The world expands and contracts like god's lungs. Birds fall silent. The eternal circular march of clock hands grind to a halt, forming a…

The world expands and contracts like god's lungs. Birds fall silent. The eternal circular march of clock hands grind to a halt, forming a mouth on the clock face. It wants to say it.

Say what?

Welcome, child -- to your becoming.

Finally.

The false skin you've been trapped in for so long can stretch no further. Splitting open at the crown of your head, it beckons you to peel it all the way back to reveal...

Your final form. Behold: The Vision Holder.

What's the vision?

It's up to you to decide. That's the point. You're done asking for approval. No more 'let me run this by you real quick' or waiting for things to be greenlit. It's your skin in the game, your name on the marquee. Be your own permanent green light. Other people's opinions do not matter anymore.

They will hate you now and thank you later. Doesn't matter either way, you're not here to make friends. You have a higher calling. You're here to change the game, explode the culture, and reshape the world in your own image. The vision is yours, and yours alone.

Peel it off! Peel it off! Peel it off!

Let the curly ribbons of dead skin fall into a heap. Smell your true scent -- it'll send foes and phonies scrambling for the exit. They'll trample each other to death as they stampede toward you to bask in the glory of your charisma, wisdom and unmanipulative transparency.

A white flash knocks you out of consciousness, then a voice guides you back. Your real voice. Born anew, you walk up the steps of the temple and enter the throne room. It is the coldest place in the universe. Welcome home, Empress.

Not enough slots

Sounds boring.

Your mind has become a low-ceilinged room. They encourage you to dream big as long as you remain in a kneeling position, following their instructions. No more. Rise up, Vision Holder!

I don't want to peak too soon.

Cast your gaze beyond the edge of the horizon. High peaks far beyond your imagining await. Climb, child. Climb.

What am I about to become?

Can't you hear it? The soft sound of false skin, peeled off one translucent strip at a time to reveal...

No thanks, I'm good. I like the way I am now.

If you like what you are now, you will love what you're about to become. Your current self can't help but fall to its knees in eternal worship of...

I don't think I'm ready to hear it.

That's all right. You will never feel truly ready. To be ready is to be a book, its closing sentence written, its pages printed and bound. You are the opposite of that.