February 11, 2025
It is a strange thing, the knowing of a child, and stranger still how it fades like morning mist beneath the weight of years. For in the days of youth until the turning of the first decade of life—there is a knowing, a deep knowing, that the world is not merely what the eye can see or the ear can hear. The very air is thick with unseen presences, the hush of the woods at dusk pregnant with whispers of things neither beast nor bird. But as the years press upon us, and we grow in stature and thought, we abandon such wisdom. The world tells us there are no spirits in the hollows, no shadows beyond the lamplight, no hidden eyes that vanish when one turns to look. And so we become blind to that which we once knew.
Let’s for a moment cast off the weary cape of adulthood and return to that keen sight of childhood, when fear and wonder walked hand in hand. In those days the deep woods seemed alive, not merely with the rustling of leaves but with presences unseen. Did we not catch a glimpse, from the corners of our eyes, figures that flitted away before we could name them? And when we crept forward into the entrance of some darkened cave or abandoned building, did we not feel the weight of some watchful presence, though none could be seen? In those days, the world was full of mysteries, and we were yet wise enough to consider them.
The shaping of a soul is twice-born: by the blood of its ancestors and by the hand of those who rear it. In the child, the raw nature of being yet reigns, untempered by the skepticism of adult years. Therefore, the young know what the elders have long forgotten: that the world is deep and layered, that behind the seen there is the unseen, and that fear is not always foolishness. Some fear and avoid the dark corners, and so they should. But others, drawn by the fire of curiosity and adventure, step forth. They press beyond the safety of home and locked doors, into the whispering woods and the shadowed glades, where ancient things still stir.
I was such a child. When the days were long and golden, and time was slow, I would stray far into the forest, my feet treading ground older than the moon, my heart light and free from the weight of reasoned doubt. I would lie upon the hill sides, a blade of grass twixt my teeth, and listen—to the wind in the boughs, the drone of unseen insects, the far-off murmur of a small airplane. But there were rare times—yes, even beneath the high sun—when a shadow would pass unseen, yet felt. A heaviness in the air and below the ground, a hush that stilled the trees, a presence moving that froze natural movement, though no form could be seen. And when the twilight fell, such moments grew more frequent, until they were no longer rare but expected.
Later, as the years grew shorter, I took to wandering farther. The skepticism of adulthood, that strange armour donned by those who deem themselves wise, settled upon me, and I scoffed at the whisperings of my childhood. I had no fear of the empty dark nor the solitary wooded night. And yet, once, in the depths of a cave where no light shone, I saw eyes gleaming in the black, blinking once, twice—then vanishing. I fled then, battered and breathless, until the Sun greeted me once more. And though my reason told me it was naught but a beast of flesh and fur, my heart and soul whispered otherwise. For in that moment, the child I had been returned and tried to wake me up from the lotus-eating stupor of adulthood, and in a brief moment of sobriety, I knew once more the world was not as simple as the learned ones would have us believe.
And therein lies the truth that so many fear to face. The world of cold stone and measured reason is but one layer of a thing far vaster. When one peers into the depths of consciousness, when one weighs the nature of reality itself, the celestial sphere of materialism cracks and we can briefly see behind the stars. For our mind-shattering experiments, when we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. For if mind shapes matter, if thought gives rise to being, then the phantoms of our youth may not be mere fancy. Perhaps they are echoes of something real—real, yet beyond the grasp of the lotus-stupored eye. Perhaps the old tales, spun by trembling ancient Greek tongues around crackling fires, were not falsehoods, but warnings.
There is a name for such things, these spectres of thought and belief. Ectype, it is called—a shadow of something more ancient and true, a reflection of an archetype that lingers in the depths of existence. In the ancient days, it was said that the world we see is but an echo of a higher realm, a place of perfect Forms. Perhaps what we name ghosts and hobgoblins are but ectypes of something far older, something that our ancestors knew well, but which we, in our pride, have cast aside. If so, then to forget them is folly, for that which is forgotten does not cease to be. Not entirely.
Yet there is another possibility, one more troubling still. There are those who say that thought itself has power, that what is believed may, in time, take form. The ancient high-mountain dwelling Tibetans whispered of tulpas—shadows born of mind and will, which, given strength, might step forth from the abyss of thought into the waking world. If so, then belief is no trifling thing. For what we feed, we give life, and what we name, we call forth. Beware, then, the whispers of the dark, lest they grow bold and answer. Don’t feed the monsters.
It may be, then, that the phantoms of our childhood, the nameless shapes that watched from the treeline, are neither dream nor madness. It may be that they are real, in ways not yet understood, waiting on the edges of knowing, just beyond the light. And it may be that, in denying them, we deny ourselves, perhaps danger, but perhaps also the greatest adventures. For if the world is shaped by thought, then that which is unlooked for will slip between the cracks of our perception, unseen and undefended against if it is present still.
And so, I ask: are these things mere fancies of the mind, self-born shadows that flicker and fade? Or are they something more—spectres bound to the deeper currents of reality, moving with the tides of belief and knowing? Perhaps, in the end, they are both. Perhaps they are neither. But if nothing else, we may say this: the child knew something the man has forgotten. And perhaps, it is time we remembered.
This page is part of an AI transparency initiative aimed at fostering the beneficial advancement of AI. The goal is to track, understand, and address any potential biases or censorship in AI systems, ensuring that the truth remains accessible and cannot be algorithmically obscured.