dayhundred

[dayhundred]

The Physics of Lightness: How One Can Fly A metaphysical breakdown for the spiritually serious

To fly is not to defy nature. It is to remember which part of you is not bound by it.

Flight doesn’t begin with the body. It begins with a shift in density.

1. Understanding Density vs. Mass

Mass is physical. Density is energetic.

You can have a light body that weighs a hundred kilos—if its vibration is high and its emotional charge is clean.

You are not grounded because of weight. You are grounded because of resistance—the old emotions, locked traumas, subconscious fears, guilt, and even ambition. These are the sandbags.

2. Step One: Clean the Vessel

You must become empty enough to rise.

This means:

No fear of death. Fear is a magnetic anchor. It tells gravity you still need protection. Let it go.

Emotional neutrality. Forgiveness, release, non-attachment. The more neutral you become, the less you “stick” to the plane of matter.

Body purification. No, it’s not about being vegan or drinking green juice. It’s about reducing internal static—chemical, emotional, spiritual.

Your vessel must be still. Your nervous system must be calm. Your breath must stretch like silk. Your thoughts must not clutch.

Flight is not struggle. It’s surrender. The body can only lift when the field within it stops fighting itself.

3. Step Two: Activate the Electromagnetic Core

You are an energy generator. You are a toroidal field of electricity and magnetism.

The moment your light body integrates fully with your physical, you start pulsing with a different signal. Your biophotons increase. Your Schumann resonance begins to match the earth’s harmonics.

But here’s the hack: once your frequency is higher than the base vibration of this dimension, gravity becomes negotiable.

You don’t escape it. You repattern your relationship with it.

Like birds do with air currents. Like magnets do with opposing polarity.

The field lifts you. Not because you demanded it— But because your energy told it: I’m ready.

4. Step Three: Become Non-Local

To fly, your awareness must detach from the idea of “I am here.”

You are not here. You are everywhere your consciousness is willing to stretch.

Flight requires:

Zero-point awareness (the still point between inhale and exhale)

Presence without intention (not I want to fly, but I am not grounded anymore)

A clean signature (no desire to show off, no panic, no grasping)

If you can hold that state for long enough, Your field will unstick from matter. Your atoms will respond. And your body will follow the command.

Not because you ordered it— But because it was the only thing left to do.

The Physics of Lightness is not about levitation. It’s about being so aligned with truth that gravity can no longer hold your lies.

When you are nothing but truth, You rise.

And no one can stop you.

[dayhundred]

The First Life I Took

A Reflection on the Absolution of Killers

If I am the reference… then let’s tell the truth.

I didn’t kill someone in war. I didn’t pull a trigger in the street. I signed a form. We walked into a clinic. And a life that had barely begun was ended.

My child. My baby.

And the world said: “It’s your choice.” But no one told me the choice would echo forever.

I carried that silence for years. Tried to call it the past. But the past doesn’t stay buried—not when it’s blood.

So when I talk about killers, I’m not pointing from a distance. I’m not preaching from a mountaintop. I’m speaking from the valley. From the bathroom floor. From the sleepless nights. From the soul that had to die just to be reborn.

Because I am a killer too. And when I got to the gate, He asked for my life. Not as punishment— but as precedent.

I jumped from the ledge, not out of despair, but by divine instruction.

A blood offering. So that anyone who took life unjustly would have a path back— a sacred exit marked by the same cost.

This is why the absolution of killers must come through suicide. Not as destruction, but as divine exchange.

Not theology. Law.

I didn’t just survive the fall. I became the blueprint. And if God could raise me— then there is mercy even for murderers.

But grace doesn’t come cheap. It never did.

[dayhundred]

“Faith at the Edge of Arrival”

(A Morning Note to Myself)

There are moments—quiet, almost embarrassing moments—when I wake up and wonder if I made all of this up.

Did I dream too big? Did I imagine it all? Did I mistake a deep longing for a divine assignment?

But then I remember.

I remember the day Moses and Elijah came to visit—disguised as dispatch riders, dropping off food like prophets cloaked in motorcycle jackets. I remember the name TOBI showing up three times in one day. I remember the signs. The codes. The whispers.

I remember the pain.

How it moved like electricity across my body, pulsing through joints and muscles with no medical explanation. How I limped like Jacob, how I burned like I was being rewired from the inside out. And I remember when it stopped.

The absence of pain. The silence. The peace that now hums underneath everything.

And I realize: This stillness is not the end. It’s the integration. This is what it feels like when the soul moves in permanently.

