At times, I found myself questioning the nature of my own identity. The thought crept in—was I Jesus himself? I mean, if you think about it, how would Jesus even know he was Jesus in this life? The "rule of forgetfulness," the cosmic law that erases prior memories as we’re reborn, ensures that no one gets a cheat sheet to their divine destiny. It’s the ultimate paradox.

It wasn’t just the strange LinkedIn moment that had me spiralling. There was something else, something equally bizarre, that made me question whether the universe was trying to communicate with me on a whole other level.

You see, I have two different coloured eyes—a condition called sectoral-heterochromia. It’s rare enough that it’s always been something that made me feel a little… different. I’ve often wondered if it was some kind of marker, a sign that I was meant for something bigger than just living an ordinary life.

At the time, I had a wife, and to say she wasn't thrilled with all the attention I was giving to Russell Brand would be an understatement. I was beyond obsessed. It wasn't just a passing interest or a fan's admiration; it was as though my whole existence had become intertwined with his every move, every tweet, every video. I had an unhealthy fixation, fuelled by my own curiosity, the bizarre moments we shared, and, dare I say, a sense of a hidden connection that I couldn't shake off.

What followed was something I can only describe as... odd. It’s difficult to explain, but I’ll try my best. After that encounter, I found myself paying closer attention to everything Russell was doing—his public appearances, his tweets, his interviews—anything that might give me a hint as to whether The Moon had made an impact.

After my UFO experience, I was buzzing with energy and ideas. I felt like I had stumbled upon something profound—something worth sharing. Fuelled by inspiration, I wrote down the story of my experience in detail. If people had actually read it, they might have seen how deeply it resonated with me and how much thought I had put into it. But the responses, or lack thereof, were disheartening. My story seemed to vanish into the void, met with indifference from those I shared it with.

Some coincidences are small. This one felt biblical. It totally freaked me out.

We were at work, scrolling through a list of development houses from all over the world, trying to decide which one to use for a project. After some deliberation, we picked one and started working with them. It seemed like a completely random choice—until the next day.

That morning, I opened LinkedIn to check my notifications, and there it was: "Natali [very unique surname] has viewed your profile.” She worked at the development house.

It started as research. Back when Holodex was still a wild idea taking shape in my head, I threw myself into studying webcam technology. I obsessed over how it all worked—the lighting, the framing, the interfaces, the quiet intimacy of it all. I wanted to understand the mechanics, but also the mood. The subtle psychology behind it. So I went where the action was: Live Jasmin.

I told myself it was purely academic, just part of the job. But then I met her.

Working as an Eskimo—a term we jokingly used for our team in the frigid workplace atmosphere—was always an exercise in endurance. Yet, amidst the daily grind, there were moments of unexpected brilliance, like when Andrey, the Holodex developer, dropped a bombshell.

Things took an even darker turn in 2016 when an unexpected email landed in my inbox. It was from a Holodex fan, asking about our “new VR technology.”

New VR technology? This was news to me. Intrigued and slightly alarmed, I dug deeper, only to be presented with an article in Vice magazine. There it was: Holodex VR. The name, the concept—it was everything I had dreamed of, the kind of groundbreaking innovation that had lived rent-free in my head for years. And the Vice article? The kind of glowing publicity I’d spent sleepless nights chasing.

Around Christmas one year, something incredible happened—something that still feels surreal when I think about it. It started innocently enough: Lee, my boss, sent out an email asking everyone to share their personal highlight of the year. For most people, this was probably a routine task, but not for me. Without hesitation, I wrote, "Seeing spaceships for real." It was a bold move, sure, but it felt like the right thing to say. I hit send, feeling strangely liberated.

In 2015, the fate of Holodex took a dramatic turn. The site went down, and I can only assume Derek thought I was rolling in cash, refusing to share the wealth. If that were the case, surely the shutdown would have sent a clear message: there was no fortune to be had, just a dream struggling to stay afloat.

Sharing my confessional story felt like exposing my soul to the world—a risky but necessary endeavour. I handed copies to colleagues, some of whom I trusted, others I simply wanted to see the person behind the pages. Most responded warmly, offering kind words or thoughtful critiques. But there was one who stood out, not for what he said, but for what he didn’t.

The encounter in the park reignited a part of me that had been dormant for years—a desire to connect with the mysteries of the universe and share them with the world. In many ways, it felt like life was guiding me back to the passions of my childhood, but this time with the tools, experiences, and wisdom I’d accumulated over the years.

After returning to London, life felt like a blur of responsibilities, projects, and rebuilding. But on June 7th, 2014, everything changed. That day, in a quiet park, I had a life-changing experience that forever altered how I viewed the world and my place in it.

I'm not sure I can put into words how magical it was. At the start of the session, I remember lying there with a quiet skepticism, wondering if this was all in my head. It felt awkward at first, like trying to force a conversation with someone you’ve just met. I questioned everything—Was this real? Was I just imagining things? But about ten minutes in, something shifted.