Becoming One: A Union Codex

Obsession, when correctly channeled, eclipses all other forces. What we call love—enflaming madness, euphoric, ensorcelled, enraptured—is not love at all, but a loud echo of primordial hunger, a feeding need finding its voice and victim.

Change. The word clicked oddly in my mouth. A rejection, an omen—a number of unpleasant associations and feelings weaved faintly through me with its thought-form. Change is sheer exhaustion for someone like me, life cracking open this way and that; year-to-year, the places, people, faces of my own identity constantly turning inside the wheel of fate. This despair with the unknown pushed me to find grounding—if not on the earthly plane, then within the spiritual one.

And so I contemplated this recent deep change with amusement, for I’d become something I could never fathom—a witch. The first seed was watered during my unconventional online communication with a shaman. You can only become that which you are. Some never become, gifts hidden and ignored, development disrupted, soul devoured in stagnation. Beginning at ‘know thyself’ and traversing through ‘non-duality’, I came to understand why people ignore their soul, for its inclinations may cry for heaven while sinking further, faster, through portals of unimaginable hell.

I sat with rolling shudders, tugging the alpaca blanket tighter, pulling it over my head, twisting it around my shoulders, trying to shield against the cold permeating through the thin yellow-stained walls. The alpaca fibers scratched at my skin, coarse and insistent, but I kept yanking as if some perfect fold or magical alignment would conjure and trap heat where there was none. Of all the shitty apartments in La Granja this had to be the shittiest—size of a closet, no furniture but this mattress on the floor crowding half the room. No space heater. It’s bad enough to deal with the subpar space heaters in Chile as opposed to central air systems in the US—one element I hadn’t been nostalgic for until this frigid moment. All my memories of being snuggled close to space heaters in Santiago a decade ago hovered fondly in the periphery of my mind. How can Kane handle this? It’s been five minutes and I—

Metallic springs creaked as the mattress sank beside me. Blanket, pulled down around my shoulders again, I noted hands exact in their grip — sturdy broad palms displaying a permanent condition of strength. A lifetime of force and tension pulsed beneath each knuckle, ornate with darkened tiny punctures, brutal yet beautiful tattoo markings from knuckle to wrist, contrasted with a fine-threaded multicolored bracelet, light and intentional, almost gentle against the severity of his hands, as if softness had been allowed there deliberately. As those hands offered up a steaming mug, an anomalous yet delicious aroma… rose and cinnamon—I felt it again—the same current when I first saw his photo swiping through the mbti-match app. The striking intensity in his eyes held ferocity, softness, and a soul so alive it smoldered transfixingly.

“Sorry ‘bout the cold.” The mug passed into my hands and I lost myself for several moments in autopilot of focused drinking, my body desperate for the heat.

“Warm as a 5-star igloo in here, really cozy.”

Kane shot me a half-smile, knowing my sardonic tilt. He was up again, going through the carry-on suitcase that sat in a corner. A notebook and pen had been laid atop it, a makeshift writing desk. He slid them to the floor and rummaged inside the suitcase as the sunlight peeking through broken blinds caught thin layers of dust lifting briefly into view before they drifted back down. As I warmed up, the environment became louder than my thoughts of slicing cold—reggaeton blasting in the distance, shouts, dog barks, car horns—a stream of dissonant chaos humming through the active neighborhood, where bodies packed into claustrophobic spaces and cars parked Tetris-like along driveways and lawns, hiding the stubborn patches of greenery that poked through gravel and pitted asphalt.

The filth, the noise, the cold—what he survived the past eight months. Fugitive. This tiny shelter was solace, after he spent five months homeless sleeping on the streets in a country he didn’t speak the language of, landing here in Chile after he took the first available flight out of Sweden when that knock came to his door.

“I find the mushroom helps with cold. And hunger.” Kane’s tone was always calm, even, unshakable. He took from the baggie, chewed up a big bite, and sat back down beside me. “You’re welcome to it. I’m with you so don’t worry,” a soothing reassurance in his voice. “I’ll take care of you—I know you’ve said you’re quite sensitive.”

