Gabriel Jeroschewitz, July 25th, 2025.  

Sometimes, it happens when I walk my usual loop through the woods

My name is Gabriel, and let me tell you, my brain has always been a rather noisy tenant in the apartment of my skull. It’s not a bad tenant; it pays its rent in moments of profound, breathtaking clarity. But it also throws some truly wild parties at three in the morning.

I reside in the Pacific Northwest, where my home feels less like a structure and more like a polite intrusion among the trees—thousands of them, a silent, woody congregation of Douglas fir and Western red cedar. On a clear day from my porch, I can glimpse the ocean’s steely grey glint. It’s a serene place for a man whose mind runs a little… hot. The constant, damp cool of the forest is a soothing balm, a tranquil oasis amidst the bustling thoughts.

Sometimes, it happens when I walk my usual loop through the woods. I’ll stop, and the world will shift on its axis. The trees, you see, they breathe. It’s not a gasp or a sigh, but a slow, majestic, in-and-out pulse of life. I can see the energy flowing between them, a shimmering web of interconnectedness that hums below the normal hearing threshold. It connects the moss on the bark to the mycelium under the soil, the skittish deer that freezes a hundred yards away, and the air I’m pulling into my lungs. It’s beautiful. It’s also, I’m told, not entirely normal.

But then, my understanding of normal has always been a bit fluid, a spectrum rather than a fixed point. I’ve come to accept the complexity of my mind, the ebb and flow of thoughts and perceptions, as a unique part of who I am.

It all started when I was a kid. Eight, maybe ten. My bedroom wasn’t just a room but a fortress, a last bastion of humanity against an onslaught of unimaginable foes. I’d direct the defence from my bed—a twin-sized command center. Imaginary bullets would ping off my headboard, and spectral arrows would thud into the drywall. And next to me, cowering under the same European down comforter, were beautiful young women I was sworn to protect. I had no idea what one did with an attractive young woman, but the protective instinct was fierce and primal. They were mostly just vague, pretty shapes who were appropriately grateful.

This was my extroverted phase—a short-lived, glorious blaze of heroic fantasy. Then, at nine, the circuit breaker in my head tripped—hard. The imaginative extrovert collapsed inward like a dying star, and I became a shut-down, fearful introvert. The imaginary bullets started to feel real. The shadows in the corner of my room weren’t just shadows anymore; they were creatures, floating with a malevolent patience.

My parents, bless their hearts, were lovely, kind of normal people: a Film Editor and an artist who tried to make their living with their passion. To me, however, they were skeletons. I was utterly convinced of it. I imagined that when they went to bed at night, they’d carefully unzip their human suits, hang them in the closet, and spend the night as clattering assemblages of bone. I’d listen at their door, straining to hear the crisp, clean snap of a fibula being reattached in the morning before they zipped themselves back up for another day of sensible suburban life. It was, of course, patently absurd, but the conviction was absolute. Their skin was just a disguise. Underneath, we were all just bone. Which, technically, is true, but I concluded a somewhat circuitous and terrifying route.

Then there was the fire. For a solid year, I was certain a fire was burning just beneath my bed. Not a metaphorical fire of passion or ambition, but a literal, mattress-scorching inferno. I’d leap out of bed a half dozen times a night, dropping to my knees to check underneath, my heart hammering against my ribs, expecting to see flames licking at the dust bunnies. There was never anything there, but the certainty of it was enough to leave me sleepless and trembling.

The strangest visitors, however, were the ones I now think of as angels, for lack of a better term. They would appear late at night, shimmering figures of light and geometry that bore no resemblance to the chubby cherubs on greeting cards. They didn’t float so much as they occupied a space. And they would make sounds. I’m sure it was a language—a cascade of chimes, clicks, and resonant hums that felt more ancient than language. It wasn’t frightening, not like the skeletons or the fire. It was just… profoundly alien. I could feel its meaning, the grammar of the universe being spoken in my bedroom, but my brain had no software to translate it.

Life went on. You learn to function. The breakdown receded, the fear found new, more mundane things to grasp, and I grew up. But the noisy tenant in my head never moved out. It has just been redecorated.

Now, as an adult, the visions are my constant companions. When I close my eyes, I see not just darkness. It’s a full-blown cinematic experience. An HD Technicolour kaleidoscope of shapes and colours erupts behind my eyelids. I see landscapes from planets that have never known a sun, populated by creatures that would make a zoologist weep with joy and confusion. Animals with crystalline hides and feathered manes, things that swim through the air and walk on light. I see moments from history, not like a documentary, but as if I’m standing right there—the dust strings dancing in the light of a Roman villa, the intense gaze of a samurai warrior preparing for battle. The detail is staggering.

I’ve learned to live with it, even to cherish it. My workshop is my sanctuary, where I can contemplate the poetic view of consciousness. It’s filled with static wood, chunks of maple, walnut and oak waiting to be turned into something else. But to me, it’s not dead. I can pick up a wood block, run my hand over its grain, and see its life. I know the sunlight it absorbed, the storms it weathered, and the birds that nested in its branches. I see its connection to the forest it came from, the forest that breathes just outside my window. It shows me the same thing: all life, all matter, is connected, a beautiful and intricate web of existence.

The other night, I was sanding a spalted maple, the intricate black lines like a roadmap of the fungus that gave it such beauty. I closed my eyes for a moment to rest them. Instantly, the show began. A cavalcade of fractal patterns, followed by a swift, silent flight over a city made of pure energy. Then, a flash of one of my childhood “angels,” its form clearer now, less terrifying, its language of chimes echoing in my mind’s ear. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t check under my workbench for fires.

I smiled, opened my eyes, and returned to sanding. The noisy tenant was saying hello. And in this quiet forest, surrounded by breathing trees and the ghost of the ocean, it’s nice to have company.