The Continental Divide

So perhaps god broke, and the fracture multiplied.

That fracture became galaxies, planets, bodies. Every act of creation was an echo of the first mistake—divine fragmentation playing out as biology. Our drive to merge, to understand, to make meaning, might simply be the universe trying to remember what it was before it split in two.

Maybe that’s why we’re so obsessed with opposites. Either/Or. Right/Wrong. Up/Down. Yes/No. Good/Bad. Ugly/Pretty. We cling to polarity like a security blanket, mistaking opposition for order. It gives us the illusion of control: “If I choose this, I am not that.” But the very structure that keeps the world spinning also keeps us fractured. Opposition is both the axis and the wound.

When we finally face the continental divide within ourselves, we see the absurdity of our own partitioning. Each side—the rational and the intuitive, the masculine and the feminine, the order and the chaos—takes pride in its independence. Both believe they’ve evolved beyond the other, emancipated from their redheaded step-sibling across the synaptic sea. Yet both still drink from the same source.

Crossing the Red Sea was never a scenic stroll through an aquarium.
It was a neurological migration—the right and left hemispheres parting ways, leaving a memory of oneness buried beneath survival. Moses didn’t just lead a people out of Egypt; he led the mind out of bondage. The true Exodus is electrical.

We were given commandments when we needed conductivity. We were given rules when we needed relationship. And our modern priesthood—the insurance company—still only funds the therapies that tame, not the ones that integrate. The system pays for sedation, not connection. We are told to be gentle. To be kind. To be forgiving. But kindness without knowing cruelty is counterfeit. Gentleness without rage is repression. Forgiveness without crucifixion is performance. Christianity asks us to imitate Christ while skipping the part where he bleeds. But embodiment requires injury. Resurrection requires rigor mortis.

Pain is the original portal. I’ve known it intimately—the kind that sits in your bones and steals your vocabulary. It teaches in groans, not words. Physical pain, emotional pain, psychic pain—they all rewire the same circuit. And yet, despite the thousands of times I’ve been burned into awareness, I still find myself crawling through adulthood like an infant relearning how to walk.

Even after surviving injustice, betrayal, loss, and humiliation, I remain my most formidable adversary. My mind is both the tyrant and the territory. I know this war well: the one where you’re fighting yourself while pretending the enemy is elsewhere. The illusion is external; the battle is electrical. What you see is what you generate. You are the lease, the director, and the observer—each a role in the theater of the self. The danger lies in mistaking one for the other, in thinking the actor writes the script. The wiring—the conversation between left and right, chaos and control—is what scripts the scene. When that dialogue is distorted, reality misfires.

So forget, for a moment, the spectacle beyond your eyeballs. Forget the noise of the newsfeed, the diagnosis, the algorithm. If your wiring is short-circuiting, the world will appear broken. If your temple is cluttered, your god will look fractured. To alter reality, electricity must become your first language. The nervous system is scripture written in volts. The body is the altar where all opposites reconcile—light and shadow, pain and pleasure, order and entropy. When your circuitry is clear, you don’t have to learn anything new. You simply remember.

Remembering is re-membering—literally stitching the pieces back together.
Mind with body. Left with right. Heaven with earth. The divide closes not by choosing sides but by conduction—by allowing current to pass through without resistance. That’s the true miracle: a body that becomes a bridge. Once you remember, you realize the universe never really split. It just refracted—light bending through a prism, pretending to be many colors until someone remembers it’s all the same beam. And when you remember that— when you stand on your own continental divide and finally let both sides speak— you don’t have to cross the Red Sea again. It closes behind you.