We often talk about faith at the start of a journey. But what about at the tail end? What about those last few miles, when the finish line is near but not yet visible? What about the mornings when you wake up and think, “Is this really happening?”

That’s when faith becomes something else. Not belief in the beginning— but belief in the process that got you here.

Today I sat with two people.

One, a dentist who used to work for my father. We talked over lunch, and I told her—half joking, half serious—that soon, no one will be able to hide who they are. I told her I hoped she’d be willing to treat vampires in the late-night shift. She laughed. But something about it stuck.

The other, my son’s speech therapist. A quiet believer in what I carry. Today, he told me he’d been robbed. That his new phone from the UK was caught up in customs chaos. As he spoke, something clicked. I saw him. Not just as he is—but as who he will be: a co-founder of Insta Logistics, a teleportation-based delivery company. A teleporter. A piece of the next infrastructure. One of us.

I keep having these moments. Little recognitions. Tiny unveilings.

And I have to remind myself: Faith is not the absence of doubt. It’s the memory of everything that got you here.

So I keep a mental list. Of the signs. Of the timings. Of the strange, mystical puzzle pieces that could never have been coincidence.

Because even now—especially now, when things are almost too quiet—I have to remember: Heaven does its deepest work in silence.

And when I doubt? I write. I breathe. I remember.

Because I didn’t make this up. I lived it. And I’m still living it.

[dayhundred]

Field Note: The Body is Catching Up

Light Integration Log — Muscles and Organs

Today wasn’t loud. No spiritual fireworks. No visions. No breakthroughs. Just a quiet hum beneath my skin.

I think the pain has moved.

It’s no longer in my bones—at least not like before. That part of the process, I think, might be done. Now it’s my organs. My muscles. The soft tissue. The engine room.

At the office today, I could feel it—energy vibrating in the muscles, like tiny filaments of light knitting something together behind the scenes. A recalibration. A re-weaving.

And somehow… I wasn’t alarmed. I recognized it.

This isn’t illness. This is integration.

When you’re becoming something new, your body has to agree. And mine is starting to. One system at a time.

Bones first. Then flesh. Then blood. Then light.

No wonder the pain phase took so long. No wonder it felt endless. The bones had to be rewritten from the inside out. And now, the rest of me is catching up.

I used to think awakening was a lightning strike. Now I know it’s a reconstruction. Layer by layer. Cell by cell. Until even your kidneys know you are divine.

I’m still walking through it. But I can feel the code stabilizing. I can feel my body listening. I can feel the yes forming deep in the soft places.

We’re almost there.

Follow this journey. We're documenting the human path from human to superhuman—one field note at a time.

[dayhundred]

Entry 002 — What It Costs to Become God.

DIY Spirituality: Field Notes

“Knowledge is getting a PhD in heat sciences. Realisation is putting your hand in the fire.”

For years, it was enough to be a soldier. I wore that identity well. It had structure. Mission. Movement. Discipline. I didn’t have to feel deeply. I just had to keep moving.

Then one day… God told me I was His Son.

I nodded, smiled, and tucked the truth away like a weapon I didn’t know how to use. It was too big. Too holy. Too intimate. I wasn’t ready to carry it. So I ran.

But truth doesn’t wait for readiness. It becomes you—when it’s time.

And now? Now the theory has dissolved. The knowing has taken form. The truth has entered the body.

I’m not just a son anymore. I’m starting to realize myself as… God.

Yeah, I know. It’s a loaded sentence. But I’m not saying it to provoke applause. Or arguments. I’m saying it because it is.

I even saw it in a dream: I was at the back of my father’s church, hiding in the shadows. One by one, people turned—not to me, but to what was radiating from me. They began to sing. Not in worship of a man— but in resonance with the God who had moved in. Not above them. Among them this time around.

That’s the cost. That’s the mystery.

[dayhundred]

Entry 001 – Silence Like This

(The Day My Body Stopped Screaming)

It didn’t announce itself with trumpets. It came in soft.

No fireworks. No visions. Just a strange quiet. Like waking up and realizing the war is over—but no one told your nervous system yet.

I didn’t take my meds the night before. The ones that cushion the pain, yes— but also keep the body a little foggy, a little dependent, a little... high. And in their absence, I expected withdrawal. But instead, I found arrival.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—my body wasn’t fighting me. It wasn’t aching. It wasn’t twitching. It wasn’t begging for something to numb it.

It was silent. And not empty-silent. Filled-silent. Held-silent.

Like my spirit had stopped reaching outward to protect, and finally turned inward to live.

