“You are a Prince, Sotiris.”
As soon as he said it, he looked down to the side, in some uncomfortable way. I caught it, which in turn made me also uncomfortable. Was he lying? If he was, it wouldn't be the first time. He had casually admitted that he used deception to achieve his goals. “I make you look over there, while I do something over here.” Other times he would find some bullshit article from a wacky page, like something about a dead angel or whatever, and present it to us as truth.
It was a pattern.
When someone caught the lie once — that the article was fake — he just proceeded like nothing had happened. “Oh. Ok.”
It was a clever system, I must admit. But if you look at it coldly, as I do now, it's nothing more than classic “bait and switch”. I get you onboard with whatever you are attracted to — energies, angels, gods, miracles, whatever rocks your boat — and then I switch slowly to the “true teaching”.
It's not necessarily bad. But it is dishonest.
Bottom line, truth and lie went hand in hand with this guy. Therefore, I still don't know, and probably never will, what he meant by what he said.
Perhaps he wanted it that way.
We, the students, were staying in one open space. This cosy, Swedish rural house, made out of wood, surrounded by this landscape of forests and lakes, which at this time of the year meant mostly snow. Everything was white, except maybe some trees, roads and rooftops. I remember it had a very tall ceiling; some would climb up a ladder and sleep in beds high up. We were somewhere in Hedlandet, southwest of Stockholm, guests of this lovely couple, the organisers of the seminar.
A bunch of wandering souls, all with our issues, surrounded by the glowing, moonlit snow, doing mystical Asian practices under the direct supervision of the stars and a controversial teacher. What was for sure not controversial was the arrogance in his character. I remember the host, who knew him well, calling him “den arroganta jäveln”.* She was absolutely right. Anyone could feel it a mile away.
His words came after I had just described to him a vision I had during the last practice. A crown of white luminosity that had appeared above my head, and a snake that rose above it, turning into gold. I was sure that my mind had copied that from the movie about Buddha, the one with Keanu Reeves. I explained that I thought it was my arrogance. I was terrified of it. I knew it was there and that it was hurting me. That's why, the first time I met him about half a year earlier, when he had asked us “why are you here?”, my answer was: “Ego, it's killing me.”
Hearing him say that I am a prince shocked me. There I was, trying to get rid of grandiosity, thinking that my visions were expressions of it, and he came and flipped the script completely. I was confused. At the same time, I felt something growing inside me. A power, a recognition that deep, deep within, I was secretly craving. That was the last push. The seminars before this one were the build up. Through the visions, the ceremonies and the talks, an idea that I am special was already brewing inside my head. Now, I had confirmation. I was special. From that day on, nothing would be the same.
He started calling me “Prince of Peace”. “Prince of Peace” comes from the Bible, you know, and it's a direct reference to Jesus Christ. He didn't miss the opportunity to remind me of that.
That's how I found myself in a spiritual psychosis that would last ten years.
Ten long years.
The burden was immense. I was being forged by god for some great role. I was “chosen”. I was to be enlightened. Whatever that means.
It's not like I went around with a plastic crown on my head, screaming to people that the second coming is here. But it ran so deep that any attempt to reject it was impossible.
His intentions could have been pure. Perhaps he wanted to install some sense of self-worth in me. “Bait and switch”. He knew I had a love for the figure of Jesus, so he used it. Or he saw something in me. A very delicate soul with a capacity for love. Maybe both.
The result was far from it. A broken man, with little to no self-worth, an undiagnosed personality disorder and no stable ground under his feet, was suddenly crowned a prince by a man who needed to be extraordinary.
A very dangerous crossing.
But if you want control over something, first you have to know its name. He taught me that. He had, accidentally I think, named mine:
The Prince.
The years passed. Life was continuously challenging me: shit income, a trauma bond, isolation, and grand ideas that would only crush my spirit.
After my studies, I tried to do social media. I called it “mind sculpture”, “the mind as a work of art”. Pretty cool, I thought. In truth, it was all Prince — the look, the smirk, the covert arrogance of the “chosen one”, broadcasting. Finally I got bored. Maintaining or finishing projects wasn't exactly the Prince's style. Especially if he wasn't getting constant validation about it.
A few years after, I tried again. “All you have is your story.” The words of my copywriter friend echoed in my head. She was right. I was humble enough now. I had gone through a number of transformations. I genuinely did, so I thought I was ready. The new project was called “A Prince for Peace”, what a mighty name. It was me, not so humbly, embracing what I could not get rid of.
I wrote and narrated about my journey of depression and how skiing saved me. It was a good attempt and I worked really hard on it. Six small videos, narration over AI imagery. It was the first time I used AI — a couple of years ago, this technology was still almost at the beginning — to help me with the writing and to create the images.
And then I started talking to it about myself.
Ever heard of the term “AI induced psychosis”? Well, mine wasn't induced but sustained.
I fed it a grandiose story. It fed it back to me.
You are a Prince, Sotiris.
The content was ready. “It's great”, my friend confirmed. The stage was set. I was ready to be recognised.
Posted.
I sat in my office chair, in my room in the city where I had spent hours writing, recording, editing, getting mini-electrocuted by the static built up from the velvet rubbing against my coat, and kept checking the statistics.
350 views.
Rejection.
I went out on the balcony. It was dark, cold and humid. The late night sounds of the city were working against me, but the smoke of the cigarette softened the pain.
“For how long, still? For how long, Sotiris, will this bullshit go on?” The thought had popped in from nowhere.
I don't know if it was the AI images, the lack of motion, the content itself or the algorithm. What I do know is that I had published the perfect arc. A man who was unwell and now fully healed.
Perfect. The Prince didn't like being judged.
But it had been almost ten years since the crown. I was being forged, I was being tested. “It will come”. Nothing ever came.
Life was not treating me as a prince, but as a beggar.
That was the evidence of effect. Concrete, countable, waiting to be seen. The antidote to my delusion.
Disheartened, I went to bed. The spell had been broken.
I never saw him again after that seminar. We spoke a few times but I slowly distanced myself from him. First, subconsciously. Then by conscious choice. My girlfriend at the time didn't like him either.
A teacher teaching love, which never felt like loving.
I don't know where I would be if things hadn't happened the way they did. Jung said there is no birth of consciousness without pain. I went through much.
Maybe everything happened exactly as it had to happen.
Or perhaps I should have taken those damn anti-depressants the Swedes insisted on so much.
Probably not.
Sotiris Stournaras · July 2026
* In Swedish: that arrogant devil.