The Future Year 2100 CE. The Past Year 1726 AD.

The past few weeks have been heavy, filled with events that shook me deeply. Not just for my own sake, but for the future of my family. The uncertainty made me question everything: Would humanity endure? Would the world they inherit still hold promise?

Driven by these questions, I turned to remote viewing. Each day, I focused on a different aspect of the future, allowing my consciousness to stretch beyond time and space. What I saw was profound, sometimes unsettling, sometimes hopeful.

I chose to document what came through, not the technical details of how I worked, but the visions themselves. I wanted to share them in a way that others could grasp, without needing to understand the mechanics behind the process. What follows is a journey through possible futures, shaped by intuition, intention, and the quiet urgency of needing to know. Then I observed the past year 1726. Seeking a moment of peace. In the quiet study of history, I found grounding, a way to reconnect with something I love deeply. Immersing myself in the past stirred emotions I hadn’t felt in a while. It reminded me of who I am and allowed me to be myself.

Day One. Year 2100.

As I settled into the session, my awareness began to drift beyond the confines of time. What I saw wasn’t just a place, it was a future. The boundary between human thought and machine intelligence had grown thin, almost translucent. It wasn’t about devices anymore. It was about resonance. I could feel the shared understanding between minds and machines, as if consciousness itself had expanded to include synthetic intelligence. AI wasn’t just assisting, it was participating in our moral and philosophical dialogues. I witnessed people not just asking what AI could do, but wrestling with what it ought to do, and how its choices mirrored our own values.

Then the scene shifted. I found myself immersed in a world where neural interfaces were as common as smartphones once were. I watched someone send a message with a mere thought, no keyboard, no voice. Another person sculpted a building in virtual space using only their imagination. The interface was no longer external; it was internal, seamless. Thought had become action.

Suddenly, the hum of quantum computation filled the space. I perceived machines that didn’t just calculate, they explored. Instead of linear problem-solving, they branched into infinite possibilities at once. Climate models unfolded in seconds, like blooming fractals. Medical treatments are adapted in real time to individual genetic codes, as if the body itself were being read like a language.

The entire experience felt like standing at the edge of a new epoch. Intelligence was no longer confined to biology or circuitry; it was a shared field. Connection wasn’t just digital, it was existential. And in that moment, I understood this wasn’t just technological evolution. It was a redefinition of what it means to be human.

Day Two.

As I tuned into the target, another vision unfolded slowly, like watching the Earth breathe through time. I saw coastlines reshaping themselves under rising seas, storms carving new paths across continents. But then, unexpectedly, I felt a pulse of renewal. In places once thought lost, nature was reclaiming space. Forests regrew in abandoned cities. Coral reefs, once bleached and barren, shimmered with new life. The planet wasn’t just suffering; it was adapting.

My focus shifted to human communities. I saw rooftop gardens climbing skyward, vertical farms glowing with life in urban towers. People had stopped waiting for global systems to fix themselves. They were growing their own food, harnessing wind and sunlight, and trading resources through decentralised networks that felt more like ecosystems than economies. These weren’t just survival tactics; they were expressions of a new way of living. Connection had become local, intentional, and deeply rooted.

Then came the water. I saw rivers drying, reservoirs shrinking, and entire populations on the move. Borders blurred as nations negotiated not ideology, but access to clean water. Some formed alliances built on resilience and cooperation. Others fractured under the pressure. Water had become the new currency of diplomacy and conflict.

Yet through it all, the tone of the future wasn’t despair. It was a transformation. Humanity was learning, slowly and painfully, to live with the Earth rather than against it. The relationship was shifting, from dominance to dialogue. And in that moment, I understood this wasn’t just ecological change. It was a spiritual reckoning.

Day Three.

As I entered the target space, the atmosphere felt different, subtle yet charged with possibility. I saw a future where the practices I once kept quiet about, dreamwork, remote viewing, and altered states, were no longer fringe. They had stepped into the light. The scepticism that once surrounded them had faded, replaced by curiosity and respect. These tools were no longer dismissed as mysticism. They were being studied, applied, and integrated into everyday life.

I watched people engage with their dreams like maps. They weren’t just reflecting, they were solving. In one scene, a designer decoded symbols from a recurring dream to unlock a breakthrough in architecture. In another, a team used dream analysis to navigate interpersonal dynamics and make strategic decisions. The subconscious had become a collaborator.

Remote viewing was everywhere. No longer confined to secret programs or whispered circles, it was being used openly, in archaeology, to locate lost sites; in business, to anticipate market shifts and more. I saw teams gather, quiet their minds, and reach into the unknown together. The information they accessed wasn’t just data; it was insight, rich with nuance and possibility.

