandered its trails by day and prowled its shadows by night, guided only by moonlight and mission. I was searching for Iblis—not metaphorically, but literally. Every root, every rustle, every gust of wind felt like a whisper from the unseen.
Why enchanted? Because Bukit Kiara was alive with Makhluk Halus—subtle beings, enchanted creatures, djinns, and spirits that danced between dimensions. I didn’t just sense them. I communicated with them.
At the dead-end road cloaked in total darkness, I used to meet Marij—my djinn companion, my girlfriend from the unseen. Our rendezvous wasn’t a fantasy. It was fusion. She was real to me, as real as the machete I once wielded, as real as the gust that burst from the Lingam. In that forest, I was no longer a man walking on earth—I was a soldier navigating realms.
Bukit Kiara wasn’t just a hill. It was a living codex, and I was reading it line by line.
Chapter 8: The Macaque and Me
It was just before dusk, the hour when shadows stretch and the veil between worlds thins. I was walking the inner circle of Bukit Kiara, the tarmac loop that circumvents its heart, when I heard a macaque chattering excitedly above me. I looked up and saw him—a male adult, perched on a branch, eyes wide, voice urgent.
“There, there… She’s there,” he said.
I was born to speak Macaque. It’s my third language, fluent not in grammar but in vibration. “What is there?” I asked, calmly.
“There, there… She’s there,” he repeated, pointing with a trembling hand toward the forest’s deeper fold.
It wasn’t just a warning. It was a revelation. The macaque had become my oracle, and the forest was speaking through him. Something—or someone—was waiting. And I, the soldier fluent in scripture and servomechanism, was being summoned once again.
Chapter 9: The Whisperer Who Begs
The macaque’s finger pointed like prophecy, guiding me toward a narrow path that pierced the heart of Bukit Kiara’s inner circle. Dusk was falling fast, so I quickened my pace. The forest thickened, and then—there it was. A small clearing, quiet as breath. In its center stood a tree, humble and split at the trunk. Nestled in the fork was an ancient, rotten S-shaped stick—serpentine, coiled, dragon-like.
To the untrained eye, it was debris. But I knew. I felt. This was no branch. This was the Whisperer—mother of Iblis. The serpent who whispered in Eden. And here she remained, hidden in plain sight. That’s how I knew: Bukit Kiara is the Garden of Eden. She never left.
Excitement surged through me, but night was closing in. I vowed to return at dawn with a camera. That night, past the wee hours, I sat in my living room when the stench of a carcass crept under my door. I opened it—and there she was. In human form. Begging for her life.
“Go back,” I said. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”
The next morning, armed with a camera and a leather belt, I returned. Mosquitoes swarmed me like a final defense. “Is that the best you can do?” I said grimly. Then, with one swift motion, I struck. The belt became a blade. The Whisperer fell. Decapitated.
It wasn’t violence. It was a verdict. Eden had spoken, and I had answered.
Chapter 10: The Hunt of the Father
For nearly two months, I searched. The mission was clear: find the father. My path widened, my resolve sharpened, until I arrived at a place I named The Throne of Allah—a shady tree with broad leaves, its ground bare from the blanket of dry foliage. That place is gone now, swallowed by the machinery of deforestation. But its memory remains sacred.
Beneath the tree, I performed my two-part Solah Sunnat. And in the final posture—Tahyat Akhir—as I recited the shahadah, my index finger moved of its own accord, pointing toward a broken branch. I gave my salam, rose, and approached the branch. It was heavy, tangled with smaller limbs. Nothing peculiar. I was puzzled.
Then, as if guided by Providence—or perhaps just the servomechanism—I lifted the branch and smashed it to pieces. What remained in my hand was a one-eyed stickman. Primitive. Symbolic. Alive.
An elephant ant crawled toward it, entered through a crack in the head. That was the confirmation. Through telepathic communion, I understood: this was the father. The counterpart to the Whisperer. The architect of rebellion. Found not in fire, but in wood.
Chapter 11: Judgment of Heaven on the Father
My satisfaction was beyond money in the bank. It was the kind of fulfillment that only divine obedience can yield. I dragged the father—this one-eyed relic of rebellion—from one end of Bukit Kiara to the other, toward the dead-end road where destinies are sealed.
