Letter for my own remembrance

Today, having my ride on the bus, I met this lovely lady, she must have been in her 80s or 90s, we had a casual conversation during our journey, about the more and the less, and she got me thinking of how much / little people take life for granted, and also the ways in which we relate which each. She was Sagittarius, another firey sign who knows if that’s why we resonated, but there was a kind of youth to her, a youth that reminded me of my old age, whenever that will be. Also couldn’t help but to notice, the synchronicity with the full moon in Sag tomorrow.

It was short, but definitely memorable.

This isn’t some curated spiritual post designed to sound polished or profound. This is a breath I didn’t want to hold anymore. A deep exhale of everything I’ve carried while just trying to live honestly in a world that often misunderstands what honesty even looks like, for far too long. This is not about being “better” than others. It’s about the consequences, the comedy, the friction, and the beauty of being rare in a world that keeps trying to flatten the soul into something more familiar, more palatable, more controllable.

When I say I’m rare, I don’t mean special like a snowflake. I mean: not often encountered. Not easily named. Not easily put in a category. I am someone who can see deeply and still stay soft, who can feel intensely and not drown. Who can hold contradiction without imploding, if anything looking to discover all the contradictions within, to add to the list of duality of being. Who doesn’t need to be saved, just seen and engaged with as another human being really. And as rare as that might be—I actually realising I never wanted to be admired for it, if anything I want everyone to be as free. I have always just wanted to be met in it.

I know for a fact I have projected my own perspectives of life as filter to their being, that’s how I accumulate disappointments. And that’s the thing, I don’t understand why the world sees disappointments as a bad thing. Having expectations is normal, why are we lynching at 50% chances of its repercussion?

The goal of life isn’t to avoid things, but to face them and change the filter of perception staring at them as they evolve in front of our eyes. Collect disappointments, collect heartbreaks, collect betrayals, collect disrespect, collect it all, for life would only be half way lived without. Karmic Credit is a thing too, not just our Amex gives us “freely”, we also stack up willingness to love, give, trust, no matter what happens and start again, at any step of life, with any circumstance, any interaction, any job, any thing.

This post is a mirror. Not for you reading this to see yourself in me, as I’m learning how not to do that myself, and I think it would be best for me to also to have my own space without eyes, to just write down my collectible memory in time, for my future self to look back at that’s not notes LOL—but also to ask how many times have you felt the same thing: that tiredness of being misunderstood, misread, or mistranslated when all you really want is realness—a direct line between two honest beings, no pedestal, no projections, no performance. Just the holy act of showing up as you are. And I’ll keep doing so, until the real ones find their way through the noise.

I don’t want a pedestal.
I don’t want to be protected like some fragile genius.
I want to live. To make mistakes. To burn through the lessons like incense—fragrant, fleeting, and divine.
I want to cry on the floor and still be god.
I want to say the wrong thing and still be holy.
I want to be rare and messy. Rare and real. Rare and free.

There’s this subtle but crushing pressure that comes with being deeply self-aware:
The world either turns you into a symbol or a threat.
Either way, you stop being you.
You become the mirror everyone’s too scared to stare into, but too mesmerized to look away from.
And what they reflect back at you isn’t your truth.
It’s their interpretation.
Their fear.
Their assumption.
Their limitation.
Their “version” of you.

And then they get confused when you don’t perform their expectations.
When you do something out of character, without even knowing their real intentions—as if they ever knew the character to begin with.
But how could they?
They didn’t ask.
They didn’t listen.
They observed, assumed, projected, and then walked away when it didn’t fit their mold or stayed to keep making assumptions on what’s best for you.

Let me say it plain, to whomever who might read these words, thinking how to approach me:
I don’t seek validation. I’m good at giving myself that. I seek engagement.
I don’t need applause. I’m good at giving myself that too. I want dialogue.

Though I will appreciate someone that does, for me to show them I saw them, not for my storing or self-worth. Acknowledgement of others is how I also give.

I want equal.
Not someone who worships the fragments of me I’ve made public.
Not someone who tries to fix me with the tools I forged myself.
Not someone who turns my self-reflection into an instruction manual they skim and misunderstand. If anything it could be a great place to start a discussion, not a bible please.

I just want to be loved the way I love: all in, all seeing, all feeling, no fixing, all reflective. The yearn for intense love in a world of lukewarm is ever growing.
Because that’s what I do.
Even if I don’t see it at times. All the time.
Even if they can’t handle the voltage of it.

I had to go through the illusion of new for me to remember I have always loved this way, just in places that didn’t know how to maintain the intensity, and it’s great, cause I got to see so many faces of life. All beautiful in their uglyness.

See, I’ve always been rare.
But I never wanted to be special.
I wanted to be met.
Matched.
Mirrored not in appearance, but in presence.
But that’s the thing about being rare—most people don’t have the tools to meet you.
So they try to parent you.
Try to box you.
Try to name you.
And in doing so, they strip you of the very thing they claim to admire.

I’m not aching.
I’m not heartbroken.
I’m just tired of humans man. When are our ships coming to take us back home?! Or if anyone can teach me teleportation, I’ll happily be your student.

Tired of being read like a poem but not heard like a person.
Tired of being studied like a mystery but not held like a friend.
Tired of people noticing my difference but refusing to make space for it without trying to dissect or dominate it. As if I need to leave a piece of me behind. Anything I do, is a conscious choice, not a purge. Yes I had said in the past I purged things out. Higher understanding wants to see all as worthy, nothing to be left behind. Willing or not.

I love myself.
I have always loved myself—even when I didn’t fully understand myself.
Even when I went against my own knowing, I knew I’d come back with more to integrate.
That’s what this life, for me, is for:
To learn from living, the only school we all need more of.
Not just theorize about it.
You can’t crack the code of your becoming from the sidelines.
You have to play the damn game.
You have to get the bruises, the elation, the chaos.
And I signed up for all of it.

So no—I’m not ashamed when I spiral.
I’m not scared when I drink or smoke.
I’m not guilty when I disappear.
I’m not confused when I go back to something I swore I left behind.
Because at every point in time,
I am my highest self. Call me Mrs. Intentional.

There is no hierarchy within me.
There is no higher version waiting to be activated.
I am the activation.
Even when I’m on my knees.
Even when I’m throwing punches at the invisible ghosts of projections.
Even when I’m laughing too loud, loving too hard, trusting too easily, speaking too wildly.

I am divine.
Because I am present.
And the present moment is the only infinite space where divinity and humanity can kiss. The only place I exist.
So that’s where I live.
That’s where I love.
That’s where I remember.
And that’s where I’ll stay.

Whether incarnated or not, my mother’s words echo: “I was the one who put you here, and I’ll be the one to put you out if needed.” She couldn’t be closer to the truth. Her echo is everywhere and one of these days she might just call me to her, I’m pretty sure, being without separation as plasma sounds like a dream compared this earthly experience, with these earthly humans.

Free will is a wicked one I must say ahahah but I can feel the feeling rising and will write one specific for that feeling. Morbid if you want to call it so.

If people want to meet me,
Come to the present.
Come to the place where I’m just being me,
Free and full,
No costumes,
No projections,
No parental postures.

Come as equal,
Or don’t come at all.

I’ll be evolving until I’ve had enough of this experience.

5D Parenting—Pregnancy, Prophecy, and the Portal of Union