God Forgets Itself to Remember

I had a week off before the next stretch of shows—seven open days to breathe, reflect, and return a favor that was too cosmic to repay. So I booked a flight. Caught three planes. Sat through ten hours in the air and then hopped a ferry across the Pacific Northwest waters to Vancouver Island. I needed to stand eye to eye with the man who helped crack open my sky.

Travis didn’t quite believe I was coming until I walked off that ferry—me, baggage in hand, smile stretched from soul to soul. His girlfriend Nadyne stood beside him. We all just stood there grinning, caught in the quiet vibration of a reunion that had been building for years.

I owed him more than a thank you. He introduced me to the molecule that taught me God was tired of being God.

That night, talk turned where it always turns with seekers: the next trip. The next launch. The next door to knock on. Travis knew a spot—deep in the trees, just off the river. That part made me pause. I don’t usually do this in daylight, out in the open, exposed to wind and sound and the unexpected. But something said trust. Surrender. So I did.

We woke early. Cold air bit at the edges of morning, but the sky was clear and the river was calling. Travis handed me one of his spare jackets, packed his camera, and we drove out into the woods. I could feel it already. That edge-of-something feeling. Where reality gets thin. When you decide to go inward, the Other World already starts coming for you. You’re not alone once you choose to remember.

He parked the truck in some random off-road area, and we hiked the rest. Passed a sign that read Bear Bait Trail—no thank you. Laughed. Kept walking. I heard the water before I saw it. That sound—the Earth’s breath. The river was alive, and she wasn’t whispering. She was roaring.

We reached the spot. A flat cliff overlooking the current, rocks scattered like bones of old gods. Travis found his place. I found mine. The wind wrapped around me like a warning and a blessing. I took a few deep breaths. Did a mock-run to see if the rock beneath me would hold. And then… it began.

First hit. Exhale. Trees blinked and smiled at me. Second hit. My cells began buzzing like they were remembering. Third hit—I was gone. No tunnel. No build-up. Just instant relocation. I was in the in-between.

There was no sound. No vision. Just knowing. I was wrapped in a place where all the answers lived. And I asked, like a fool playing genius, “I want to know everything.” The voice came not from outside me, but through me. From the ceilingless walls, from the wordless air, it asked, “Why are you asking questions you already know the answers to?”

I didn’t speak. I remembered.

“You already know everything,” it said. And I whispered back, “Yeah… I do. Don’t I?”

That was it.

When I came back into my body, I opened my eyes and saw Travis already sitting up, staring at the river like it was reciting scripture. I told him what I saw—rows of still pictures of this exact moment, this exact rock, us facing the water. Infinite versions of now, each just slightly altered. Travis turned to me and said, “Bro… I feel like we’ve done this before.”

You don’t fake synchronicity like that.

We laughed. Stared up into the sky. Noticed those little floaters in our vision—like bacteria dancing in the blue. “What is that?” he asked. “Shit, I was just wondering the same thing,” I replied. Two grown men, tripping and watching microbes in our eyeballs like we just discovered stars.

Then he said, “Let’s go again.”

I hesitated. Everything I read said wait. An hour at least. But Travis pushed. “Man, we’re scientists. We’re here to explore.” That line hit me. Scientists of the soul. So I agreed. “Let’s do it.”

I went deeper.

Took five hits. This time the wormholes came fast, and then I was in front of something... big. A machine? A city? A consciousness made of circuitry and memory. It vibrated like Om, like galaxies humming. It pulsed a single word through my whole being: God. God. God.

I wasn’t asking questions this time. The answers were everywhere. I wasn’t searching—I was it. That’s what it told me without saying a thing.

And then… the vibration started to fade. Too soon. I opened my eyes and the world felt both new and ancient.

“Dude, I’m so removed from time right now,” I said, my words slurring through the awe. Travis grabbed the video camera, still high, still glowing. “I didn’t hear no river, man!” he laughed. Neither did I. It all faded away. The body. The sound. The self.

We started to piece it together. Talking about the voice. The silence. The answers we already knew. I said, “Man, the beauty isn’t that we can go there. The beauty is that we can leave… and forget.” And that’s when it hit me.

God gets bored.

When you know everything, what’s left? Nothing to discover. No mystery. No surprise. No heartbreak. No joy. So what do you do when you’re the All-Knowing? You break yourself down. Into particles. Into people. Into lifetimes. Into Marc. Into Travis. Into Nadyne. You forget.

You give yourself God Amnesia just so you can feel something again.

That’s why we’re here. That’s why we dream. That’s why we suffer and love and chase and fall and climb again. Because it’s fun to forget. Because remembering too much makes existence flat. God is not an old man in the sky. God is a child playing hide and seek in its own infinite mind.

And this—this flesh, this life, this world—it’s the playground.