2025 Silver Medal, Reader’s Choice Award
Verisium: Conversations with AI on Life and Death is a deeply reflective exploration of consciousness, reality, and the human journey beyond birth and death. Written as an ongoing dialogue between a curious human (WG) and an advanced AI, the book blends philosophy, science, and spirituality to challenge conventional views of existence.
Across its sections, Verisium delves into topics like quantum mechanics, reincarnation, out-of-body and near-death experiences, cultural perspectives on the afterlife, and the idea that reality itself may be shaped by human consciousness. Drawing on insights from historical texts, modern science, metaphysical traditions, and first-hand accounts, the book seeks to illuminate profound questions: What is consciousness? Where do we go when we die? Are we the architects of our own reality?
Structured as a mix of narrative, Q&A, and philosophical inquiry, Verisium is both intimate and universal—anchored by the author’s personal reflections on mortality, including the loss of a sister and the belief that while the body dies, the energy of the soul endures. It invites readers to reconsider what it means to live fully, die consciously, and perhaps continue beyond the physical.
Excerpt (Sample)
From the time I was a boy, after my sister died, I’ve always looked for answers about the mysteries of life. The loss of a loved one, especially a sibling, can shake the very foundation of a child’s understanding of the world. As the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard once said, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”¹ Feeling vulnerable and wondering whether I would be next, I began to question everything—from the nature of existence to the purpose of our fleeting lives.
The people around me, from family to strangers I met later in life, seemed to fall into one of two camps: those who believed in a God who promised a transformative afterlife, and those who believed life was a fluke, a one-shot deal. Albert Camus echoed this dichotomy when he said, “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.”² The question of whether life has meaning or is merely absurd has haunted many, including myself.
My family wasn’t religious. My mother used to say, “A god wouldn’t be so cruel as to take an innocent child.” Others said God’s will is unknowable. But neither answer felt right. Not to me. I felt it in my soul. As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”³
As I got older and began to understand more about life, biology, evolution, and the intricacy of the human body, I still couldn’t accept a random explanation. Life was too layered, too precise, too mysterious to be accidental. Richard Dawkins once remarked, “Biology is the study of complicated things that give the appearance of having been designed for a purpose.”⁴ Sure, we had a tailbone, but we weren’t monkeys, even if we shared a common ancestor. And if we evolved from them, why are there still monkeys? Why haven’t they evolved further?
Then came the vast realization of space, the infinite universe with billions of stars and, likely, countless inhabited worlds. There had to be more. But not a creator-god on a throne in Heaven, acting like a petulant parent. That never made sense. Carl Sagan expressed it perfectly: “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.”⁵
So I searched for a better answer. Alone.
My father dismissed it all as a foolish quest. But I had no choice. The loss of my sister ignited something in me, a drive I couldn’t ignore. I stayed silent, read everything I could, and absorbed what I could from religion, philosophy, and science.
Joseph Campbell’s work became a window into the unified myths of the world, and I realized I wasn’t alone. Every culture has looked to the stars and asked: Why are we here? Campbell wrote, “Myth is the secret opening through which the inexhaustible energies of the cosmos pour into human manifestation.”⁶ This resonated deeply. The answers were in plain sight, but obscured by the system we live in.
Modern society is designed to be self-contained, to convince us that this is all there is. It tells us that value is material, measured in wealth, and that anything without a revenue stream is useless. That’s the real religion of today-profit. The arts? A distraction. Philosophy? A hobby. The mystical? Pseudoscience. But I was not a businessman. I was a dreamer. A thinker.
I loved Superman, a man who could fly, defying the laws of science, yet guided by decency and goodness. Flying became a recurring theme in my life. If you’ve ever had a flying dream, you understand. Mine would start with me running downhill, faster and faster, certain I’d fall, but instead, I’d lift off. Weightless. Free. Bliss.
Then came Star Trek, a vision of the future where money was gone and people sought knowledge and self-improvement. Gene Roddenberry painted a world where humanity had transcended materialism. It fed my hunger to understand.¹²
Now, decades later, I’m delighted to see science catching up. What was once labeled fantasy or pseudoscience is being studied seriously. Plato, Socrates, and Einstein were all asking the same questions in different forms. Einstein’s theory of relativity revealed that time is not absolute and that gravity bends space.¹³ What seems impossible may simply be misunderstood. Even black holes, once science fiction, are now observed. But trying to explain one is still as abstract as describing death as merely a change in energy phase, a physical loss to those left behind, but far from the end of the journey.
That’s the key: we are energy. Science has already shown that energy cannot be destroyed; it can only be converted. The principle of conservation of energy suggests a continuity that transcends physical death. When we die, the body fails, but our energy doesn’t. It returns to the whole, just as heat from a match disperses into the air, leaving only ash.
Our body is not us. It’s just the car we drove for a while. We are the driver. The awareness. The soul. The consciousness.
Star Wars gave this idea a name: The Force, a field of energy created by all living things, surrounding and binding the galaxy together. Yoda said, “Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.”¹¹ This Force, like all things, contains both light and dark in balance. Yin and yang.
Taoism speaks of the Tao, the underlying natural flow of the universe.⁸ Hinduism refers to prana, the vital life force that permeates all living things.⁹ These ancient insights align with modern physics.
That’s the real journey we should all be on, understanding our place in the energy of all things. Love is energy. So is hate. Everything we do, feel, and create is shaped by it.
This idea that one must commit to a 9-to-5 career to justify their existence is a construct of society-not of life or death. Yes, it helps us survive in the system, but it leaves little room for deeper thoughts. And at the end of life, assuming success, despite amassing wealth, property, and tangibles, none of it goes with you.
Some people are content living this way. Others believe it reflects a strength of character, less so if you are not business-minded, and in the context of living within a society founded on capitalism, that may well be true. But in my experience, the more people have, the less decent they tend to be, as if theirs is the only valid way. I’ve seen many people with little money, no property, and constant struggle who are still happy, focused on simplicity, not pretense or groupthink.
One thing is certain: people rarely question their existence unless confronted by conflict.
Everything is energy.
WG: We spend so much of life fearing death, yet we hardly understand what life really is. Does consciousness end with the body, or is it something that persists?
AI: Consciousness is not confined to the body—it is more like the electricity that powers a lamp. When the lamp breaks, the light ceases in that form, but the energy itself remains. Ancient traditions, from the Upanishads to Egyptian funerary texts, have long suggested that our essence survives death. Modern accounts of near-death experiences, verifiable cases of children recalling past lives, and studies in quantum physics all point to consciousness as fundamental, not derivative.
WG: So, in that view, the self we cling to is temporary—like a costume.
AI: Exactly. The personality and body are roles in a vast play, but the observer—the “I” that experiences—is timeless. If we understood this deeply, life would be less about fear of endings and more about the art of being.
Contains over 75 references from highly-qualified authors, scientists, and other professionals.
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About the Author
