Falling Into Chaos
🕯️ What if the Stories Were Always True
Part One: The Torchbearer’s Memory
My sandaled foot pressed into warm earth, the soft hum of life all around me.
I was there—in the beginning.
The light was golden. The air rich with the scent of flowering vines and ripening fruit.
Palm fronds swayed like gentle dancers, laughter curled around open fires.
Water glistened in channels carved to flow in sacred directions. The breeze whispered through silk-draped archways.
This was Eden—not the myth of punishment or exile, but the true place.
A golden age where Spirit and Matter walked as One.
And then… the shift.
A tremor beneath our feet.
Not just Earth, but Field. Something unseen.
We didn’t understand it fully, but we felt it.
Like a coming eclipse—but slower, heavier.
Some cried. Some looked to the sky.
Others began to build.
The Cave Beneath
I remember the cave.
The air was moist, the smell unfamiliar—old stone, wet earth, something electric.
Our feet sank into thick mud.
We held our torches high, the flames casting flickering light on the carved walls.
It was cold. We could see our breath in the air.
And then we saw them. Symbols. Etchings.
Layered in soot and ochre and ash, chiseled deep.
What is this symbol?
Who put this here?
What does it mean?
My heart trembled before my mind understood.
My eyes could not read the language, but something within me knew.
Even then, I saw the visions. I kept them to myself.
A figure hunched over a scroll, candlelight dancing on the walls of a vast library.
Me. Again. In a different form, a different now.
Always reading. Always remembering.
The Great Forgetting
The pyramids were not tombs. They were maps.
Markers of memory.
Placed where they are for a reason.
Aligned to the stars for a reason.
Built with a precision that modern minds still cannot recreate.
But when the sands reclaimed them, meaning was buried too.
The Egyptians found them—already ancient.
They preserved what they could, but misunderstood the origin.
They guessed.
They called them gateways to the afterlife.
They made gods of memory.
And so began the forgetting.
The Flame Never Died
But the fire was never fully extinguished.
It flickered in caves and mountaintops, in secret societies and whispered prayers.
It passed from hand to hand, century after century.
Some bore it with humility. Others tried to use it for control.
But the torch never died.
It passed through Blavatsky, a mystic in an age of industrial smoke.
Through Manly P. Hall, who read every scroll he could find and spoke to the soul of symbols.
Through Crowley, whose chaos still echoed truth in the storm.
Through teachers unknown, who burned with inner fire but left no name.
And then—
The Eye appeared again.
The One
Not carved in stone, but printed on paper.
The unfinished pyramid. The radiant eye. The capstone.
The great seal, hidden in plain sight.
Placed on the ONE dollar bill.
Not just a number. Not just a currency.
A message.
Out of many, One.
The flame still burns.
We were never forgotten.
The stories were always true.