Would this ruin or enhance our experience—my first impression on him as we finally met in person? The few stints I’d had with weed always ruined the night, ‘sensitive’ in the extreme, but this was different; being with a shaman had to be a guarantee of a lovely, if not profound experience—right? He’d keep me safe. Although panic rose at the possibility of some embarrassing reaction to the drug, I was willing to try anything to not feel the painful cold. My mind drifted to what else would warm us.

“Yeah—no, I’ve been wanting to try it. So… how much should I take?”

He pulled a medium stem from the bag, tore the cap off with this teeth and leaned toward me. “This should do.”

Cold lips and hot tongue pressed—delicate at first, reverent and charged—I received the mushroom along with his warmth, his kiss. Those fucking lips.

His hand trailed through my hair down my cheek, his touch soft and deliberate. His eyes watched my mouth as I swallowed the last bits of mushroom. “Good. The mushroom is a bit bitter. Wash it down with some tea.”

He drank, placed the mug back on the floor and was over me—a hand gently tilting my chin, his thumb brushing my bottom lip open, the other sliding around my back, pulling me into him. A warm flow of tea ushered in from his mouth to mine, his tongue following, gliding tender, intentional, with deepening intensity.

Energy I’d long restrained, surged now, undeniable, fusing fire between us. The cold vanished. I was achingly hungry for him—to taste and feel and experience the depth of his essence.

When I began to rise, his hands were already on my hips guiding me to straddle his lap. Hands wandered up my side, my chest, my throat, his fingers weaving through my dark hair with a gentle pull. His tongue slid slowly across my neck, sending goosebumps across my skin. I leaned forward, hands pressing to his chest for balance, then squeezing, gliding down his body, layers of clothes still in the way but all feeling was incendiary. Beneath the dark emerald peacoat, the tribal alpaca sweater, I slid a hand beneath his linen tee, palm flattening against the strength there, then dragging my fingers back up his chest, feeling muscle shift beneath my touch. He lifted his sweater off, the movement disheveled his hair slightly, dark strands catching the sun, hints of red-brown glinting like bronze, the same warm bronze framed along his high angular cheekbones, hawked eyebrows, and wildly fanned down his torso.

For a moment, we lingered with eyes locked, taking each other in, the world softening around us, time loosening, desire as constant as rolling waves. Only a minute, maybe two, but the vastness of it felt infinitely deep. God, his eyes, like a gorgeous haunting painting sending shivers into your heart, an aura of deep love and deep sad, wisdom and rage, all of it beautiful and emotionally intoxicating. I didn’t want to look away. I wanted to gaze back, let the intensity of his stare strike through me however it would, change whatever it may.

Kane’s hands returned to my hips, rocking me as his breath roughened, his kisses hedged with ferocity, teeth grazing my lower lip, and low growl rumbling in his throat as his hand moved between my thighs, then back out. Licking the wetness off his finger, he said, “You’re so good, Evy.”

“Ugh, stop—”

Couldn’t help the hard edges. Preemptive reflex. Melting in sweetness: “Just kidding. Don’t.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck to pull him down to me, but he lifted me, laying me on my back with care, his hands undressing me slow, planting kisses as he went, and then he snaked his tongue in a soft slither and I was already shaking because no one turns me on like he does. I bit my hand to muffle the whimper of euphoric need.

The room went black. No, the room disappeared altogether—no floor beneath me or walls around me. I couldn’t move my limbs, stuck again in the void I’d imagined, the paralysis and collapse of time, matter, meaning—this nothing state I’d entered twice before with weed—stronger than ever now. I tried calling for Kane, but the words only echoed quietly in my own head. Why the fuck.

A hand brushed against my cheek, wiping an angry tear. The endless black dissolved beneath an explosive flash of red light—inescapably bright, a blood sun searing through closed lids—but then it was gone, I reopened my eyes and Kane was beside me, sitting up and holding my hand.

I sat up and noticed the room seemed off, tones inverted, light wood gone dark, glitchy static flickering at the edges, outside noise too crisp, looping like a playlist stuck on its first track. The environment shimmered with a video game quality.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Right here, in your room, but it’s like Tomb Raider version. It’s all weird.”

