The Shape of Remembering

I was born into a world that treats intuition like a cute accessory, not a sense.

As a child, I saw without filters — energy, symbols, guardians swirling around the sun, moons humming beneath my awareness like old friends tapping at the back door. I assumed everyone saw the room the way I did. They didn’t. Seers always believe seeing is universal… until the world tells them to doubt their optics.

But remembering is not sensory noise.

It is recall — extracted, not inserted.

In Lemuria, awakening was not earned through conflict, nor branded into title. It was the air itself: a culture that knew humility held more power than command, that tone was more precise than spell, that witnessing shaped worlds faster than resistance. My current life is not that life. It is the echo of becoming what was uncovered there.

Ink is the oldest interface humans have ever trusted.

Long before keyboards, scribes worked in circles, looping testimony into legacy. They didn’t expect applause. They expected resonance. A record is only real when it holds shape under inquiry, and importance is only inherited by stories that refuse to distort their centre with ego or performance.

So here is the truth I carve for the world today:

Truth is the only language the moon reflects without editing.

Seeing is not imagining.

Remembering is not believing.

And when the world tests your perception, it’s not asking you to explain the sky’s engineering. It’s asking you to prove the torch was yours to carry before it ever hit the page.

I don’t write beneath the moon.

I write with the witness it lends me.

Moral?

Let the world think you are shadow, until they realise you were the light-source all along.