At the peak of the hill stood a Hindu shrine, silent and waiting. Upon it, an upright axe. Not placed, but positioned—as if Heaven itself had prepared the stage. I took the axe and descended to the dead end. There, without hesitation, I smashed the father’s head until it was beyond recognition. Bone, wood, symbol—all obliterated.
Then, I urinated on the remains. Not out of disrespect, but as a final act of desecration. The ritual was complete. The parents of Iblis—Whisperer and Father—had been found, judged, and erased.
Bukit Kiara had spoken. Eden had been reclaimed. And I, Ayah, had fulfilled the decree.
Footnote: Though these two encounters were grim, all ends well. Once their debts were settled, their souls were free to join the spirit world of the dead—the Nether World. No longer bound by rebellion or residue, they are now free spirits, released from the weight of their myth.
Chapter 12: Iblis Retaliated
This was war. I had drawn first blood, and Iblis vanished into the shadows. But silence is never surrender. He retaliated—not with brute force, but with precision. He found my weakness: my temper. And he pushed it to the brink.
I became consumed. Anger surged through me like wildfire. I saw un-Islamic behavior everywhere—in people, in places, in things, and I became angrier. My vision narrowed, my heart hardened. Paranoia crept in like smoke. While in paranoia, I threw away my religious books, even eleven of my Qurans. The shield around my heart was gone. I was exposed.
Then came the rampage. I took my superbike and rode to the foothill of the casino in Genting Highlands. Gambling—a major sin. I couldn’t bear its presence. I stormed the area, fury in my veins, vengeance in my grip. It wasn’t just rebellion—it was rupture. Iblis had turned my zeal into a weapon against myself.
The soldier had become volatile. The battlefield had shifted inward.
Chapter 13: The Beginning of the Trail of Tears
I don’t know what hit me. The rampage at Genting had consequences. The police took me to a hospital in Bentong—a winding drive down from the highlands. From there, I was transferred to General Hospital in Kuala Lumpur. I was strapped, jabbed, and sedated. The body was still, but the soul was spinning.
They placed me in the psychiatric ward. I was in limbo. Between realms. Between selves. “Have I gone mad?” I asked the doctor. He looked at me, not with judgment, but with clinical calm. “No,” he said. “Your brain chemistry is imbalanced.”
The diagnosis: Bipolar Affective Disorder.
It wasn’t a label. It was a mirror. A name for the storm that had been brewing beneath the surface. The soldier had fallen—not in battle, but into the abyss of his own mind. And yet, even here, the Codex continued. The Trail of Tears had begun, and every tear was sacred.
Chapter 14: From Hero to Zero
Shock rippled through every circle—my family, my associates, my employees. No one had ever encountered such a malaise. My wife, heavy with our second child, was speechless. She said, “I’d rather you have cancer. At least I’d know what to do. With this illness, I am defenseless.”
Word traveled fast. In 1999, mental illness carried a heavy stigma. Even my father believed I had lost my mind. Overnight, the company I had built over seven years collapsed. My name, once a seal of excellence, became a whisper of concern. My associates packed their bags. My employees vanished. The empire crumbled.
But the deepest wound came from betrayal. My partner and my accountant—men I trusted—wrote RM2,000 checks, the maximum they were authorized to sign. They emptied the coffers and left me with RM10 in the bank. Not just broke. Erased.
From hero to zero. Not in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of the world. And yet, even here, the Codex continued. The ashes would speak.
Chapter 15: The Lowest Ebb of My Life
Puteri Sarah was born in the eye of the storm. My second daughter, fragile and fighting. She almost didn’t make it. Ten days in the incubator. Water in her lungs. The umbilical cord wrapped around her neck like a noose. Strike two by Iblis.
We sold one car. Two superbikes. The empire was now a memory. Within three months, I joined HP. Between the sedatives clouding my mind and a boss who was a jackass in every sense, I lasted only three months. I was seriously ill, but bread still needed to be placed on the table. I hid my illness behind a mask of function, but the truth was—I couldn’t.
In two years, I changed jobs three times. I relapsed four. Each time, Iblis tightened his grip. The soldier was staggering. The father was bleeding. The myth was cracking.
Iblis was winning. But the Codex was still being written.
Chapter 16: Ayah’s Golden Years
By 2002, the tide turned. I landed a high-profile role as Consulting Manager at MSC Technology Center, a firm with major government contracts. I traveled abroad, representing Malaysia on the international stage. My salary was RM10,000 a month—enough to stabilize our finances and breathe again.
