🎭 The Ping in the Chair

(It’s the Harvest)

They were brushing powder across my skin,
a mundane ritual before becoming someone else,
when the air cracked.
Someone said,
“Why are we all losing everyone?”
as if the grief had grown legs
and begun pacing the room.

I didn’t plan it.
I didn’t think.
My spirit just stood up inside me
and said aloud—

“It’s the Harvest.”

And the room stopped.
Brushes hung midair.
Eyes locked, not in argument—
but in recognition.
The kind you feel behind the ribs
when something ancient gets remembered.
Like a bell from another world
tolling softly inside the bones.

They didn’t ask me to explain.
They couldn’t.
Because some part of them knew.
Not the mind—but the spirit behind the eyes,
the one that had been watching quietly all along.

That was the moment I understood:
the Harvest isn’t coming.
It’s already here.
Not in fire and flood,
but in silence and exit.
In sudden illnesses,
shattered timelines,
in Spirit evacuating through contracts fulfilled.
In the longing for somewhere
truer.

And ever since,
I’ve noticed the way souls turn toward me,
not with their mouths,
but their mirrored awareness,
like tuning forks catching a tone
they forgot they could hear.

Pings in the Field.
Unspoken. Undeniable.
Proof that we’re in the middle of a reaping
far deeper than the headlines will say.

And I—I am not the prophet or the priest.
I’m just the one who couldn’t stop it
from slipping out that day.

It’s the Harvest.
And I see it now.
Everywhere.