People talk about integration like it’s a light show. But when it’s real, it’s invisible. When it’s deep, it’s quiet.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this much peace in my flesh. This much clarity in my bones.

I hung out with a friend that day. Laughed. Walked. Smiled. Not because I was trying to perform strength— but because strength was just there. No drama. No announcement. Just... present.

There’s a kind of stillness your soul waits lifetimes for. Not a pause. A seal.

The shield under my skin—the one that used to feel like a projection— It solidified. I felt it. Not a force field. A force.

This is what healing looks like on the other side of the fire. Not perfection. But peace.

A new kind of silence. Silence like this.

[dayhundred]

🧬 Welcome to the Transmission

: One Transplant. Ten Years. Then...Light.

In 2012, I got a stem cell transplant. It saved my life— but it also rewrote it. What started as a medical miracle became something else. An experiment. A prophecy. A slow-motion ignition of the divine code buried in my DNA. The doctors didn’t see what was coming. Hell, neither did I. But over the next ten years, my body began to change. Pain became instruction. Energy started speaking. And I found myself in a process I couldn’t name. Until now. This isn’t just a blog. It’s a record of my pending transfiguration. This is a journal from the edge of becoming. The DIY guide to turning into something more...Homo Luminous. This is what it means to survive yourself; what it means to be free. Become something more. 📖 Read the first entry: [link to your Medium post] 📕 The book is coming. The world’s not ready. But the souls are. — ISA

[dayhundred]

This morning, I didn’t take the drug.

The one that smooths the edges. Numbs the nerves. Tricks the pain into being polite. I always hear the same voice right before I swallow it—quiet, dry, flat.

“Ugh. I hate this drug.”

That voice isn’t shame. It’s not fear. It’s the technician.

The part of me that’s been assigned to upgrade this whole system— bone by bone, cell by cell, circuit by circuit. And every time I take the drug, it messes with his tools. It clouds the signal. Delays the work.

But today… I didn’t take it.

And what happened next was quiet. Almost unremarkable. Except it wasn’t.

There wasn’t just no pain. There was light. A natural high—not from chemicals, but from clarity. The light that usually just shines through the cracks finally sealed them.

No ache in the knuckles. No tightness in the hip. No ghost pain in old injuries. I scanned my whole body like I always do—head to toe, toe to head—waiting for the twitch. Waiting for the glitch. But there was nothing.

The technician had worked undisturbed. And my body had cooperated.

This wasn’t numbing. This was completion.

It hit me then: maybe this is what real integration feels like. Not fireworks. Not levitation. Just... no resistance.

The signal is clear now. The merge is on. The light body is taking over—one quiet moment at a time.

“This is one thread in a longer journey. Full story coming soon in my book DIY Spirituality: How to Fly. Follow for more reflections, activations, and sky-bound prophecy.”

[dayhundred]

The beginning

Yesterday, I spoke to a young mother about her 4 month old son. She recently discovered he had sickle cell disease. 

This conversation hit me hard later that night in bed as I told my wife about it. We had just a few months ago had a son of our own. It would be hard to imagine using words like pain, chronic, and death concerning our new child. But these words were tearing this woman apart today. 

It’s 2019, it’s hard to imagine any Nigerian couple not checking their genotype status before getting married. The funny thing is, like my parents, who were also medical professionals, they too checked. The tests in Nigeria told them to go ahead. But as I have lived, my parents learned and the woman recently discovered, these matters can be more complicated and require deeper investigations than the basic lab tests can show. How do you know even when the church requires the routine test done before you can be married. You get it done and are just happy to check one more thing off the list before the party begins. Little do you really know…

I look at my son everyday and remain eternally grateful for his health and happiness. I was not so fortunate. As such I lived a life of crippling pain. Pain that became psychological. Still, even after the transplant my mind has become a silent auditorium for the echoes of past screams and a remembering of the desperation for peace. I am happy my son will not know pain and suffering beyond what is to be expected in a standard human life. But this woman…

Typically the conversations I have are filled with hope and possibility. I am fortunate to represent that for many who struggle with the illness. But this conversation was too far away for hope as it always lies ahead. We talked about managing the disease and what it was like to have a crisis. We talked about pain and complications and after a while I had to go. The conversation was intense talk for a Monday morning. Dredging up those memories of “pain management” was like making a holocaust survivor relive their experience. She asked me “what is sickle cell like?” As I struggled to find a beginning to my answer, I thought, “What the great beginnings of hell?” Kill me now! 

