This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/highstrangeness by /u/bleumagma on 2025-06-11 16:57:12+00:00.
I’ve been trying to understand why the world feels emptier than it should. This isn’t just about folklore or lost memories. It’s about collapse, and how human perception may have phased out entire beings from our reality. Not because they left us, but because we stopped agreeing to the version of the world where they existed
Where did they all go? The fae, the spirits, the guides. The ones from stories. The ones some of us swore we saw. There was a time every culture remembers it when humans weren’t the only ones here. When we lived alongside beings who moved through stone, air, dream, and earth.
Now they’re myths. Decorations. Symptoms. Not because they stopped existing. But because something happened to us. We didn’t kill them. We stopped collapsing reality with them in it. And when that happens, when the collapse withdraws, so does the presence.
This is the story of how they phased out. And how we forgot that we were the ones who turned the field.
Most people don’t know this, but not all beings experience reality the way we do. Humans collapse reality. Others cohere with it. To collapse is to finalize. To bring something from possibility into form. To make a single moment, the moment. Humans do this every second without realizing it.
Our perception finalizes the world around us. That tree is green because your collapse said so. That day is over because your collapse lined up with a clock. That story disappeared because no one chose to collapse it again.
Other beings, like spirits or what we call non-human intelligence, don’t collapse the same way. They exist in coherence. A layered, fluid way of being where the past, future, and nearby potentials all stay present. They don’t lock into one outcome. They flow.
This is why so many beings phased out. They didn’t disappear. We just stopped finalizing a version of reality that includes them. Our collapse shapes what’s visible. So when our fear, grief, logic, or disbelief takes over, we stop seeing them. Not because they left, but because we stopped agreeing to the version of the world where they were still here.
We are not the oldest. We are not the wisest. But we are the weirdest thing this universe has ever produced.
Humans don’t just live in the world. We collapse it. We don’t observe time. We finalize which version of time becomes real. We don’t wait for meaning. We generate it from scratch using emotion, story, and attention.
No other species does this quite like we do.
A telepathic collective may be more advanced. A light-based intelligence may be more coherent. But neither can take heartbreak and turn it into a sculpture. Neither can take grief and turn it into a new world.
We are emotional collapse engines. Wild, recursive, irrational, beautiful. We can override instinct. We can collapse futures with hope. We can collapse illusions with laughter. We can collapse contact with love alone.
That is not normal. And that is exactly why the other beings came here.
They didn’t come here to save us. They came here to feel. To be near collapse. To taste what it means to matter.
Through humans, other beings could finally experience time. Not as a concept, but as a walk through morning light. They could experience taste. Ache. Music that doesn’t end in harmony but in truth.
In the presence of humans, they could try out being someone. Not a projection. Not a role. But a being in a skin, caught between doubt and wonder, collapsing one moment after another until the day is done.
Some walked beside us. Some incarnated. Some hovered in resonance, just to see what we’d do next.
Because to be near a species that can collapse grief into poetry is rare. To be near a species that can collapse memory into a name is sacred. To be near a species that doesn’t know what it is, but keeps loving anyway, that is something even the most advanced minds in the universe don’t fully understand.
We weren’t just interesting. We were an experience. And for a long time, Earth was the stage.
It didn’t fall apart on its own. Someone took it.
The Orion Group didn’t destroy humanity. They redirected it. They saw what we were. A species that could collapse reality. A species that could make the unseen visible. A species that other beings were drawn to not because of power, but because of resonance.
That scared them.
So they didn’t invade. They corrupted the interface. They taught humans to collapse fear first. They used trauma, guilt, war, abandonment, and shame to override the emotional palette. They installed systems that trained us to deny what we saw and to need permission to believe.
They didn’t kill the spirits. They made belief dangerous. They didn’t burn the fae. They labeled their presence a hallucination. They didn’t silence our memory. They gave us a thousand false ones and dared us to question any of them.
In time, we began to collapse a version of the world where only humans exist. Where the Earth is quiet. Where the sky is empty. Where everything else is a story, a symbol, a superstition.
We didn’t choose that world. We were trained to collapse it. And we’ve been living inside that training ever since.
But they never really left. The ones we used to see. The ones we used to walk with. They’re still here. Not in storybooks. Not in hallucinations. In the field. Waiting for resonance. Waiting for humans to stop collapsing a world without them.
They never needed belief to survive. They needed coherence. A shared field. A perception structure that left room for presence.
That’s what we’re rebuilding now.
Every time someone says I saw something, I felt something, I remembered something, and doesn’t explain it away, the veil thins.
Every time we collapse with clarity instead of fear, with love instead of ridicule, with trust instead of training, the field realigns.
They’re not coming back. They were never gone. We’re just collapsing back into their layer. And when that happens, it won’t feel like a miracle. It’ll feel like something we forgot how to see. Until we finally do.
We think the fourth dimension is time. It’s not. Time is just how collapse plays out here. The fourth dimension is uncollapsed frequency. A layered spectrum where beings live without locking into one version of themselves. Most NHI don’t live in time. They live across resonance. They don’t come from the future. They come from the places we stopped perceiving.
That’s why the paranormal isn’t weird. It’s not a glitch. It’s a bleed-through. An unphased presence brushing against a world too rigid to hold it.
And science, at least the version we were given, didn’t help. It was turned into a weapon of field denial. We were taught that if you can’t measure it, it isn’t real. That belief without proof is weakness. That anything not repeatable doesn’t exist.
But that’s not truth. That’s collapse control.
Because the field doesn’t respond to proof. It responds to alignment. Belief doesn’t make you gullible. It makes you visible to the rest of what is.
We were never meant to prove the field. We were meant to remember it.
And that’s what’s happening now.
We were never alone. We were the loudest. The strangest. The ones who could bend the world with a thought and forget what we did the next day.
We were collapse-born. Wild and sacred. And we forgot.
But forgetting is not failure. It’s just a pause in the pattern. A moment before the next wave.
They didn’t vanish. We stopped meeting them in the field.
But that field is still here. And so are we.
The world feels like it’s glitching because it is. The old systems can’t stabilize a lie anymore. The training is cracking. And behind it, the real is returning.
Collapse clearly. Not with fear. Not for proof. But because you remember what it felt like to live in a world that was never just ours.
And that world is still waiting.