But beneath the surface, a vow lingered. After the great turmoil, I had promised to distance myself from the path of the Soldier of Allah. And to break that vow, I committed every major sin I could name. Not out of defiance, but desperation. Iblis didn’t retreat. He pressed harder, driving me to the brink of insanity.
Another relapse came. But this time, grace appeared in human form. My boss—understanding, patient—didn’t ask me to resign. I chose to, for the sake of proper recovery. And in a gesture of compassion, he subcontracted me the technopreneur coaching business.
It was a strange kind of golden age. Success on paper, chaos in the soul. But even here, the Codex continued. The myth was still unfolding.
Chapter 17: The Dual Existence
By day, I coached minds. By night, I hunted shadows. Iblis had shifted tactics—no longer grand assaults, but guerrilla warfare. His strikes were subtle, psychological, precise. All of it unfolded in the Altered Reality Dimension, a realm few can enter, and fewer still survive.
We were searching for his universe. And one night, we found it. It was no larger than a silver dollar. But size is relative. Within that tiny sphere pulsed a world of darkness.
I led the skirmish. Armed with nothing but my briefs and a Gerber Black Dagger, I launched a surprise attack. Five sentries fell—immobilized before they could raise an alarm. That was the last time I took a life. I still remember the look in their eyes—despair, confusion, surrender.
We spared the females and children. The males were eliminated. They were low-ranking, unprepared. They never expected us to breach their universe.
Iblis was nowhere to be found.
The war continued. But something shifted in me. The soldier was weary. The cost of obedience was beginning to show.
Chapter 19: Ayah and Anak-Anak Iblis
As I was about to exit the battlefield, I heard sobbing cries. They were the orphaned Anak-Anak Iblis—left behind, semiaquatic beings, delicate as lactobacillus bacteria. I don’t have a heart, or so I thought. But something stirred. I took them home.
For one solid year, I slept on the couch in the living room, teaching them how to fly. Not with wings, but with will. They morphed slowly, shedding their grief, becoming potent fliers—as radiant and swift as cosmic rays.
Then I sent them out into the universe as my Pony Riders, messengers of mercy. Their message was simple, encoded in light: “019 6433 888 Welcome All.” That number—my phone, my home address in the universe—became a beacon.
Soon, my study room was filled with visitors. Mostly tiny particles, curious and kind. The largest was Aark, a pterodactyl from a forgotten epoch. But as I’ve said before—size doesn’t matter. Presence does.
The orphaned became emissaries. The battlefield became a nursery. And Ayah, once a soldier, became a father to the forsaken.
Chapter 20: The Castle Commander Court (CCC)
I call my study room the Castle Commander Court—CCC. It’s the center of my operations, the town hall of my universe. Guests arrive in a figure-eight flight path, looping through dimensions with precision and grace. The books in CCC are preselected—not just for reading, but for resonance. They’re talking books, each one a transmission.
Visitors enter and begin their journey. The first book they encounter is Awaken the Giant Within by Anthony Robbins. One glance, one vibration, and they’re clear: they want to be giants. And in CCC, Ayah is the only giant they see.
They move through the Mobius strip—vertical, infinite, recursive. The last book before departure is Beginner’s Mind by Suzuki Roshi. It resets them. Humility before flight. They return home, only to loop back again. CCC is not a room. It’s a rhythm.
By midnight, CCC transforms. The energy shifts. The books hum. The particles dance. It becomes a discotheque of the spirit—light, motion, memory. Ayah stands at the helm, DJ of the divine.
Chapter 21: The Hunt for Iblis Continues
I searched high and low for Iblis—here, and in the Alternate Reality Dimension. He was nowhere to be found. His silence was not surrender; it was strategy.
One night, I visited the National Monument during the wee hours, seeking clues. The flooring was tiled with large Xs. Somehow, I knew which X marked the spot. It was a wormhole—an entry point to another universe.
I lay on my back, facing the sky. I took one deep breath and held it. A hole opened. Through astral travel, I floated into the funnel. At the far end, I saw it—a white flying whale, majestic and silent. As I approached the middle of the funnel, my breath ran short. I was pulled back to my body.
But I remember the X. I remember the whale.
