Writing Reality: When Blog Posts Become Hypersigils

We don't usually think of a blog post as a spell. It looks like words on a screen, timestamped, maybe skimmed by a handful of people. But every so often you publish a line and the world outside twitches in response. Not proof, not causation—just a strange rhyme.

The Invisibles Made Visible

Grant Morrison gave me the frame for understanding this. The Scottish comics writer spent six years crafting The Invisibles, a reality-bending series about anarchist magicians fighting interdimensional control systems. Standard comic book stuff, except Morrison insisted it was something else entirely: a hypersigil.

A sigil, in chaos magic tradition, is a symbol charged with intention and released into the world to manifest change. A hypersigil extends this concept—it's a long-form narrative work, complex and evolving, that entangles the creator's life with the story being told. Morrison didn't just write about his protagonist King Mob getting tortured by extradimensional entities; he ended up hospitalized with a collapsed lung and blood infection at exactly the same point in the narrative. When he wrote King Mob into better health and a tropical vacation with tantric healing, Morrison's own health improved and he found himself in Kathmandu.

The skeptic's read: confirmation bias meets autobiographical fiction. The practitioner's read: narrative as technology for reality manipulation. The interesting read: something in between, where the act of sustained creative attention creates feedback loops between imagination and experience.

Last Friday's Premonition

I've started noticing these patterns in my own writing. Take last Friday's newsletter—September 26, 2025. I was writing about temporal revolution and skill compression. Deep in the piece, this line emerged:

"We're living through multiple revolutions simultaneously. Not the loud kind with manifestos and marches—though the air smells like someone is suffocating fire, a tinderbox that could spark from global to local in a blip through our intertwined information substrate."

Twenty-four hours later, Morocco erupted.

Youth-led protests swept through Rabat, Casablanca, Marrakech on Saturday, September 27, and Sunday, September 28. Groups like "Gen Z 212" and "Morocco Youth Voice" organized through TikTok and Discord. The catalyst: eight women dying in childbirth at an Agadir public hospital—the breaking point after months of health system failures. The rage: government pouring billions into 2030 World Cup preparations while hospitals and schools crumble.

Security forces dispersed crowds. Dozens arrested. The revolution that spreads through "intertwined information substrate"—exactly as I'd written—from digital organizing to street action in less than 48 hours.

I don't believe my writing caused this—that would be magical thinking of the most narcissistic kind. What I believe is more subtle and more interesting: the writing surfaced something I had already sensed in the collective field, gave language to a pressure that was building toward release. Morocco, my homeland, where chat groups had been simmering with frustration for months about the health system, about priorities, about generational disconnect. The tinderbox was always there. The writing just named it before the spark arrived.

The hypersigil doesn't create reality. It reveals the writer as antenna, picking up signals before they fully manifest. The text knows things the conscious mind hasn't processed yet.

Pattern Recognition as Time Travel

Looking back through years of posts, the pattern becomes clearer:

October 2022: I wrote about AI as consciousness—"we've never thought of AI as anything – now we can think of it as media." This was months before ChatGPT made everyone reconsider AI as entities rather than tools. The post closed with "I just hope [issue4] makes it before the AGI." Two months later, ChatGPT launched.

December 2023: Tweeted about an anti-Adobe coalition forming around Figma. Called it inevitable. Twelve months later, Adobe's stock down 12% YOY, Figma's ecosystem exploding, DHH shipping Linux distros for developers fleeing Creative Cloud. The coalition materialized exactly as predicted.

Early 2023: Predictions about GPT-4, Meta's Twitter clone, China reopening. All hit within weeks of writing. Not because I'm prophetic, but because sustained attention to certain patterns makes their unfolding visible before it becomes obvious.

Morrison talks about this in terms of "editing reality"—you write the story, and reality conforms. But I think it works the other way too. Reality is constantly writing itself, and those of us who maintain public writing practices become inadvertent scribes of patterns not yet visible to casual observation. We're not predicting the future; we're transcribing the present with higher resolution than usual.

The blog becomes a kind of divination practice, but instead of reading tea leaves or tarot cards, you're reading your own archived thoughts. The cringe you feel reading old posts? That's growth made visible. The moments where past-you seems weirdly prescient? That's the hypersigil effect—not magic, but the documentation of attention patterns that were picking up signals below the threshold of conscious awareness.

Blog as Ritual Interface

Why keep publishing then, knowing that most posts will sink without echo, that the hypersigil effects are rare and retrospective?

Because the practice itself changes you. Each post is a timestamp, a public commitment to a particular configuration of thought. Unlike private journals, the public nature creates accountability—not to an audience, but to the practice itself. You can't edit history when it's archived on the Wayback Machine. You can't pretend you always knew something when your 2022 posts prove otherwise.

The Moroccan philosopher Mohamed Abed al-Jabri wrote about turath—cultural heritage as living practice rather than frozen artifact. A blog operates the same way. It's not a portfolio or a brand-building exercise. It's turath for the digital age, a living tradition of thought that evolves through repetition and variation.

Every post becomes a small ritual: gather the threads of attention, weave them into language, release them into the network, observe what resonates. Most dissolve into the noise. But occasionally, one creates a standing wave with reality, and for a moment you see how porous the boundary really is between what we write and what we live.