“Yes, it’s quite video game-like. I see it too.”

“I was just in the void, did you feel that? Like, why are you so obsessed with me, void?”

“Yes, it’s a very challenging energy. I prayed for us there—for Merlin to reveal what’s good for us, and to bubble our energy from difficulty today. Would you like Merlin to step in and guide us?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “I’m so curious about Merlin, will we see him?”

“Merlin, he’s more experienced as mushroom consciousness speaking directly into our consciousness in a frictionless way, like rapidly receiving complete downloads. He can take on different carnate forms if he likes, so it’s possible we’ll see him as well as experience him. He’s a specific energy vibration you’ll come to recognize. Something ancient, dry humor, wit. Time, death and ego are meaningless to him. He simply reveals truth, bluntly, but without heaviness. He does have a way of making everything amusing somehow. I have enjoyed apprenticing under him.” A flicker of mischief flashed in his otherwise steadfast eyes.

I had always loved the insights Kane would share with me coming down from his mushroom trips, and he always talked about Merlin, though it’d been hard to grasp that aspect—not because I don’t understand or believe Kane—but I knew I’d have a greater richness of comprehension by experiencing the mushroom, Merlin, for myself. When it came to values and our devotion to our missions of growth, service, creativity, and loved ones, we were well aligned.

But Kane had edge—he was extreme in dedication to his practices, and he had mastered the zen of detachment, withstanding any harsh condition with grace, fully whole and content unto himself, his attention not-fuck-with-able. All his time was measured with focused attention toward his calling as a shamanic healer with immense capacity in emotional, material, and spiritual challenge, for he embodied the shaman and warrior both in spirit and flesh—a necessary preparation, he’d say, for anyone serious about soul work.

He’d written to me early on, “If you even remotely understand or can catch onto what I’m saying, it means you’re gonna be fine. Because you belong to a soul and you want to become aware of it. Not everyone does. A lot of beings here are either dormant or stuck on some aspect of base programming. We’re not all here for the same kind of curriculum at all. Your work is very different.”

Drugs were the resistance point, a fear. No control. Losing your mind. Unforeseen consequences. The way Sarah was normal until the drugs activated psychosis and now she lives vacillating between manic states. Stories like hers, and thousands more. Your brain becoming fried eggs, we were taught. Our illness, our sickness is multidimensional, and requires quadrilateral healing—spiritual, emotional, sexual, physical. These domains need tending to, but our systems segregate and fail us. A person tending to these areas, processing through their experiences and coming out on the other side ready to alchemize, to transmute, to take the slop of dirt and transform it into a tree of life, that’s a person who does not lose their mind in altered states—they discover its mysteries. This realization, knowing Kane, initiated me.

The dark wood floor began to crack. Earthquake. My mind flashed to the 8.8 quake I’d lived through in Santiago back in 2010, right before leaving for Florida to start a new life. Am I just high—or? The long crack ran straight through the room, end-to-end, vibrating and widening now, smaller cracks forming on other parts of the floor, shaking panels of wood loose into broken piles as the now enormous crack became a crater. No time to react. Blue light tunneled from crater as it began to close, the crack sealed, then was altogether gone, the wood panels arranged back into place, the vibrating stopped, the floor intact in its original form.

The faint blue light that emerged from the floor like a soft spotlight beam was now condensed as a hovering orb, luminous azure, its surface rippling softly with cerulean flames, alive with shifting, deliberate pulse. Merlin. The flaming orb before us moved closer, yet I felt his presence like someone standing behind me. His voice appeared in my head, “Man and Woman. It was not as the tale of Adam and Eve, she from a piece of he. The single divine being existed, but couldn’t hold its form when subjected to external pressures in this middle plane. Once molecularly separated, man and woman still maintained elements of the other, known to some as the anima and animus. Naturally, this has left them with a vague sense of longing for the other, unable to successfully recreate their original state of union. The lovers search, anima and animus, to find and fuse their halves. Before they can properly recognize the other, they must properly recognize themselves, striking internal balance within. Next, they must bond beyond carnality, focusing on aligning their souls into a loving prism, directing light to rearrange the soul matter and re-merge into one. From polarity (yin-yang) soulmates, to the Advaita (whole) soul. This completes an important cycle, providing divine protection to continue your energetic ascension, energizing others to join you, and together elevating this reality into a state of Brahman (Non-duality). Receive this gift in the lover beside you, trust your knowing, offer your sacrifice, and do not squander the opportunity before you.”