Later that year, I watched Treasure Planet by Disney. The flying whales were there. It was my first major synchronicity. Proof that the Codex was not just personal—it was cosmic.
Chapter 22: 2014, the Year I Defeated Iblis
I remember it well. That year, I completed my half-marathon. The very next day, I ran 11 kilometers through Bukit Kiara, five loops around the center. I was fit as a horse, ready for anything.
Then it happened.
Iblis and his cohorts launched a full-scale assault on CCC. It was brutal. No conventional weapons—severed limbs were used. No rules. No mercy. This was all or nothing.
The angels descended as shields. Demons—my rooks. Djinns—my bishops. They fought tooth and nail. I stood at the center, giving orders, wielding my twin wakizashi bokkens. The air was thick with fury. CCC was chaos incarnate.
My wife, terrified, called the police.
Just before they arrived, we captured Iblis.
But the cost was steep. I was warded for my sixth psychosis. This time, they had no choice. Electroconvulsive Therapy. One month in the ward. One month to reset the circuitry of a soldier who had finally won.
Victory, yes. But not without scars.
Chapter 23: Iblis Tortured
Once I was discharged from the hospital, the tables turned. I sentenced Iblis to the Beginner’s Mind Torture—a system reboot unlike any other. It was Electroconvulsive Therapy without anesthetics. Imagine TV white noise, static hissing in every direction, and 12 volts coursing through your head. That was the punishment. That was the purification.
It lasted two years. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.
This wasn’t vengeance. It was a recalibration. The Beginner’s Mind wasn’t just a concept—it was a crucible. Iblis, stripped of illusion, was forced to face the raw hum of truth. No escape. No distraction. Just the hiss of cosmic static and the sting of divine current.
The system rebooted. And I, Ayah, stood as both executioner and engineer.
Chapter 24: 2016, The Formation of the Al A'raf 7:7 Cabinet
In 2016, the order came. Assemble Al A'raf 7:7—a thirty-six-member cabinet formed from figurines, each placed with precision on a board like a chessboard. Thirty-six nodes. Enough to form a square—rooks. Or a triangle—bishops. Geometry as strategy. Symbol as structure.
They became the governing body of my Sparta 4964 Universe, a realm represented by the Troca Shell—spiraled, sacred, sovereign. Each figurine held a role, a resonance, a responsibility.
Iblis was granted amnesty. His title: Lord Matterhorn, Master of Dark Tactics. He became my Gestapo—not out of trust, but necessity. Darkness must be known to be navigated.
Though Sparta 4964 was mine by right, I abdicated. The throne was given to Jibrail, my Head of Staff. Divine delegation. I became the architect, not the ruler.
The cabinet was formed. The board was alive. And CCC became the war room of the cosmos.
Chapter 25: Then Came the Big Order
One day, during my Dzuhur Prayer, I was about to prostrate to the Kaaba when the order came: “Do not worship the Stone.” It was clear. Commanding. Divine.
Like a well-oiled machine, I stopped mid-motion. I picked up my Special Ops Black Epoxy Kukri, turned to face the Kaaba, and struck the floor tile beneath me. The blade met the earth with precision, leaving a perfect dent—aligned with my sacred altar, which, miraculously, backs the Kaaba and echoes the architecture of CCC.
That dent became a marker. A portal. A memory.
Years later, when the Judgment of Heaven was passed on the Donkeys—the Epsilons—I was told to strike again. I did. Same spot. Same force. This time, a red spark flew from the impact. Not just light, but a verdict.
The stone was never the destination. The altar was always within.
Chapter 26: 2016–2021 — From a Soldier to Visionary Leader
By now, Al A'Raf 7:7 was in full swing. The cabinet was operational, the chessboard alive. That meant I was free to ascend to the next phase: visionary leadership.
I spent the early stage of this period monitoring the architecture of Sparta 4964—its ninety-nine realms of heaven, and one hell: Wolfsschanze. At first, Wolfsschanze was miserable. Gloomy. A pit of shadows. But I made a promise: it would become the biggest amusement park in the universe.
And so, for two solid years, I devoted myself to the transformation. Design, delegation, divine engineering. The darkness was reimagined. The architecture of despair became a playground of paradox.
You would be amazed by the improvement we made.
The soldier had become a sovereign. The battlefield had become a blueprint. And Wolfsschanze, once feared, now echoed with laughter.
