NEW  Vedanta in Plain English, Book 1: Who Am I, Really.  Now available in paperback and eBook

A man sat on a subway bench watching the people, the lights, and the walls as if they were part of a quiet documentary. He was in his sixties, with close-cut gray hair and an angular face shaped by years of conversation and solitude. Ansel was his name. Few people knew it.

Across the platform, a teenager flicked through a neuro-prompted feed projected just above her glasses. A couple beside her quietly debated the merits of a virtual reality pilgrimage to Varanasi. Down the bench, a tired man closed his eyes, whispering something to a personal assistant no one else could see.

The year was 2042, and though the subway still smelled of metal and motion, the culture had shifted. People were quieter now, but not because they were at peace. Most were elsewhere—in networks, simulations, guided reflections.

The silence had a texture to it. Not stillness, but dissociation.

A soft light pulsed above the platform, syncing with departure data and biometric ads. Glasses blinked. Wristbands vibrated. Somewhere down the tunnel, a service drone swept along the rails, cleaning debris from last night’s revelers. The city still moved, but the movement no longer felt human.

The old engines of identity—work, progress, striving—had quieted. In the silence, people looked for something else. What remained was a vague sense of hollowness. Some filled it with infinite entertainment loops, some with customized wellness routines, some with spiritual simulacra. Meaning had become just another algorithmic offering. You could now subscribe to it.

In response, spiritual and wellness apps had exploded in popularity. Not everyone used them, of course. But they were trending—especially among those who still hoped for something real.

Apps now offered guided meditations with real-time biomarker feedback. You could watch your cortisol drop, dopamine rise, and HRV stabilize as a calm voice guided you through a forest visualization. It didn’t matter whether the tool offered mindfulness, mantras, or algorithmic grace—if it helped people feel something, they used it.

There were thousands of flavors to choose from: contemplative Catholicism with biofeedback, Zen gaming with neuro-haptic loops, meditative capitalism endorsed by billionaires.

The more immersive the platform, the more likely it was being monitored—not for content, but for influence. Flags were rare, but they happened. Some accounts quietly disappeared. Others were redirected to “higher-tier” wellness streams, designed to absorb and diffuse certain… intensities.

But Ansel had no devices on him. He never did. He simply watched.

He observed the way people leaned slightly forward when their overlays flickered to life. The way their fingers twitched, even when idle. How they’d grown used to layering experience, one frame atop another, until reality became just one more substrate.

He sometimes imagined what would happen if it all went dark—not just for a flicker, but for good. Would anyone remember how to be bored? How to feel time pass unstructured? Would they even know where they were?

A flicker. The lights dimmed for half a second—just long enough for the overlays to blink out. Heads turned. A man cursed softly. The couple looked up, confused. Then it passed. The moment stitched itself shut.

Ansel smiled.

A woman seated near him glanced his way, noticing his empty hands.

“You didn’t lose anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Didn’t bring anything.”

“No headset? No overlay? Nothing?”

“Just my eyes.”

She gave a small, puzzled laugh before returning to her artificial horizon.

The train pulled in with a rush of sound and the familiar gust of underground wind. Ansel stepped on, finding a standing spot near the rear. The doors closed behind him with a practiced sigh.

He watched people reflexively lift their chins as their devices came back online. Most of them didn’t notice the ads scrolling along the walls anymore. He did.

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He’d seen worse. He’d tried most of them.

In his younger years, Ansel had been a collector of paths—kundalini yoga, Vipassana, Neo-Advaita, psychedelics, lucid dreaming, even a brief flirtation with algorithmic Christianity. He had written essays, hosted retreats, and been interviewed on spiritual podcasts. His gift had always been his voice and his sincerity. People followed him, until he quietly let them go.

But none of that mattered now. Those voices—outer and inner—had quieted too.

As the train curved into darkness, Ansel let his breath settle. Not as technique or discipline, but as habit. No teacher had taught him this. It had arrived one day, when all other habits had finally worn out.

He closed his eyes.

And watched the show from within.