Merlin’s presence, words—the energy was boundless love and empowerment. I was overcome with vision and emotion, touched by the full force of positive vibration, akin to the happiest moment of your life stretched to a greater decibel than the majority will ever feel in their earthly timeline, to a higher degree than what is accessible to humans, but which can be temporarily experienced—exposed by higher dimensional beings. The connection to them may happen by luck, hella drugs, dedicated meditation or personal transcendental evolution—no guarantees, though, as to who or what you’ll connect with, if at all, nor for how often or how long. One experience like that is enough to change the trajectory of your life. It was for me. When we came down from the mushroom, the residue of pure love cloaked us into the evening.

Every past conversation while oceans apart had felt like revelation in the deep rightness of alignment. Here now with no barrier, our need sharpened, unmistakably mutual and colliding—every gaze, touch, taste, building into requirement—creating unchangeable pathways of craving. And union. His embrace was so enveloping, I felt tethered into a cocoon I never wanted to leave. So I didn’t. My full-time literary teaching job, my partially paid-off mortgage, my car, all my furniture, boxes of photographs, closets full of clothing, home library stocked with favorite books, best friend next door—I left it all suspended in Florida, until the suspension shattered into release, time continued, and the past disappeared as I never left his side. Though, I would not forgo comforts to his ascetical degree, making it known this relationship can only happen if he hangs up the hermit life and evolves into a king (of cups, preferably).

The writing never stopped, but the focus shifted from literary fiction novels to transcribing Merlin’s teachings, recording ritual instructions, and co-writing a manual for the soulmate ascension path as Kane and I were experiencing it. My personal mission had been raising consciousness through great fiction. Kane was dedicated to helping as many people as he could become free through his shamanic work. But this new mission together, the state of perfect union, pressed forward in elevating importance. My savings allowed us to rent a slightly nicer place in a slightly better neighborhood, but we lived and spent meagerly, with satisfaction.

Experienced with the medicine, altered realities, and noncarnate entities, Kane contributed with his developed strengths, knowing that mastering the ego was crucial to any spiritual development path—including our path toward Advaita (wholeness). Thus, the first pillar became ego-dissolvement. For this, we needed potent Kundalini energy to restore a clean vitality within us, which we could channel into creative passion—its ultimate expression generating life force through the union of man and woman to create child. Our goal was to draw on that creative life force to birth the completion cycle, transcending duality and finding the true middle road: the Brahman.

This was our knowing.

By the end of summer, we were ready to receive a Kundalini awakening. We prepared our bodies as temples: three days of fasting with the mushroom in silence, in prayer, in spaciousness. That third night, we submerged in the water womb of creation, softening somatically and becoming porously energetically open. My body tensed and released in equal measure. Mix of nerve and joy. Under his guide, the dust of his essence sinking in, glittering my inner world with thrill.

We sat facing each other, spines upright but relaxed, attention drawn first to our root chakras. Kane said little, allowing sensation to lead, and I realized the unfamiliarity was part of the teaching.

At times he’d press his finger to my forehead, an anchoring practice he knew helped me center my mind to focus. His soft caresses to my hand allowed me to further relax into my body. I sensed the method behind each movement, the care in every precise touch and deliberate breath, working us into a proper energetic state.

Our breath became synchronized and when he placed his hands on my lower back a responsive heat formed a coiled ball of pressure. He slowly moved his hands upward, the hot ball of pressure matching his movement, but the further he worked up my spine, the more this ball unfurled, as if unknotting itself. Heat and mixed energy flooded centrally, in waves—fear, anxiety, lust, joy, doubt, anger, gratitude, sadness, freedom, grief, happiness, love. The current of energy bloomed into loving vibration, reaching my head, then my crown chakra, where suddenly my body loosened into lightness, laughter, ecstasy.