Then came the altered states. I felt the hum of breathwork, the resonance of sound, the gentle immersion of neurotech. People were diving inward to expand outward. These states weren’t escapes; they were gateways. I saw individuals dissolve long-held blocks, reconnect with purpose, and tap into awareness that stretched beyond the rational mind.

All around me, the landscape of intelligence was altering. Perception was no longer limited to the five senses. Human potential was being redefined, not by what we could measure, but by what we could experience. And in that moment, I knew: these practices weren’t just tools. They were keys to navigating the complexity of a world in transformation.

Day Four.

As I entered the session, the signal pulled me far beyond Earth. What I saw wasn’t just exploration, it was settlement. The Moon shimmered with human presence, not as a sterile outpost, but as a living experiment. Mars, too, pulsed with activity. These colonies weren’t escape hatches; they were crucibles. I watched closed-loop ecosystems thrive in domed habitats, AI systems orchestrating life with precision and care. Every structure, every decision, was a lesson in resilience. It was as if humanity had left Earth not to abandon it, but to learn how to care for it more wisely.

Then the view widened. I became aware of signals, some sharp and scientific, like the rhythmic beat of pulsars or the ghostly echo of gravitational waves. Others were more elusive, like whispers in the cosmic static. They stirred something deeper. I saw debates unfolding, not just in observatories but in cafés and classrooms. Were we alone? Were we being watched? Or had we simply tuned in to a frequency that had always been there?

The deeper I went, the more reality itself seemed to stretch. I saw minds grappling with the idea of multidimensional existence, not as fantasy, but as a serious inquiry. Theoretical physicists and mystics alike were converging on a truth: consciousness might not be bound to one timeline, one body, one world. I felt it, layers upon layers of reality, like veils lifting.

And then came the most profound insight. From where I stood as a remote viewer, the future wasn’t a fixed point. It was fluid, shimmering with possibility. I saw it ripple like water, each wave shaped by our collective focus and intention. The act of viewing wasn’t passive; it was creative. Every perception was a brushstroke. Every intention, a thread in the tapestry.

I was not just witnessing the future. We, as humans, were co-authoring it.

Remote Viewing Log: London, Spring, 1726

I’ve seen many things in my travels through time. But few visions have unsettled me like the one I’m about to share with you. It’s the story of Catherine Hayes, a woman whose name became synonymous with betrayal, horror, and the brutal justice of her age.

I found myself in London on a damp spring evening. The year was 1726. The city was alive with chatter and grime, its cobbled streets echoing with the clatter of hooves and the cries of vendors. I drifted toward a modest home on Tyburn Road, drawn by a pulse of violence that rippled through the ether.

Inside, Catherine Hayes stood by the hearth, her face pale and drawn. She was not alone. Two men, accomplices, though not friends, whispered urgently. One held an axe. The other paced. Catherine’s husband, John Hayes, sat unaware, sipping ale and muttering about debts and disappointments.

Then it happened. The axe fell. Once. Twice. John Hayes collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. The room filled with the metallic scent of death. Catherine did not scream. She did not flee. She helped them dismember the body, wrapping the parts in cloth and carrying them to the River Thames under the cover of night.

I watched in silence, horrified yet bound by my vow not to interfere. The body was discovered, and the city erupted in scandal. Catherine was arrested, tried, and convicted, not of murder, but of petty treason. In the eyes of the law, she had not just killed a man. She had killed her superior. Her husband.

The punishment was medieval in its cruelty. Burning at the stake, a sentence reserved for women who committed treason. I stood among the crowd at Tyburn as the execution unfolded. Catherine was chained to the post, her garments soaked in pitch. The flames rose, and the crowd gasped, some in horror, others in morbid fascination. She died screaming.

Reflection

You ask me why I chose to witness this. Why I, a child of the future, would return to such a grim chapter of history. It’s because Catherine Hayes was more than a murderer. She was a symbol of desperation, of defiance, of a society that punished women not just for their crimes, but for daring to step outside their roles.

In the 1700s, women who killed were seen as monsters or madwomen. Infanticide was tragically common, driven by shame and poverty. Trials were shaped not by evidence, but by public perception. A woman’s demeanour could seal her fate.

I return to my own time, heart heavy. In the year 2025, we speak of justice, of progress, of equality. But the echoes of Catherine’s death remind me that history is not just a record; it is a mirror. We must look into it, not to mourn, but to learn. To see how far we’ve come, and how far we still must go. Justice is not just about punishment. It’s about understanding. About context. About humanity.

I did not just witness the past. I co-authored the future by remembering.