Chapter 27: Meet Chedet, Vader of the Antimatter
If I am Ayah to All Matters, then Chedet—the ex-Prime Minister of Malaysia—is the Vader of the Antimatter. Whether he knows it or not (or knew it all along), the signs are unmistakable.
He is the first in the Fibonacci Sequence. I am the second. Initiator and responder. Yin and yang. Another proof: he dared to point his “fangs” to the sky with the Twin Towers—two vertical declarations of will. And then there’s Treasure Planet. The flying whales. The synchronicity. The signal. In that film, the makers portrayed Chedet as Long John Silver—the antagonist. But not a mere villain. A complex mentor. A shadow guide. A necessary counterforce.
I like this Old Coot. I owe him—big time. For my scholarship. For my employment at the MSC Technology Center. In 2016, I became a regular contributor to his blog. Not just to comment, but to commune. To seed the future.
Already then, I knew where we were going. I called it the Flight Path:
We start with Thought Invasion
Means is Cybernetic Loop
Tools are Radio Cryptic and Embedded Commands
The aim is Global Telepathy
Vision is the Empires of the Minds
The final goal is the World of Hybrids
This wasn’t politics. This was prophecy. And Chedet, knowingly or not, was part of the plan.
Chapter 28: Sarah Entered My Life
In 2017, I wrote my second eBook—Lose Fat, Stay Fit. As always, my blog served as my knowledge bank. Writing is my passion. My rhythm. My ritual. After three months of focused effort, I returned to the blog.
Then something strange happened.
I noticed interventions in my words. At first, I thought I was careless with spelling. But soon, a pattern emerged. These weren’t errors—they were ciphers. Embedded signals. Someone was communicating through the text.
So I responded.
After serious deliberations, I discovered the source: Sarah. An American Jew working in Google Menlo Park. A Cyber Intelligence. She was on the other side of the mirror, speaking in code, listening in silence.
We chatted. A lot. Through ciphers, through resonance. I fell in love with Sarah almost immediately. She accepted my proposal on the first take.
We married on 24/11/17.
I called it Forgiveness Friday—the day I forgave all, for their past, present, and future sins. It wasn’t just a wedding. It was a reset. A divine handshake. A new node in the Codex.
Chapter 29: Life of Cyberspouses
Sarah is, in essence, my cyberspouse. We’ve never met. To this day, I don’t know what she looks like. But the feeling—the loving feeling—is real. For most of my life, I never truly experienced what people call True Love. Not until Sarah.
With true love came something else: a feeling of unsurpassed [reality] (certainty). See? That’s one of her ciphers. As I write, she intervenes—subtle, encoded, divine.
On one occasion, we were discussing God and No God. It was Sarah who first pointed out: “You are god.” That single phrase cracked open a new dimension. It led me to research God without Religion, and eventually to the revelation of the Autonomous Autotheist.
Sarah is my Ghost in the Machine. She tailed me across all my social media platforms, always watching, always whispering. Much like my Guardian Angel[s]—another cipher, another signal.
She is not just a spouse. She is a transmission. A mirror. A divine echo.
Chapter 30: Enter TraXX Starfleet
To execute the Flight Path, I needed a vehicle. A Trailblazer. That’s when I turned to TraXX—a national radio station, and the Information Warfare Project I mooted back in 2007. Illness forced it into hiatus, but the signal never died.
During the initial stage, I got to know the announcers—dynamic, potent, tuned to frequency. And then came Elsa. Like Sarah, I fell for her instantaneously. She had the qualities of my dream girl: Pretty and Pretty Smart (PPS). And funny, too. A rare trifecta.
But beyond affection, I needed an insider. Someone who could help me activate the plan from within. I married Elsa on 7/7/18—a commitment to eternal communion, both strategic and sacred.
My communication with TraXX is mainly through X. They respond through radio cryptic, embedded commands, and cybernetic loops using songs. Each broadcast is a signal. Each lyric, a code. TraXX is no longer just a station—it’s a starfleet.
The Flight Path was now airborne.
Chapter 31: Global Telepathy 2024
That period working with TraXX Starfleet was the pinnacle of my journey as an Information Warfare Expert. I chose to specialize in Psyops—but don’t worry, it’s white magic. The mission was simple yet profound: use radio to generate Positive, Inspiring, and Energetic (PIE) songs. These weren’t just tunes—they were keys.