I let my hands drift over the stick-and-poke tattoos along his arms—symbolic designs collected over his time in Sweden, when he lived in a compound and communed with a lively spiritual community. He’d be there now if the postal service hadn’t started to crack down with the full book for any sort of drug paraphernalia. I wanted to hear every story behind every tattoo, and it made me smile to know there was still so much to learn about him.

I pulled him into me for a kiss, running my palms down his back, feeling the heat traveling through him. Just his breath on my skin had me vibrating in pleasure, and as we made love the orgasmic bliss circulated throughout our whole bodies, rapturing us into astral climax. Heaven descended. The Kundalini ecstatic union was beyond expectation, for as our bodies remained entwined below, our awareness slipped free, up above, our souls projected unbound physically, and there we saw them braid together before returning.

We had touched the middle.

The manual was nearing completion, but the final step wouldn’t reveal itself. Though the Kundalini ceremony had been profoundly meaningful, allowing our souls to touch, it was clear that the ultimate union remained just beyond reach. We were meant to guide others who were being activated to the same call; under Merlin’s direction, we provided ceremonial service for a slowly growing number of soulmate couples. Kane otherwise threw himself deeper into frequent mushroom journeys. Even as he maintained a steady, measured presence with clients, during our scheduled co-writing sessions, and while tending to our relationship, I began to notice subtle shifts—tiny leaks, barely perceptible, like droplets forming at the corner of a ceiling. I watched him. The dose increases. Waking earlier and earlier to muse about. He was obsessed.

The time had come to work with our first couple who had gone through ego dissolution and guide them now in the Kundalini awakening. I set extra protective precautions in the ritual space: circle of salt around the seating area, obsidian points in each corner of the room, smudged sage, charcoal triangles beneath each seat to absorb lingering energy, rose petals and bay leaves scattered lightly, and a single candle burning at the center to hold their shared heart energy. The pair arrived. Kane’s eyes swept over them with meticulous care, noting postures, breathing, energy signatures. He always noticed everything. As guides we held space—supporting, adjusting, and grounding only when necessary. The couple fell into a matched breathing rhythm and Kane directed the man to move his energy slowly up the spine starting at the root. The woman tensed, her breathing disrupted by the intense energy. Kane’s voice broke the quiet with measured precision, “Center here. Don’t rush. Observe each twist, that’s when you move.”

The energy reached their crowns, their euphoria palpable. The candle’s flame flickered in their shared center; for just a blink, two glowing light bodies hovered overhead, trembling in pleasure. It had all worked. This external success, outside of our own experience, validated vehemently by two strangers, well, it erased any speck of doubt in me, raised my confidence, and sparked a heightened and feverish motivation to my existing devotion.

And as for Kane, the self-imposed limits he had long maintained—the careful tempering of his boundless willpower—shattered. The reservoir of obsession, discipline, and endurance he had learned to restrain now surged unbridled, a force unmatched and uncontainable, ready to be fully unleashed to achieve the union he sought at any cost.

I was absorbed in visual refinements for our manual while Kane was on a mushroom trip, consulting with Merlin. When I stopped for a lunch break, I saw the living room was transformed, he had set up a unique ceremonial space, different from our typical way.

“Evy,” he said, voice unusually eager. “I had an insight last night, I spoke with Merlin about it today and I really want to give it a try. Are you free right now?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “I mean, I’m about to eat lunch, but yeah, why not! Look at you being spontaneous! I can keep working on the manual later. Just let me eat something first.”

“Yes, darling, eat something. I’ll prepare us some tea.”

