Quantum mechanics; The Language to Call Home

As a teenager, I used to climb the patio boiler to reach the rooftop of my home in Guadalajara. It was the outskirts of the city, where the lights weren’t as dense, but from that height, I could see it all—the entire city glowing like a vast, golden sea stretching endlessly into the horizon. The amber lights flickered like fireflies caught in a slow-motion wave, a pulse that mirrored something deep inside me. Above, the night sky expanded into infinity, a boundless canvas of dark velvet spattered with stars, each one a silent sentinel whispering secrets I wasn’t yet ready to remember.

I would sit there for hours, mesmerized by the contrast—the two worlds laid before me. Below, the structured, mapped-out existence of roads and buildings, people moving through the motions of their lives. Above, an endless, twinkling dark abyss, full of mysteries that no one around me seemed to care about. But if you paid attention they felt like two realities mirroring one another, coexisting yet never quite touching. Some how in the back of my mind, I was aware that I was suspended between them, belonging to neither, staring into the silence with a longing I couldn’t explain.

It wasn’t loneliness in the way most people understand it. It was something deeper—an ache, an unshakable sense that I was missing something ancient, something long forgotten yet still calling out from the distance. It felt like a memory folded into time, hidden just beyond my reach and yet so darn close.

I turned to books for answers, hoping science could explain what I felt. But all they told me was that space was empty, a void stretching between celestial bodies—cold, vast, and indifferent. But I knew better. I felt better. The space between the stars wasn’t empty. It's alive. A realm of infinite possibility, pulsing with truths we once knew but had long since forgotten.

For years, I carried this knowing in silence, watching the world go through its routines. People lived as if nothing was missing, as if reality was only what they could see, touch, or measure. I envied them, in a way. How easy it must be to exist without this pull, without the persistent feeling that something more was waiting in the distance, calling. And yet, despite the weight of it, I was glad I held space for this knowing.

But the loneliness has been heavy.

Between Knowing and Belonging

 For the longest time, I tried to escape it. I buried myself in distractions—teenage love, school, work, building the American dream, you name it. Anything to anchor me to the reality everyone else seemed to accept so easily. I tried to convince myself that the ache was just an overactive imagination, a poetic restlessness with no real source.

But the questions never left.

 They bubbled beneath my skin, like oil on the surface of a pan just before the dough enters—a tension, a waiting. And when the moment of immersion finally came, when I could no longer ignore the pull, there was no turning back.

I didn’t know how much I needed a language for what I felt—until I found it.

Quantum mechanics gave me that language. 

Yes, don’t laugh. It caught me by surprise too. I’ve always loved learning, but I’m no physicist. I’m not someone who can prove laws with equations or translate cosmic forces into numbers. But when I started diving into quantum theory, something clicked. Suddenly, there was a framework that made sense of what I had always felt—the interconnectedness of all things, the unseen forces shaping reality, the fact that observation itself influences existence.

It wasn’t just intuition anymore.

Science was finally catching up to what mystics had always known.

But the more I understood, the more alone I felt.

Because science, for all its brilliance, seeks to control what should be honored. It dissects the unseen, trying to own it rather than aligning with it. They map the stars, but they don’t listen to their song. They split the atom, but they never ask what it dreams about. They bend reality but never bow to it.

It was frustrating, watching knowledge be treated as something to be conquered rather than something to be in communion with. What if instead of breaking things apart, we learned how to be in harmony with them? What if the space between the stars—the so-called ‘void’—wasn’t meant to be filled with answers, but rather understood as the very fabric that holds existence together?

And yet, here I am—learning, remembering, reawakening.

A Bridge Between Worlds

I think about the past versions of myself—the child staring at the sky, the teenager lost in existential dread, the adult trying to find footing between the seen and unseen. I realize now that I have always been standing at the threshold of two realities, belonging to neither, yet woven into both.

But maybe… maybe I was never meant to belong.

Maybe I was meant to be a bridge.

And what is a bridge if not a path for others to cross?

For so long, I believed I had to choose—logic or intuition, science or mysticism, intellect or knowing. I silenced parts of myself in an attempt to fit into spaces that were never meant to hold me. But healing, for me, has been about integration. It has been about reclaiming the aspects of myself that I once suppressed—the mystic, the seeker, the one who knew without proof—and allowing them to take up space.

It has been about understanding that I am not just a person moving through life, but a fragment of something much larger. Something vast and ancient that speaks through me when I allow it to.

A bridge is never just a structure—it’s a meeting place, a connection between what once seemed impossible to unify. And maybe that’s what I’m here to do. Maybe that’s why I’ve felt this pull all my life.

I am not alone in this.

And neither are you.

This song, The Language to Call Home, is my way of honoring that. It is a calling, a remembering, a message to anyone who has ever felt the same pull but never had the words for it. 

You were never meant to feel alone in this.

The space between the stars is not empty.

And if you’ve ever felt that ache—that knowing—you are not imagining it.

You are remembering.

And now, we are finally learning the language to call home.