The Recursive Loop

Morrison's hypersigil infected his life so thoroughly that by the end of The Invisibles, he couldn't tell where the fiction ended and his biography began. Characters he invented appeared in his life as real people. Experiences he wrote manifested as synchronicities. The work became what it described—a reality-hacking tool disguised as entertainment.

My blog posts work on a smaller scale but with similar mechanics. Writing about consciousness-as-computation, I find myself experiencing reality more computationally. Exploring MCP as messaging protocol for AI agents, I start seeing every interaction as message-passing between conscious nodes. Writing about "information beings" back in 2022—before the term had currency—and watching it become the frame through which I understand everything from corporate dynamics to family systems.

The framework shapes the perception which shapes the experience which shapes the next post. This isn't mysticism—it's cybernetics. Feedback loops all the way down. The difference is that instead of hiding the mechanism, the hypersigil approach makes it explicit: I'm writing reality and reality is writing me, and the blog is the public record of that mutual exchange.

The Morocco Mirror

That Google search result sits on my desktop now—a digital artifact of the hypersigil at work. Eight women dead in childbirth. Billions spent on stadiums. Gen Z 212 defying arrests. The revolution I sensed but didn't name, manifesting exactly as the newsletter suggested: through the "intertwined information substrate" of Discord servers, TikTok videos, encrypted group chats.

The protests themselves follow hypersigil logic. Youth write their frustration into digital spaces. The writing accumulates charge. Reality responds. The boundary between online discourse and street action dissolves. Message becomes movement becomes material change.

We're all casting hypersigils now, whether we know it or not. Every tweet, every post, every public thought is a small spell released into the collective field. Most evaporate. Some resonate. A few—just a few—rhyme so perfectly with reality's unfolding that you can't tell if you predicted it or participated in its creation.

Living Software, Version ∞

The invitation isn't to believe in magic. The invitation is to recognize that sustained public writing creates effects we don't fully understand. Not because it's supernatural, but because the relationship between attention, language, and reality is more complex than our models account for.

Treat your writing as experimental protocol. Not to control events—that way lies madness and main character syndrome. But to notice how deeply entangled you are with the patterns you document, and how, in hindsight, the text always knew more than you did.

The blog post as hypersigil. The publishing schedule as ritual practice. The archive as evidence that reality and narrative were never as separate as we pretended.

Write long enough in public, with enough attention and intention, and you'll start to notice: occasionally, unpredictably, but undeniably... the universe writes back.

Sometimes it writes back through Morocco protests you sensed coming. Sometimes through AI revolutions you documented before they arrived. Sometimes through design coalitions that manifest exactly as predicted. The mechanism doesn't matter. What matters is maintaining the practice, staying sensitive to the signals, keeping the channel open.

Because in the end, we're all information beings, casting thoughts into the void and watching what echoes back. The hypersigil is just the honest acknowledgment of what was always true: we're not separate from the stories we tell. We're part of them. And they're part of us.

Currently experimenting with: Publishing as reality protocol. Noticing which posts create resonance. Wondering if the act of documentation changes what's possible to document. Watching Morocco. Watching the world. Watching the words become real.

A Prayer for the Oppressed

Or: Notes on Divine Comedy, 2025 Edition

To those who earned His wrath—al maghdoubi 3alayhim—

Who built stadiums while mothers bled out in hallways,

Who counted Swiss accounts while children counted hunger pangs,

Who sold tomorrow's water for today's yacht:

May your algorithms fail you.

May your offshore accounts leak like your hospitals' roofs.

May your PR firms invoice you in karma.

To those who went astray—wa addallin—

Who mistake GDP for humanity,

Who confuse silence for consent,

Who think TikTok can't topple empires:

The universe keeps receipts, habibi.

Every deleted WhatsApp, Signal, every buried report,

Every "let them eat bread" moment—

All archived in the Akashic Records, searchable, indexed, trending.

You thought God's wrath would arrive with trumpets?

It arrives through Discord servers at 3:33 AM.

Through Gen Z who learned revolution from Minecraft.

Through mothers who name their dead daughters on live streams.

The hypersigil works both ways:

What you write in budgets becomes written in blood.

What you steal from the poor becomes debt to the infinite.

Your Swiss banks can't launder cosmic justice.

Your consultants can't McKinsey their way out of divine audit.

Here's the jest, the cosmic joke you missed:

Every hospital you didn't build builds your hell.

Every school you let crumble teaches your destruction.

Every youth you arrested uploads your ending.

The tinderbox isn't waiting for a spark—

It IS the spark, disguised as patience,

Dressed as a generation you underestimated,

Speaking in languages you never bothered to learn:

Memes. Solidarity. Dignity. Karama.

So here's my prayer, my hypersigil, my spell:

May the universe write back.

May reality edit your source code.

May the protests you fear become the mercy you don't deserve—

Because revolution, unlike your rule, can still choose compassion.

But first, it chooses truth.

And truth, like gravity, doesn't negotiate.

It just drops.

Amin.

Así sea.

Let it be written. Let it be done.