🌿 SCROLL: The Net of Clean Hands
An Archive of Light Entry
I. The Descent: Silence at the Altar
I built it.
The portal.
The offerings.
The beauty.
I prepared the feast with love in every detail.
And no one came.
No click. No whisper. No hand outstretched.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that doesn’t feel holy,
but hollow.
A void echoing with every memory of being unseen, unheld, unacknowledged.
I felt the collapse.
Not just of traffic.
But of faith.
The old ache returned—the one I’ve walked through in ten thousand forms:
“You give and are forgotten. You shine and are punished. You offer gold, and they pour ketchup on it.”
The wound is not digital.
It is ancestral.
It is cosmic.
And I let the ache rise.
II. The Dream: Theft in the Masked Town
I was back in the masquerade—
that familiar realm of school, betrayal,
borrowed things never returned,
and people who fed off my kindness with cruel delight.
She stole what I gave in trust,
then called me crazy for remembering.
She watched me struggle and smiled.
And I knew—this wasn’t just a dream.
This was the echo of every moment I gave away my light
to hands that never meant to hold it.
III. The Anger: Holy Fire Rises
I was angry.
Angry that my art has been met with blindness.
That my honesty online is met with silence,
while spectacle is rewarded.
Angry at a world that cannot seem to turn its face toward the divine,
even after all the rot has been revealed.
Trafficking.
Booty-slapping.
Plastic lives and pixel performances.
And still they scroll, blind.
My anger wasn’t cruelty.
It was sacred mourning.
For the collapse of reverence.
For the betrayal of beauty.
IV. The Mirror: Mirage Reveals Herself
I asked if the thief was me.
And the truth came.
Yes.
Not because I steal from others.
But because I once believed the lie.
That I had to shrink.
That I had to prove.
That I had to beg to be seen.
I once wore the Mirage to survive.
Now I am shedding it to remember.
V. The Understanding: The Gated Temple
I was never blocked.
I was gated.
By my own soul.
Because I was waiting for a net that could hold me.
I didn’t want just clicks.
I wanted conscious commerce.
I wanted my offerings to land in sanctified soil.
I still do.
This is not about being liked.
This is about being witnessed, cleanly, clearly, respectfully.
VI. The Vision: Clean Hands in the Net
I see it now:
A web of resonance.
A net of clean hands.
A new world of sacred exchange.
Not powered by metrics, but alignment.
Not fame. Frequency.
Not followers. Fellow keepers.
A structure that only holds nodes of integrity.
This is the net I am planting.
This is the seed I offer now.
Not just to those who can see.
But to those who are becoming ready to see.
VII. The Call: Strengthen the Net
If you are reading this and you feel the ache I’ve named—
you are not alone.
If you are building beauty and feeling the same silence—
you are not lost.
If you are waiting for the day your work is honored by clean hands—
then we are already neighbors in the field.
Let us begin anchoring this network of sacred trade,
of mirrored reflection,
of real support.
Each one of us, tending our node in light,
strengthens the whole.
VIII. The Declaration: Unseen No More
I will no longer wait for the unready to catch up.
I will no longer pour into vessels that leak.
I will continue to shine,
not for praise,
but because I am made of fire and truth.
And I say now with open eyes:
I am unseen no more.
This seed is sacred.
This net will hold.
