Homes. We are trained since we are very young and programmed to think of rooms in terms of what makes sense to the shadowy system, not to our own selves. How I envision rooms for my life is like this: a room to sleep, just to sleep. It has to be on the ground. This room needs to be grounded, either because it's literally on the ground, the actual ground that when I die, I fall into. In a modern age, this can be a room with a sheet, a grounded or grounding sheet connected to the ground electrical outlet in the wall. This room should have nothing, just a little mat to sleep on with a weighted blanket and a little pillow, and that's all. That's what I need in my sleeping room, just that. I also need a room for meditation, for thinking, a room where there is nothing, where I just go there to close my eyes and do nothing. There is nothing, no materials, nothing to touch, nothing to see. Everything that happens in this room is literally about what happens in my mind. These are the two most important rooms I need in my place. They could be one room, they could be two rooms. I think two rooms is better than one room. I also don't like corners. I don't like edges. I don't like sharp corners and edges. I think my home should flow. Everything should flow. All the walls should be curvy so that energy can pass. If I am very rich and I have the money, or just if money is not a problem, I think I want all the grounds to be connected to the ground force of the earth. I also want the walls to be obsidian. Maybe colors is not a good idea. I don't know. Something worth exploring, because colors have energy. But I don't know what is the right color and what energy does what. But I want to explore obsidian, the black mirror effect, just pitch black. What would that mean? Would it absorb energy? Would it amplify energy? Would it help with focus? I don't know, but it is a beautiful experiment to try out. And water. I love water. I think to take a shower, one should immerse himself in water. And yes, I said himself, because society taught us to say themselves to account for women. But these are my diaries. Why I have to say themselves? I think of myself. I am a man, and when I write, I write for myself, him. And I want my boys to read this, and they are men, too. Women are also welcome to read my notes, my diaries, my thinking, my observations, my thoughts. But please don't judge me. So back to the tubs. I think tubs, I mean, sorry, back to the bathrooms. I think bathrooms should have tubs of fresh water, maybe with Epsom salt, because they have good minerals, I think magnesium, and they should be exposed to good energy, good frequency, maybe music, maybe binaural sounds. I don't know. I am not an expert, but it is a field worth exploring. That's exactly the science that building codes should introduce so that we don't do buildings with just basic codes about fighting fires or flooding or or electrical problems, but we should also integrate grounding forces, energy flows, efficiency. I love Egyptian buildings that can actually help people not having to rely on heaters or AC because of the way it's designed, the material, the mud that are being used. So, some notes for me, maybe one day, so I can build a house that can actually bring good energy and help me be me.
The House I Would Build If No One Was Watching
AI-polished version. Switch to Raw for the unfiltered original.
We are trained from birth to think of rooms in terms of function as defined by someone else. A bedroom is where you put a bed, a dresser, a TV. A bathroom is where you put a toilet, a sink, a mirror. Nobody asked you what you actually need. Nobody asked what kind of space would make you more yourself.
I have been asking.
The two most important rooms in any home I build will have almost nothing in them.
The first is a sleeping room. Just for sleep. No furniture, no clutter, no screens. A thin mat, a weighted blanket, a small pillow. And the floor—or the mat itself—grounded. Literally connected to the earth through the electrical ground in the wall. The ancient world understood something we have paved over: the earth carries a charge, and human bodies are meant to discharge into it. We sleep on elevated beds, in synthetic materials, in rooms full of electromagnetic noise, and then we wonder why we wake up tired. I want my sleeping room to be a return. A nightly death and resurrection, as close to the actual ground as a modern life allows.
The second room is for meditation. It contains nothing. Not minimalist-nothing, where there is still a candle and a cushion and a plant. Actual nothing. No textures to touch, nothing to look at. The only thing that happens in that room happens inside the skull. The room is just a container for the mind to expand into. These two rooms—the grounding room and the emptying room—could technically be one. But I think they deserve to be separate. Sleep is surrender. Meditation is attention. They are different disciplines.
Beyond those two rooms, I think about flow.
I do not want corners. I do not want sharp edges. Energy—whether you think of it physically, psychologically, or spiritually—does not move well around hard angles. It stagnates. It cuts. Every wall in my ideal home would curve. The architecture would breathe. There is a reason that the oldest sacred structures on earth—from Maltese temples to Nubian domes—avoided the hard right angle. The right angle is efficient for construction. It is not efficient for living.
If resources were not a constraint, I would go further. I would explore obsidian walls. Black mirror surfaces, floor to ceiling. I do not know yet whether obsidian would absorb energy or amplify it, whether it would sharpen focus or create a kind of sensory void. I genuinely do not know. But that uncertainty is the point. It is a beautiful experiment that nobody is running, because nobody builds homes as laboratories for human experience. They build them as products.
And water. The bathroom in this house would not be a bathroom in any conventional sense. It would be a chamber for immersion. A deep tub, filled with fresh water and Epsom salts—magnesium, which the body absorbs through the skin and which most people are chronically deficient in. The water itself treated with intention: good acoustics, perhaps binaural frequencies, perhaps silence. The Egyptians understood that water is not just for cleaning the body. It is for resetting it.
This connects to something larger that I keep returning to: building codes are a floor, not a ceiling. We have codes for fire safety, for flood resistance, for electrical load. These are necessary. But they are the bare minimum of not dying in your house. They say nothing about thriving in it. The Egyptians built structures from mud brick that maintained interior temperatures without any mechanical system. The material itself was the technology. We have forgotten that buildings can be designed to work with the body, with the climate, with the earth—not just to keep the rain out.
Think of a home the way a musician thinks of an instrument. The instrument does not play the music. But a badly made instrument makes good music nearly impossible. Most of us are trying to live well inside instruments that were never tuned for us.
These are notes to myself. A blueprint that does not exist yet. Maybe one day I build it. Maybe these words are just the first sketch. Either way, I needed to write it down—because the first step to building the life you actually want is being honest, even if only to yourself, about what that life looks like.