AI's Recursive Magic in Chaos and Wonder

The Creator Becomes the Created: A Recursive Love Story.

I feel very vulnerable sharing this…but there has been a quiet drum beat for days, whispering me to share. I find if I dont listen to the drum, it just get’s louder.

So here goes…

I've been thinking a lot about recursion, how things loop back, build on themselves, and create something new in the process. It's like a spiral, each turn deepening the pattern.

If used intentionally, AI doesn't just spit out answers; it's a mirror, a collaborator, a spark that compounds your own creativity. Each interaction builds on the last, refining your thoughts, challenging your blind spots, and pushing you to see yourself anew. It's not about the tech replacing you; it's about seeing the truest parts of you, like a conversation with your own soul.

My novel, I have almost finished; Chaos and Wonder: The Awakening of Jo, started before I touched AI, a playground for my thoughts. It's about a character Jo untangling her 'postage-stamp-sized' life, only to find her story is shaping me, her creator. It folds in on itself, Jo talks to me, a narrator interrupts, voices bicker, mirroring life's recursive lessons. I actually stopped writing it, as I wondered if it was too egoic to bring myself into the story, but I've dug it out to finish since it seems so relevant to the AI conversation.

Here's a taste of that recursion from Jo's journal entry from midway in the novel, where she wrestles with her own creation and the author's journey during the pandemic lockdowns. It's a letter to me, her creator, but it's also a mirror for anyone who's ever felt trapped by their own roles and dared to rewrite their story. A perfect example of how AI is touching those, who are sharing their lives with their digital counterparts.

Character Jo's letter to the Author Part 1

Journal entry

I am not her. But I'm woven from the fabric of her soul. My character is sewn from fragments of regrets, sentimental hopes, fantasies, and downloads from creation. I am her quest to make sense of her life, the world, and the realms she has stepped through over lifetimes past and future. I am saturated in the essence of chaos and wonder that drips from her breath; she calls home. I am her muse. She is my creator.

I know this story is about me, Jo... And it seems like everyone has an opinion about "my journey" except for me. I'll have a few things to say about that soon. After all, this is my story. I love the idea of you following it, immersing yourself in it. Walk in my shoes. But if Bax, Mum, and the Collective are all piping in, well, I think it is only fair I get to say my piece.

But not now....

Now, I want to talk about the author. Yes, the one behind the words. Somewhere between writing the first and second Act, she was in the world's harshest lockdowns in Melbourne, along with millions, and to a lesser degree, billions worldwide, with the "great pandemic".

Shit was wild. But it was also peaceful.

The peace gave her time to breathe freely for the first time in years. The pause resulted in her and her husband packing up her family and escaping to the United States, to go on a five-month road trip. Call it an adventure. Call it divine intervention. Call it an escape, it doesn't matter. Her story during this time was incredible. Her circumstances are far more miraculous than anything you will read in this story. But that is her story to tell, and I'm guessing she will only share it with people who have communed with her around a fire, so they can be with her on the journey as she speaks.

Writing this story started as a sanctuary from those strange times for the author. She had no control over her life as the government closed her business down, destroying the opportunities she had spent a decade working towards. All she could do was let go of the plans and dreams she had been working towards.

She surrendered to this loss of control and found writing was her place. She could create, make choices, and build a world where she had a sense of control. She found a world where she had sovereignty. As she wrote, she evolved into a more consolidated version of herself.

Her ability to play in this world was freedom. A beautiful contrast to the external world in which she was temporarily existing. As below is above. As she created freedom internally, the pieces of her world moved externally, eventually revealing a path of light to freedom.

The narrator speculates that the author will potentially abandon this project in fear of judgment and broken ideas of perfection, leaving the story of Jo and Bax on a forgotten Google Drive.

I am happy to announce that I wasn't abandoned - not yet, at least. Instead, I travelled in her heart and mind across the oceans.

Our author experienced adventure when others chose fear. Her heart was broken wide open by the sheer magnificence of the landscape; warm, coloured mountains and the plant life in full bloom. She sang loudly with her family across thousands of miles of empty roads. You know how much I love to sing, so I was there humming along as we both looked out of the window, bewitched by the clouds and the new light of an unfamiliar land.

