God Gave Us Life — What Are We Doing With It?

November 21, 2025.

In the early night of almost mid-November, I once again felt myself observing myself from a beyond—like a visitor to my own life and my own memories. I was in an Italian-American restaurant. the man I was calling my partner sat in front of me, lost in his own thoughts, while I tried to be present in my life and in our moments together. The green of the booth seats, the noise in English, the elderly people in their conversations, the kindness and smile of the waitress, the bussers, the yellow glow of the restaurant lights; the stale, stored food of the place, and my deep need to understand what exactly I am doing with my life at this moment.

The night, and all the gray of a New Jersey that has taught me so much during these past almost six months of my life. Then you were driving to a convenience store at a gas station—one of the places you apparently frequent—and there I was, going with you, as if trying to enter your world to understand it; to understand that your reality is one you build through your decisions, and that my reality is one I build through mine.

I hear your voice talking about grams like an expert speaking about something he deeply knows, and even though what you are ordering is something the earth produces and should be familiar to the human body, the only time I put it into my body was a year and nine months ago. I felt that my body had already experienced it and expelled it from its system, and that it wouldn’t affect me to introduce it again: one gram of nature from the fungi kingdom. I walked to the bathroom to shower, brush my teeth, and put on my sleepwear. I felt your energy as if you were happy that I was your accomplice in being under the effect of a substance. In that moment, I understood how extremely different we were, and how my need to love you built you into a beautiful and special being.

Were you ever that?
Were you ever naturally pure?

Is it my love that has tried to capture you from some other time where you existed as a divine creation with a path to walk in this life?

And now I am in the place where I am eternal. I begin to see my body—my hands, my arms. I can see the dryness and the dehydration. I can see the American restaurant food in my body, like a poison that keeps my blood from flowing naturally; chemicals my body desperately tries to expel. I look at myself in the mirror: I can see my hair damaged by the hardness of the water, I can see my tired face with dark circles, I can see my body inflamed and extremely exhausted, as if it were fighting to survive. I feel as if my whole body were tied to the earth with many different roots.

I feel how much love, patience, respect, comfort, my body, my actions, my worry, my prayers… I have given to a man who is not loving himself nor loving life. A man who says many words that sound like someone committed to life and to the relationship, to the reconstruction of himself, to the learning of his mistakes, to his relationship with God, to the care of his body, to expelling marijuana, antidepressants, and nicotine. But in his actions and emotional instability, the words seem like pure inventions of something he wants to be—and that I know he has the power to be, if he chooses it… but his actions remain a representation of self-destruction.

And then all the blue of his eyes disappears. All the red and white disappear. I can see his face and his physical movements like those of a monkey playing cards in a casino, filled with the smell of cigarettes and with piercings in his face. He smiles at me—an attempted pleasing smile. Then I hear him saying he can read my mind and that he will guess the colors and numbers I’m thinking of. He fails. He laughs. And I feel his energy like that of a child younger than ten, trying to appear smarter than the adults around him.

I begin to think: what must happen in someone’s life for them to transform into a monster? I think about corruption, about how a person can lose themselves in substance consumption, in the obsession with controlling others, in avoiding the consequences of their decisions, in lies, in deceit, in neglect of the body, in addictions, in disloyalty, in sharing their body with people who are already corrupted.

I begin to speak, to say words to the energy in front of me—about the love of his parents toward him, about human imperfection, about the opportunity he has to do things differently. I start crying, telling him that his actions and his way of living have hurt me. I begin to wonder: am I safe here? What is this reality?

He begins to say that he loves me more than I can understand, that all his decisions now are made thinking of me first. Is that true?

Then I feel as if my energy and his were inside a tunnel, and as if my soul were walking toward the light. I can feel pieces of his soul trying to cling to mine to leave with me into the light. I tell him: “I am your way out of all the decisions that made you lose your soul. I am your exit.”

But why?
Can love inspire and transform someone who has lost himself?
If he wants to return, can love be salvation?
At what moment, before coming to earth, did I sign this contract?
And for how long?

I began to tell you how much love I wanted and felt I needed to give you from the first moment I saw you.

My body sits on the sofa and you are in front of me. Again I can see your face, and I can see many marijuana plants around all your energy, as if covering your entire body so that only your eyes and part of your face remain visible. I tell you that you should stop consuming substances, because everything we consume is also energy that was once alive and, in some way, experiences itself through us.

You say you had stopped for months, and that now you only do it sporadically. At that point I am thinking: what am I still doing here?

I look at you again and you seem to have no body; it seems as if I am only seeing you disappear and reappear at the same time. I begin telling you that we are eternal, that our soul is eternal, and that our human bodies—with our identity—are only a moment. And that I want to return to my life, I want to keep becoming a better person, I want to keep taking care of myself physically and mentally, I want to love more, I want to move away from any person or thing that wants to corrupt my soul, someone respectful of my body and my thoughts when I’ve shared myself with him.