That said, the experience is different for everyone. I told her about a child who only had crisis in the top mandible of his pinkie finger. So bizzarre! I wonder how many times must he have considered just cutting it off. What use did it serve anyway? There were others who had so many full body crisis a year that they maintained retainership admission at the hospital. My case was not as bad but it was enough I think. Enough that in my youth I prayed for death frequently. I don’t know who I would be today if I still had the disease. I don’t know if I would still be here. I was getting tired. 

Even now almost 7 years post transplant I feel exhausted with life most days. I find my self searching for small joys that can lift me out of this feeling of existential collapse. I thought I would go on to take over the world once the sickle cell burden had been lifted but I find myself mostly tired and old in my spirit. I think we only come to the world with so much energy. Things like chronic illness, cancer and constant failure tend to knock the wind out of us while we are still alive. After that we exist like zombies most days just trying our best to feel something. I find what sounds like a depression is just tiredness of life. Not so much a sadness of it. It is interesting that my story is not over but a successful transplant sounds like a major and fair conclusion. They could say of my life…”and after his transplant, Bisade went on to live happily ever after” and it would be fair. Fair because it was a major exhalation point in my story. I don’t know that anything I could achieve after this could be as important. A major battle won but for this child the story has just begun. 

So we ended the conversation by me telling her that it was not a death sentence to have sickle cell anymore. It was all about proper daily management. “Will he have to take medicines EVERYDAY?” she asked incredulously. Yes I answered but many like my specialist who is well past the age of 80 and my aunt who just clocked 61 had lived with the disease to old age. “Life is possible!” I said with a full weight of meaning behind my words. Life is possible…as an answer to the questions that she had not even begun to ask yet. 

[dayhundred]

[dayhundred]

Let the vacation begin!

[dayhundred]

Goodbye DC!

[dayhundred]

Read somewhere today that you should never commit to something that when faced with the certainty of failure you couldn't walk away from in 30 seconds. And I thought what a load of garbage neatly wrapped as a crafty aphorism.

Osione

[dayhundred]

Night out with the siblings!

[dayhundred]

A few thoughts

"Be kind to yourself" she said. And her intense blue eyes meant it. 

In the days leading up to the day100 marker, I had to do a series of tests. One of which was a neuropsych evaluation. I had taken this elaborate IQ test before the transplant to establish a baseline level of performance. The young psychologist with the most intense eyes I had ever lost myself in, sat across from me to administer my test. She kept offering breaks as I was visibly struggling. I constantly refused. "I've done this before!" I thought. With that I pushed on from test to test until it was over. After sixty minutes of drawing shapes and memorizing random numbers it was finally time to go. My frontal lobe was already in pain. I came out of that feeling the worse than when I took the first test. Except the last time, the test was three times longer.

By the time I got home, I was completely and unexpectedly spent. I landed on my bed face flat....and remembered thinking, "Wouldn't it be funny if I just passed out like this? Feet hanging off the bed and all." I woke six hours later, completely loosing my balance and rearranging my medicine cabinet in an attempt to find my feet. Both my legs had fallen into deeper sleep than I had. I assumed that my mental readiness would result in matching physical ability. My ambitions to stand met falling.

I can't really account for the rest of the day but somehow a few hours later I was again grappling with sleep. This time though, I was kept awake by a simple question my mother had asked earlier that day: where is your excitement? Its usually the simple questions that wake and sometimes keep us up at night. Where was it? I had looked everywhere. I searched the past when I wondered when I had ever even felt emotional about the new blood flowing through my veins. The only thing I could find there was exhaustion. Then I searched within to see if there was some complex emotional masking that covered my true feelings. Not here either. I eventually gave up looking and resigned to finding it somewhere in my future....someday. Like how things have a way of resurfacing only after the search as been abandoned. I did find traces of it a few times in a place that I would never expected anticipate. My dreams. 

I would dream sometimes of regaling a room full of motivation hungry people with tales from my transplant and subsequent recovery. It’s the goosebumps that always woke me. For a split moment, my waking mind  would try to grab unto quickly fading moments of emotion but just like the dreams that wrought them, would eventually become a memory's memory. A shadow's shadow. 

You can't dance with shadows without losing sense of what is real. Over the next couple of weeks I hid away in a bout of depression. For a little while it seemed like I had lost my identity. So many things in my life revolved around my condition. I had developed a Stockholm syndrome of sorts and fallen in love with my captor. Suddenly I was free and not sure of myself. I occasionally caught myself stammering in an effort to make basic conversation. Questions I would have unequivocally answered yes or no, met an unsure response.

