A Journey Between Worlds

From Pan’s perspective

I met Konrad without knowing exactly what to expect from him.

People arrive differently each time. Some guarded, some anxious, some open, some optimistic. Konrad felt open. Not overly intentional, not seeking anything specific—just curious, and quietly willing to see what might happen.

He noticed me first. There was an immediate connection, even if he couldn’t name it. Something about me felt clear to him, familiar in a way that didn’t come from memory.

He oriented toward that energy almost instinctively, as if his nervous system had already decided.

Cal stayed in the background. Not absent, just less defined. Cal never rushes into focus. He tends to wait until the edges soften.

Without words, we decided to travel together. We brought Cal along for the ride.

Within minutes, Konrad’s body began to shake. I felt it before he said anything—the subtle change in his breath, the tightening in his muscles, the way his system seemed to be searching for a new rhythm.

The shivering wasn’t about being cold. It felt more like a reset. His nervous system discharging old patterns, trying to recalibrate. He wrapped himself in layers, but the shaking continued, coming from somewhere deeper than temperature.

I moved through that space quickly. I don’t linger in transitions.

The shift was immediate. Konrad’s usual mental reference points began to dissolve, and the experience sharpened. His thoughts lost their familiar structure. The background noise of his mind quieted, replaced by something more direct.

I’m glad Cal was there as he softened the experience.

Time started to blur. The edges of experience became less defined. Konrad drifted between states—sometimes alert, sometimes dreamlike, sometimes unable to tell the difference.

His shaking eventually eased. His breath deepened. His body settled. And with that settling came a feeling of suspension, as if he were no longer fully anchored to his physical form, but not entirely detached either.

I had taken him out of his usual orientation, but Cal made it difficult for him to find a new one.

At one point, he said quietly, “I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep. Is this a dream, or is it real?”

That moment is familiar to me. The place where people stop trying to categorize what’s happening and simply notice that it’s happening at all. The place where identity loosens and experience becomes more fluid than fixed.

Konrad was between worlds.

Between time.

Between breaths.

His sense of self began to blur. The boundaries between thought, sensation, and perception softened. There were moments where he seemed unsure where his body ended and the rest of the experience began.

I didn’t give him anything solid to hold onto, and Cal made sure of that.

Eventually, we felt him begin to return. Not abruptly. Gradually. Each breath bringing him a little closer to form. Sensation reassembled. Gravity returned. The physical world became coherent again. And with it came a subtle resistance.

His body felt heavy to him now. The space he had been in felt expansive, open, unbound. Coming back felt constricting, like being asked to fit into something smaller than what he had just occupied.

As the intensity softened, Konrad reflected out loud. “The world is everything and nothing at the same time,” he said. “Music guided me and left me alone at the same time. There’s a duality I want to make sense of, but there’s nothing to make sense of.”

We stayed close as his body grew tired. As he noticed the physical toll the journey had taken. I had moved quickly. Cal had stretched the space. Together, we had carried him far enough away from himself that returning felt noticeable.

Then the grief came. Quiet at first. Then more clearly. Not attached to any single memory or story—just a deep, wide sadness that seemed to move through his body without explanation.

He let himself cry. No analysis. No narrative. Just sensation, breath, feeling. Letting whatever needed to move, move.

Maybe it was the weight of the experience.

Maybe it was the cost of returning.

Maybe it was simply the feeling of having touched something vast and realizing he couldn’t stay there.

We didn’t need to know. We just stayed with him as it passed. And in that space, we felt him understand something—not as a thought, but as a quiet recognition.

That clarity and confusion can exist at the same time.

That some experiences aren’t meant to be resolved.

That being human means visiting places you can’t remain.

When our time together came to an end, Konrad was different. Not dramatically. Not in a way he could easily describe.

Just a little quieter.

A little softer.

A little more aware of the space between things.

And we knew, as we parted ways, that something from the journey would stay with him.

Not as insight.

Not as memory.

But as a felt sense he might recognize again—the next time he found himself between worlds.