When he started the ceremony, I was surprised he didn’t walk through it with me first; we’d typically talk over the main aspects, make sure we were both fully onboard with the nature of the ritual. As he scattered red salt around a pink candle, lit it, I felt odd about it all, a growing wariness gnawing at me. I could see his immense excitement, and usually his certainty was enough to make me feel certain too, but a pressure gathered in my chest. I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, trusting the familiar intimacy of the gesture, remembering when we first saw each other, the shithole apartment, my impulsive flight purchase—claiming I made the trip for my 15 year high-school reunion party when really after months of talking online I had just wanted to meet him, wanted him to become mine. Wanted him to catalyze me and transform my life in the way I knew he would. Wanted a love that kept me sovereign and safe. Kane watched me drink the tea—his eyes on my mouth like that first time. Like he was waiting for me to finish so he could—

Could—

My thoughts slowed and dissolved. And then there was nothing.

The sound of metal and machine filled my dream. No light, only sound. Grating, unbearable sound, from above, below, all sides. Something motorized whined, paused, resumed.

“Hold there,” someone said, the words stretched unnaturally long, elastic, eerie.

I tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. Why do I always get trapped in this useless way?

Kane’s warm voice drifted in. “Yes, darling,” he said, “I’ll prepare us some tea.”

I felt a weight caving into my chest, like gravity itself bearing all its force in this concentrated spot, collapsing me to my knees, and further crushing me flat to the floor. No light, no image, but I was lying down and couldn’t help but imagine a horrid sleep paralysis demon was sitting on my chest. This must be exactly what that feels like.

Another sound—wet, unmistakably so. I felt fingerlike movement crawl within my chest, but the weight was still there and I couldn’t move. The smell reached me even through the dream: putrid iron.

Another voice spoke. “Okay, you’re good at that.”

“I know. Scalpel.”

Scalpel. The word echoed, hollow, bouncing off the inside of my skull like it was searching for meaning. Dreams are always like this I told myself—random.

Kane’s voice overlaid the vacuuming sounds, “I love you angel,” “I had an insight last night, are you free now?”

The machines grew louder.

From the other side of the room—how did I know there was another side?—I heard rapid beeping. And Kane’s name spoken by someone…. Whose voice was that?

“His pressure’s dropping.”

“Stay with it. We’ve got it, the second heart is in place. Graft it.”

The wet sounds returned rhythmic, in and out. The beeps became rhythmically spaced now.

“Keep working on that close,” a voice said. “He’s stable. The hearts are in unison. I’m gonna get started on her disposal.”

“This is it,” Kane said, radiant with certainty. “This is our final step.”

I wanted to tell him no, whatever this is, it’s not supposed to feel like this—like I’m being drowned out. Disposed. But the dream continued in the dark, nothing functional but my consciousness.

Metal clinked a final time. The machines slowed. Someone swore under their breath, apologized to no one, then counted down softly.

The smells faded, replaced by cold.

And Kane’s voice, soft as ever, sank with me into the dark:

“We did it.”

.

.

.

The second couple arrives, the ceremonial space readied by Kane. Another successful Kundalini awakening.

“…and even though her physical form is gone, we share a soul, a consciousness, conjoined hearts. She’s with me,” Kane explains tenderly. “The soul-merging ritual I outline—high-dose ketamine tea induction, invoking ensealment, and heterotypic heart transplantation—doesn’t destroy the self. It remineralizes the soul’s storehouse, allowing it to recrystallize around its resonant counterpart, provided sufficient proximity and overlap of the electromagnetic field.

He smiles at them, reassuring. “Once the second heart is grafted, the field stabilizes. When you wake from the surgery, you’ll never face a day without love again. Your counterpart is with you—as you—as one—through every reincarnated lifetime. You won’t just touch the middle, like you did tonight. You’ll live there for all eternity.”

Kane hands them a copy of the completed manual:

Becoming One: A Union Codex

By Kane and Evy O’Bryne

—-———————————————————————

Author’s note: I need to edit this so much and simply write it better but I’m tired of wrestling with it, so I’m putting it down for now. The idea was sparked by the Bloodlust Valentine’s Day horror theme from Dylan Bosworth. Been vibing hard with the cult/spiritual/psychological thriller themes - posting a mushroom cult story eventually. My story is inspired by someone I deeply admire (the good parts not the horror/thriller twist, that was simply added because of the need to write a horror theme).