That I don’t want to be having sex every day; that every time I have sex my body naturally prepares itself for conception, and when it’s just for pleasure, all that energy is wasted and I feel completely drained. That I need that energy to write, to teach my yoga classes, to run, to exercise, to read, for new experiences, to keep living, achieving, and conquering what I want to conquer in this world.

That it is not my desire to be in a place in New Jersey, fighting for a healthy and stable relationship, waiting for him to behave like someone ready to sustain and build the beautiful reality I want to build with the man who loves me and whom I love.

I am asking questions: What is the God you know? And you answer that He is one who gave you a purpose. Then I begin thinking about God, about consciousness, and I begin to feel as if I were the entire universe—timeless, unhurried. I begin to feel that God is with me always, wherever I go, wherever I am; that God is everywhere, within and without; that God is infinite and that, in His own intelligence and creation, He is in trial and error, trying to create a reality where absolutely everything has been experienced, and where consciousness chooses what an ideal world for existence and creation should be.

I see God, I see God, and I tell Him that I love Him absolutely and unconditionally, that He is perfect, that I am infinitely grateful to Him for my life, that I admire Him unbreakingly. I tell Him I see all He does to understand my communication and my desires, even within my wild and ever-changing mind. That I will try to communicate better, to organize my life, to be an example of His existence in me, to be a voice for His precious love, His incredible patience, His incredible humanity and compassion.

I tell Him that my human and soul imperfection is due to my free will and all the realities and decisions I have made and experienced to understand the things I now understand—and how much I still have left to comprehend. I tell Him that I will begin my conversations with a consciousness that experiences the earth, that I trust Him absolutely, and that I am grateful for my intuition and for my need to see the true reality in this navigation of life. Again, I confess to Him my absolute love, trust, and gratitude.

The apple that Eve gave Adam was the exit from paradise: a reality that God’s consciousness created to protect itself from the ignorance of all the consequences produced by choices of pain, disappointment, addiction, perdition, ungratefulness, corruption of the soul. Not because those things didn’t exist or weren’t part of understanding, but because He already knew and wanted to shield His consciousness—to observe a creation free of all evil.

But God realized one cannot escape oneself, and His sacrifice is also a recognition of every experience of consciousness. God is trying—through every decision you make, I make, every conscious life makes—to create a better world, a better reality. Because He is trying through us.

What are we doing?

God’s understanding goes beyond words; it lives in the actions and decisions we make every day of our lives.

You return to the room and start telling me that my self-care is visible, that I look like someone with the health of a seventeen-year-old. That how does it feel to wake up and look good without needing to comb my hair. I blush and tell you that healthy eating and physical activity are what I see as my source of eternal youth. That in a world where many women are getting plastic surgeries and going against their own human nature, I am choosing coconut water and learning organic whole-foods cooking to sustain myself in a healthy, real way.

Then you say I have three eyes, and I blush again and tell you that I’ve always had three eyes—that’s why I once told you about a dream where I was terrified that my baby would literally be born with three eyes. I smile again. Then you say everything you see in me is beautiful, that you see an angel. I smile once more.

Then you begin drifting into sleep. You start to mumble words. I manage to decipher some: you say things like “this isn’t going to work.” You fall asleep again.

And I ask myself:

Are you ready to hold the healthy love you have always asked for?
Are you ready to create healthy love for yourself first?

I wake up in the morning after falling into a deep sleep. I’m walking through the apartment choosing what clothes to pack to take a flight to Denver to get my driver’s license. You are silent again, and I feel once more the need to pull words out of your mind. You fall back into silence. Then you start yelling. Then you leave.

Then I head to JFK airport to take my flight. I begin to feel dehydrated, a deep pain in my head. I try to choose the healthiest options at the airport to eat; I drink water. I find my seat on the plane. My suitcase is disorganized. I left my hiking shoes in the Lyft; I had to contact the driver to recover them.

I sit through almost five hours on the plane. I wake up. I am on a call with you: you say you are going home. Then you call to say you are going to a casino. The image of the monkey returns to my mind. I begin to feel deep fear and desolation.

I get off the plane and board the train directly to Union Station. My phone dies. I can’t buy a ticket. I receive a warning. I step off the train and begin to remember the time I came to drop off a past partner who was taking a flight to Canada two years ago. I feel the energy. I keep going.

I wait for my friend inside Union Station. I see police and trucks outside. Denver feels different with this current government—like a first world watching all its inhabitants through many eyes.

My friend arrives. I get into his BMW with my strange energy. We reach his apartment. I’m not saying many words. I put on my pajamas, I put on my retainer. I go to sleep. My head hurts and runs wild from the stress. I wake up several times during the night. I wake up again in the morning.

I look out the window at the Rocky Mountains of Denver, snow on their peaks.

I breathe again.