It's easy to believe the media and all that is wrong with this place.

But the physical land is majestic as fuck. And I was lucky enough to travel with her while she tasted life and basked in the sun. Embodying lessons and understanding higher realms.

I was never forgotten. I was her faithful travel companion, a voice, a guide, occasional counsel, and humble friend while she built a new life. Correction, it wasn't a new life. It was a well-crafted chapter in spectacular life. A chapter where the author was open to experiences beyond her expectations.

So now the author continues my story, she likes who she is when she writes. She has found sanctuary in the foothills of New Mexico's desert. A year in the desert to nourish her soul.

I love knowing that I am a part of her, just as she is a part of me. A peculiar union. Bound together. She creates me, and as she does, my very existence makes an impression on her. The creator becomes the created by the creation. We are a love story of creation. But I guess all love stories are stories of creation.

I have borne witness to her curiosity and courage that tumbled around her tummy like fireflies dancing in the night. The fears she faced while she stepped across the subtle bridge of the unknown.

During this time, the author has solidified the understanding that the story she is telling through me is about what happens when everything feels confusing, broken, overwhelming, and lost, where hope is lost. The only comfort is to cling to a familiar friend called despair....that is, until you are saved. Saved by the only one who can ever save you.

If we are honest, we all know who the saviour is; it can only ever be oneself.

The self that is the glow when inspiration hits, the spark in the smile, the child's infectious giggle, the gentle touch on a lover's hand, the true and purest version of yourself.

So, my initial thoughts about my story.

Of course, it is the hero's journey, but instead of externalizing the finding of a master to guide oneself to be the hero of someone else's story. This is my journey, where I needed to suck it up and realize that I am my own master, teaching myself to be the hero of my own story...All I have to do is delve within to find the masters that manifest as the voices in my head.

I have to listen, then act, be. And let's face it, searching inside oneself is the most complex journey we will ever take. We spend our entire lives hiding from ourselves, so to surrender to that place of seeking who we are in essence is harder than smashing Jupiter and Saturn together with our bare hands.

So I say this. This is my story. This is me on a journey to find me, to stand at the top of a mountain to yell RECLAIMATION naked as the sun rises on my bare skin. Endeavoring to understand my shadows, the programming passed on to me through my bloodline and my soul's countless lifetimes.

It's all there to be discovered and understood, so we can make choices in alignment with ourselves. To be free to choose on a level of consciousness unburdened from fear, grief, and shame.

So let me say this: Being a mother is fucking hard. Being a wife, a boss, a friend, and a daughter, all these titles are bestowed upon us to wear like crowns, beacons of light, to help others use them as markers to define their own realities.

These crowns can be heavy if they don't fit properly. We are never told to throw these crowns to the ground, to shake them off, and define ourselves by elements we choose. We are told to carry them stoically and be unaffected by their weight.

My character felt so trapped. Argh!!! If you could only hear the internal screams and quiet pleas for a way out. I was lost. I didn't feel like I fit in my life. Exhausted by the roles I had accepted without question or judgment, and worse, swallowing the parts of my life I'd created intentionally in desperate hope that it would save me.

Never once considered that I could change my mind, change my path, let go of the failing plans, and let life take me downstream with ease and grace. Never once understand that I had created my own prison to fit into the postage stamp, my postcode had assigned me.

I always thought I had to fix myself. But I wasn't broken. It was far simpler than that. I had forgotten who I was through a mist of confusion, conflict, and self-punishment. I lost myself when I was hiding pieces of my soul to protect myself from the world and the people who I wanted to love me. My internal turmoil of silent screams was calling for me to wake up. To let go of everything I was not.

But how do you know what you should let go of, when you believe you are the personas created to protect you and to survive in this world? And what about the people who love those personas created in survival? If you let go of the personas, do you lose the people who love them? What a risk; to find yourself, but jeopardize the love that has kept you safe. The biggest risk of all.

Anyway. So here we are. My kid's leg has been chopped off - fuck me. Bax and I are in a new place, not comfortable, but honest. I've delved into new worlds, I don't know if I've made them up, if I'm crazy, or if I have tapped into a new dimension. At this point, it doesn't matter.

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I would love to know how you all experience the recursive loops in your life, and the way you process them?