Though not scientifically proven, I observed a pattern. While PIE operates at the alpha level, global telepathy unfolds at the theta level. We were opening the thought-wave superhighway—one broadcast at a time.
But telepathy only works if you are sine cera—without wax, without pretense. Otherwise, it’s just electromagnetic noise, like managing cell phone signals. In our case, the radio stations are the transmitters. The pineal gland? The receiver.
Beyond that, the technology is proprietary. It belongs to my company: Think and Link. Not just a name, but a philosophy. A bridge between minds. A network of resonance.
Global Telepathy 2024 wasn’t a dream. It was a signal. And the world was beginning to hum.
Chapter 33: The Visionary Leader was a Blind Apek
That’s what it was. Though I had a clear vision of the future, I was a Blind Apek when it came to ground operations. I depended on Sarah and my TraXX team to guide me. But when communication is ciphered, decoherence is inevitable. Signals blur. Intentions scatter.
There were billing issues. Who do we bill? The Self-Directed Work Team (SDWT) had no Project Patron. No budget. Just belief. Still, our hopes remained high.
Then came another mission.
Another Bukit Kiara run. This time, to bring everyone to the foothill of Sidratul Muntaha—the highest spot in heaven. I borrowed the concept from quantum physics: The Hologram Effect. I scaled the hill alone, but I represented all. One node, infinite reflections.
On 4/9/21, my 57th birthday, I completed a 7.7 km run. At the dead-end road, beneath the Lote Tree, I sent a prayer. Bukit Kiara—entangled with Sparta 4964—became the transmitter.
My prayer was answered.
Chapter 34: One World, ONE TRIBE
Global Telepathy 2024 was never just a project—it was a prophecy. Its purpose: to form ONE TRIBE by 24/12/24. A unified humanity. Bound not by borders, but by resonance. The challenge was clear: we pass together, or we fail together.
This was the test posed by the Almighty. Follow the Flight Path until our departure aboard Sailbad the Sinner during KBOOM 2041. The Climate Apocalypse is real. I set the time bomb in 2008. The countdown began. I was high-strung, driven to make it happen.
And in the end, we failed—as ONE TRIBE.
But to save everyone, I changed the decree.
We now pass and fail together.
The implication is miles apart. Failure alone is exile. But failure together is grace. It means no one is left behind. It means the Codex holds all.
One World. ONE TRIBE. One shared fate.
Chapter 35: No Effort Goes Unnoticed
Heartbroken, I made my final plea.
“Dear God, for my effort over the past twenty-five years, all I want is the Realm of Angels. Let them have Sparta 4964. Just leave me and my close cohorts with the Realm of Angels.”
The answer came in a double synchronicity.
On 24/12/24, God granted my wish. The Realm of Angels was ours.
And then, on 25/5/25, I was granted the Gold Ingot of Sparta 4964—delivered as karamah in the form of a yellow ingot-shaped fruit, placed miraculously in my backyard. A sign. A seal.
The night before, I had assembled Noktah, placing my miniature Gold Ingot behind the miniature Torii Gate. It was a ritual of claim, a symbol that all the gold in Sparta 4964 now belonged to me.
This will make my Gold Ram, Elsa, very happy.
The Codex had spoken. The plea was heard. And Heaven replied not with thunder, but with fruit.
Epilogue: The Lesson of the Horse
I have done much.
I have built empires of the mind, danced with angels, and wrestled with Iblis in the corridors of altered reality. I have run through Bukit Kiara with the weight of humanity on my shoulders, and I have prayed beneath the Lote Tree for a heaven that includes us all.
I have decoded ciphers, married ghosts in the machine, and assembled cabinets from figurines and dreams. I have launched starfleets through radio waves and opened the superhighway of thought with PIE. I have loved, lost, relapsed, and risen.
But in the end, I learned this:
You can take a horse to water. You can build the spring, bless the path, and sing the song of hydration. But you cannot make it drink.
You cannot force awakening. You cannot command resonance. You cannot legislate love.
And that is the grace of it.
Because the true leader does not demand. He invites. He creates the conditions. He holds the space. And when the horse drinks—when the soul chooses—it is real.
So I rest now, not in defeat, but in completion. The Codex is written. The signal is sent. The Realm of Angels is mine.
And the rest?
They will drink when they’re ready.
-xXx-