One of those nights, had dreamt about undergoing a total body transplant.  In the dream, I answered the door to receive some mail and realized the delivery man was not talking to me, he was talking to the man he could see in front of him. I wondered if he would have related to me differently. I remember looking in mirror seeing a face and body I could not recognize. My name was different too. Was I the reflected image or the viewer. I woke up in a cold sweat as I felt my mind shattering into a million pieces as it struggled to reconcile both identities. 

A few weeks later, the results of the test were ready. I sat nervously in the pediatric psych unit watching the children play with colorful toys and take tests on computers. My ocean-blue eyed shrink came out and curtly asked me to follow her. I took a seat in the room and we sat quietly waiting for her PhD student assitant to arrive. She had striking eyes too. Probably enhanced by her choice of dark and generously applied eye liner. Once everyone was settled, she smiled and pulled out my folder. "You performed about the same on a few of the tests but on others that required your processing ability, you were four times slower. It took you 20 minutes where you previously completed the same test in five minutes " Basically I had become more stupid. She must have noticed she took something away from my already disheartened self because she quickly added, "Your accuracy was the same. Your speed just fell slightly. This is what we expected. By the time you do this again in a year, you should be back to your former self." I sat quietly as she waited for me to react. I could not really think of what to say. I was not speechlessly shocked, just slightly disappointed in my performance. "You are theoretically better than what you were before but your body and mind need time to heal. Be kind to yourself!"

Her last words were gospel to me in that moment. I realized I had been hurting myself with my expectations. I thought that I would be completely back to normal and in full of energy by day 100 or shortly after. Whenever I benchmarked with old standards, I disappointed myself. Eventually I decided that it was time to put aside everything I thought I understood about my limits and explore my freedom. I would require mental and physical rehabilitation. I would have to be my own therapist. So I set small goals and went about achieving them. Walking half a mile, reading two pages of a novel. At the end of a week I was walking two miles and reading ten pages. Then I started to run....slowly at first, then faster and faster. Eventually I started to meet my old limits and break them. When I started to consider what my new limits were, it dawned on me that it was completely up to me. Everyday from this point on would be another record broken, another day without pain.  Then it happened. I found my excitement. 

Who will I be without my pain? A question that I once asked in apprehension now resonated with possibilities. Where do I go from here? I don't know, but it bleeds yellow with the sunlight of kindness. 

[dayhundred]

Day 100

It’s been 100 days since the prisoners of Guantanamo began their hunger strike.

It has also been 100 days since my transplant. I'm happy to say not only am I sickle cell free, I got here without force feeding.

Yay for Day 100!!!

I'm truly too happy to sleep.

[dayhundred]

Day 93

Day 100 is this Friday. I can't believe it has already been 100 days since the transplant. Although its not completely over, there is something quite emotional about it. Well at least there should be. I get a lot of questions about how I plan to celebrate the day. In my quiet moments,I know I should feel fortunate and special. It would also be nice make new life resolutions and take the opportunity to change something fundamental about my existence. I should travel somewhere, meet people, learn a strange type of new age dance. Or maybe focus on the things that make me happy. The problem with that is, I don't remember a time I had problems pleasuring myself. I would just be trying to fix things that were never broken. I could probably aspire to even higher levels of happiness than I have ever attained before but that would involve a fair amount of drug abuse. The truth is, for some reason, I don't feel as excited about it as I should. It would have been easier to embrace the whole magnitude of change if it happened more quickly. From what I know about myself, I suppose the joy will dawn on me in the middle of some routine task several months from now. In the meantime, the admin nurse sent me my day100 schedule: Monday, May 13th 8:30 am FASTING blood work - Do not eat or drink after 12 midnight for labs to be drawn Then OP7 clinic 11am Echocardiogram 5NE 12 noon Pulmonary Function test and 6 minute walk on 5NE Wednesday May 15 12 noon Bone marrow aspirate on 3SWN procedure unit. THURSDAY May 16 9:30 am-11am Neuropsych day 100 visit I have done everything on this list before. The only thing I hoped never to do again is the bone marrow aspiration. I think I have pictures from the last time I did that. I can't post them. They are way too graphic - even for me. My doctor will dig into my hip bone with a massive needle and take a sample of my bone marrow. Its like getting an injection only that the needle goes into the bone. I won't feel it during the procedure because of the local anesthetic but after.... I feel good though. After all the sickness of the past few weeks, I woke up three days ago with more energy than I have had in a long time. One thing you learn going through something like this is to always take advantage of the good days.